Medal Presented to the Widow of Abraham Lincoln by a Committee Representing Forty Thousand French Citizens; now in the Possession of Hon. Robert T. Lincoln

(The funds for this medal were raised by contributions limited to two sous each, enabling the poor people as well as the

rich to take part)

into the English race; and yet we have something to show when great names are counted, something to remember when great deeds are told. Abraham Lincoln outshines the Plantagenets, and ennobles common blood forevermore.

The laws of descent are mysterious, if not altogether fathomless. Science, indeed, tells us that men are, in their essential qualities, the result and product of all their ancestors. But how and why it is-who can tell? The lineage of Abraham Lincoln was so humble, his environment and that of his family so narrow and so steeped in poverty, it seems like a miracle that he should ever have burst such bonds. Nicolay and Hay, in their great work, after describing his wretched birthplace, say: "And there, in the midst of the most unpromising circumstances that ever witnessed the advent of a hero into the world, Abraham Lincoln was born on the twelfth day of February, 1809." In this event there was nothing to attract attention-absolutely no prophecy of the future latently slumbering in the new born child. Least of all was there any hint of the solemn pageantry with which a great nation this day commemorates that lowly birth. Birthdays are rests and pauses in the symphony of time, and in observing the great and notable ones we set history to music.

Abraham Lincoln's parents were Virginians, but the ancestral strain flowed from Old England through New England, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania before it reached Virginia. The first of his race to settle in America was Samuel Lincoln, who came from Norwich, England, in 1638, and cast his lot with the God-fearing settlers who had located in the forest solitudes of Hingham, Massachusetts. Later, his son Mordecai pushed on to New Jersey, and thence to Pennsylvania. John, who was Mordecai's son, returned from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, but soon sought another home in Rockingham County, Virginia, and through him the blood of the Hingham Puritan flowed uninterruptedly to Abraham Lincoln. They were a family of frequent migrations, ever hungering for the wilderness and the frontier. If you follow their footsteps, you will be led from Massachusetts to New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Kentucky, and, after the birth of Abra

ham Lincoln, to Indiana and Illinois. Out of these wanderings, perhaps by reason of them, or, it may be, in spite of them, was evolved the highest type of man this nation has known. And that is the mystery of it all, from every point of view. Human wisdom fails utterly when it grapples such a question. If any answer shall ever come, it must be in that far-off ultimate region where the mind can get nearer than now to the fugitive wherefore, and the ever elusive why. What gave so humble a plant such a noble fruitage is a problem we can not yet solve. But this we know, that it is our boon and privilege to behold, admire, and love.

Carlyle, within certain limitations, was not far from right in adoring heroes, and he was more than right in seeing that heroes do not of necessity wear plumes and sabres. It is the meek and not the mighty who are promised the inheritance of the earth. Francis of Assisi, out on the mountain side, calling the birds to come and perch upon his shoulders, and beckoning the poor peasantry to follow him in the pathway to the higher life, is a nobler figure than the great Medici, bent with the weight of his tinsel and his broidery. In the same way it may be truly said that Luther was a greater conqueror than Von Moltke, and Victor Hugo in exile a more potent force than the Third Napoleon in the Tuileries. Ideal characters cannot be made to order. They must stand for something more than accident, for something better than titles and dignities.

You do well to celebrate this day, and you will be wise if, here and now, you pledge a new and increasing fealty to the memory of Abraham Lincoln and his noble life. The times in which we live are filled with high appeals and solemn warnings, and yet we are in danger of forgetting plain old truths. The age is restless. Everywhere there is discontent, partly right and partly wrong; but they greatly err who imagine that the white crest upon the wave is a true measure of the depths below. The dogmatist and the doctrinaire, whose lips have hardly been moistened by the dew of wisdom, think that they, above all others, have a

message to which the age must listen. And thus it happens that things are often made to seem more, and sometimes far less, than they really are. It is well, perhaps, that it should be so. Let us not complain, for it is a wise and wholesome liberty which declares that every creed and doctrine shall be heard, and every voice shall have its say. But when the crickets pipe and chirrup, it is pleasant to think that somewhere there is peace; and when summer heats are upon us, it is sweet to rest in the shadow of an illustrious name. "He was not of an age, but for all time," was the noble tribute of Ben Jonson to Shakespeare, and it is as widely true of him who was the gentlest, bravest, wisest leader that ever wore the name of American citizen.

Abraham Lincoln was great-not fully knowing, but, I think, always believing in his own greatness. In him common sense took on flesh and blood. Rooted in humble soil, his life grew and strengthened and unconsciously flowered into fame. If you compare him with other statesmen-with Pitt, or Fox, or Palmerston-you will see that he had learned the secret never revealed to them, the sublime art of leading while seeming to follow. He is sometimes called the founder of the Republican Party. He was not that, but he was more. When, in 1858, he made that memorable canvass of Illinois, his party was a great instrument, discordant and untuned. He touched its chords and straightway a nation leaped into life to follow its enchanting strains. Some, perhaps, are here to-day who knew him; all have felt in their veins the thrill of his inspiring words. In those early days no one fathomed him. To his neighbors he was a plain, homely man, but behind that rugged face and the ill-fitting clothes there dwelt the soul of a ruler. No herald announced his coming, no trumpet sounded when a new Agamemnon-not king of men, but leader of men-rose from the prairies. "Is not a man better than a town?" asks Emerson. Verily, Abraham Lincoln, proclaiming the unwelcome truth that had just begun to dawn, was more than a city with all its domes and turrets flashing against the sky. We often talk of men who have a mission. Think of him in all that great debate,

sounding into unwilling ears the prophetic figure of the "house divided against itself." Again and again it rang out, like an alarum bell, calling upon men to bestir themselves if they would avert the gathering wrath.

And the storm came-but the house stood. It stood because Abraham Lincoln lived to set it right and to make all who dwelt therein free, by the grace of God and his own immortal pen.

It is something more than a sentiment which makes us love the memory of Abraham Lincoln, though sentiment alone is a sufficient reason. The years have lifted him into the region of legend and tradition. But there are still among us men whose memories go back to the days when he carried the nation's burdens. They remember how the world opened its eyes to marvel at his never-failing judgment, his tender sympathy, and the unconquerable spirit which disaster could not shake nor victory too much elate. He kept his even poise in good and in evil times. No President before or since ever selected such a Cabinet. He chose his rivals to be his advisers and easily towered above them all. And yet this man, so sagacious and sensible, had, as the greatest always have, a temperament highly wrought, poetical, mystical, almost superstitious. The unseen world haunted him like a vision. To him was given that "inward eye" of which Wordsworth sang, the deep perception of things which are precious because they are invisible. It seems strange to us that Abraham Lincoln believed in the dreams that came to him before great victories and defeats; but it is because we cannot fully comprehend a nature in which, if there had not been some vent, soul and body would have sunk together under the terrible strain that was upon him. In the midst of it all a merciful solace came to him in that sense of humor with which he was so largely endowed. Only fools are always serious. Abraham Lincoln's humor gives him a place in the first order of minds. Laughter and tears are next of kin. The same pen that wrote "Hamlet" gave to the world the rollicking fun of Falstaff, and thereby showed that his genius was "as broad and general as the casing air."