I have read many biographies of Lincoln; I have sought out with the greatest interest the many intimate stories that are told of him, the narratives of nearby friends, the sketches at close quarters, in which those who had the privilege of being associated with him have tried to depict for us the very man himself “in his habit as he lived;” but I have nowhere found a real intimate of Lincoln’s.  I nowhere get the impression in any narrative or reminiscence that the writer had in fact penetrated to the heart of his mystery, or that any man could penetrate to the heart of it.  That brooding spirit had no real familiars.  I get the impression that it never spoke out in complete self-revelation, and that it could not reveal itself completely to anyone.  It was a very lonely spirit that looked out from underneath those shaggy brows and comprehended men without fully communing with them, as if, in spite of all its genial efforts at comradeship, it dwelt apart, saw its visions of duty where no man looked on.  There is a very holy and very terrible isolation for the conscience of every man who seeks to read the destiny in affairs for others as well as for himself, for a nation as well as for individuals.  That privacy no man can intrude upon.  That lonely search of the spirit for the right perhaps no man can assist.  This strange child of the cabin kept company with invisible things, was born into no intimacy but that of its own silently assembling and deploying thoughts.

I have come here to-day, not to utter a eulogy on Lincoln; he stands in need of none, but to endeavor to interpret the meaning of this gift to the nation of the place of his birth and origin.  Is not this an altar upon which we may forever keep alive the vestal fire of democracy as upon a shrine at which some of the deepest and most sacred hopes of mankind may from age to age be rekindled?  For these hopes must constantly be rekindled, and only those who live can rekindle them.  The only stuff that can retain the life-giving heat is the stuff of living hearts.  And the hopes of mankind cannot be kept alive by words merely, by constitutions and doctrines of right and codes of liberty.  The object of democracy is to transmute these into the life and action of society, the self-denial and self-sacrifice of heroic men and women willing to make their lives an embodiment of right and service and enlightened purpose.  The commands of democracy are as imperative as its privileges and opportunities are wide and generous.  Its compulsion is upon us.  It will be great and lift a great light for the guidance of the nations only if we are great and carry that light high for the guidance of our own feet.  We are not worthy to stand here unless we ourselves be in deed and in truth real democrats and servants of mankind, ready to give our very lives for the freedom and justice and spiritual exaltation of the great nation which shelters and nurtures us.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMEN’S SUFFRAGE