Original negative by Mathew Brady at Washington in September, 1862, age 53 years Print in possession of Mr. L. C. Handy of Washington, District of Columbia

THE HAND OF LINCOLN ON THE CHAIN OF BONDAGE

HE greatest gift that man has ever known is moral courage. It is the secret power that makes men rise above themselves and rule their destiny. It is a legacy that is bequeathed to every living man to use or not to use according to his own desire. You are your own master of your God-given fortunes and you alone are held accountable for them.

The Confederacy reeled at the blow of the Emancipation Proclamation and referred to it as the "most execrable measure recorded in the history of guilty man. Lincoln understood the responsibility upon him. He saw

in it the omen of racial and social strife to come.

"I do it," he said, "only to save the Union . . . I can only trust in God."

It was New Year's Day in 1863. The White House was a scene of social brilliancy. Ministers from foreign nations, senators and congressmen and army officers gathered to pay their respects to the courageous republic. Lincoln stood among them with words of cordial greeting. Passing from them, he entered the executive chamber. He seated himself at the long cabinet table. Before him lay a broad sheet, the words of which were engrossed in heavy letters. He raised his pen, and, dipping it in the ink, moved his hand to the place for the signature. Hesitating a moment, he dropped the pen. Turning toward the cabinet minister, and his son, who were the only persons in the room, he said: "I never, in my life, felt more certain that I was doing right than I do in signing this paper. But I have been shaking hands since nine o'clock this morning, till my arm is stiff and numb. If my name goes into history it will be for this act, and my whole soul is in it. If my hand trembles when I sign this proclamation, they will say: 'He hesitated.'"

Turning again to the table, he took up the pen, and slowly but firmly wrote at the close of the document "Abraham Lincoln." He sat for a moment with his eyes fixed on the signature. Looking up, he smiled and said: "That will do!"

His hand fell by his side the hand that by a single stroke had unchained a race that had been held in bondage almost since the world began. The cabinet member left the room. Lincoln looked straight ahead as though into the future. The lines were chiseled deep about his lips. He seemed to be listening as though he could hear the clanking shackles break from the arms of three million human beings, as though he could hear the anguished sigh that arose from three million human hearts.

THE GREATEST SACRIFICE OF LINCOLN'S LIFE

E who forgets that he was once a child is not a man. The dearest memories that most of us possess are those of childhood; we look back at those long lost days with fondest recollections.

Lin

coln never got so far that he could not hear the call of the whippoor-will and brown thrush singing in those old Kentucky forests far away.

Lincoln loved children. He had three sons, another having died in infancy. The army to him was but somebody's boys-his boys; over two million boys under twenty-one years of age; a million not even eighteen; eight hundred thousand less than seventeen; two hundred thousand had not-reached sixteen; while one hundred thousand children less than fifteen years of age were standing on the battle-line under the Stars and Stripes.

It was during the darkest days of the war, that Lincoln was called upon to make his own sacrifice. The White House was the scene of a brilliant reception. The President, with his wife leaning on his arm, entered the room where the dignitaries of the world were gathered to meet him. The notes of the Marine Band floated far away to the chamber where the companion of his heart lay in fever-his twelve-year-old boy, Willie. The night passed slowly. Lincoln left the ball-room and went to the chamber.

"He is not as well tonight," remarked the physician. "He may be better in a few days." The passing hours were filled with messages from the boys who were dying on the field of battle. Lincoln turned again to his own chamber. His head was bowed with grief. He came to the bed, and, lifting the cover from the face of his child, he gazed into it.

"My poor boy," he murmured. "He was too good for this earth. God has called him home. I know he is much better off in heaven, but we loved him so. It is hard hard-to have him die!" Great sobs choked his words. He bowed his head in his hands, and his gaunt frame shook. Those of you who have lost sons, stand with him here a moment. Listen to the sobs of the broken-hearted mother. Look upon the grief of a father. Bending over her gently, he takes her by the arm and leads her to the window: "Mother, do you see that large, white building on the hill yonder?" He is pointing to the asylum on the hill. "Try to control your grief, for it will drive you mad, and we may have to send you there.”

The lifeless body of the beloved boy lay in the green room, beneath his office. Strong men gathered about him, ambassadors, senators and soldiers, all struggling with their tears-for, whatever the dissensions of life may be, this is a moment when all the world has a heart in common.