I knew of his being a clerk in a country store at the age of twenty, and that up to that time he had read but four books; of his running a flatboat, splitting rails, and poring at night over a dog-eared law-book; of his asking to sleep in the law-office of Joshua Speed, and of Speed’s giving him permission to move in.  And of his going away after his “worldly goods” and coming back in ten minutes carrying an old pair of saddlebags, which he threw into a corner saying, “Speed, I’ve moved!”.

I knew of his twenty years of country law-practise, when he was considered just about as good and no better than a dozen others on that circuit, and of his making a bare living during that time.  Then I knew of his gradually awakening to the wrong of slavery, of the expansion of his mind, so that he began to incur the jealousy of rivals and the hatred of enemies, and of the prophetic feeling in that slow but sure moving mind that “a house divided against itself can not stand.  I believe this Government can not endure permanently half-slave and half-free.”

I knew of the debates with Douglas and the national attention they attracted, and of Judge Davis’ remark, “Lincoln has more commonsense than any other man in America”; and then, chiefly through Judge Davis’ influence, of his being nominated for President at the Chicago Convention.  I knew of his election, and the coming of the war, and the long, hard fight, when friends and foes beset, and none but he had the patience and the courage that could wait.  And then I knew of his death, that death which then seemed a calamity—­terrible in its awful blackness.

But now the years have passed, and I comprehend somewhat of the paradox of things, and I know that this death was just what he might have prayed for.  It was a fitting close for a life that had done a supreme and mighty work.  His face foretold the end.

Lincoln had no home ties.  In that plain, frame house, without embellished yard or ornament, where I have been so often, there was no love that held him fast.  In that house there was no library, but in the parlor, where six haircloth chairs and a slippery sofa to match stood guard, was a marble table on which were various giftbooks in blue and gilt.  He only turned to that home when there was no other place to go.  Politics, with its attendant travel and excitement, allowed him to forget the what-might-have-beens.  Foolish bickering, silly pride, and stupid misunderstanding pushed him out upon the streets and he sought to lose himself among the people.  And to the people at length he gave his time, his talents, his love, his life.  Fate took from him his home that the country might call him savior.  Dire tragedy was a fitting end; for only the souls who have suffered are well-loved.

Jealousy, disparagement, calumny, have all made way, and North and South alike revere his name.

The memory of his gentleness, his patience, his firm faith, and his great and loving heart are the priceless heritage of a united land.  He had charity for all and malice toward none; he gave affection, and affection is his reward.