But all was peace. The South
only intended to go its way and let Lincoln do what he could, if
anything. I stood with the rapt mass close to the stand where I could
see every face on the platform. Lincoln came, Douglas came. Douglas was
giving notice to the country that he was hand in hand with Lincoln for
the Union.
Lincoln has no place to put his tall silk hat, brand new for this
occasion. Douglas, gallantly not seriously, thoughtfully not showily,
with grace and taste, takes Lincoln's hat and holds it while Lincoln
reads his inaugural address.
Lincoln is now becomingly dressed. He is past fifty-two; no gray hairs,
no beard, looks clean shaven and youthful, like a man of thirty,
prematurely old. He is swarthy, wrinkled. He is powerful, rested,
self-possessed, masterful. The cadence of his voice is full of kindness
and conciliation. Its rhythms speak in sympathy and respect for the
feelings of every one. Some of his words move me like great music. He
says in closing so clearly, so beautifully, sounding as of silver
trumpets blown by archangels:
"The mystic chords of memory stretching from every battle field and
patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad
land will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as
surely they will be touched, by the better angels of our nature.
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