He recited it from memory, throwing himself into the scene with remarkable abandon and tact. Then he went on:—
“The opening of the play of ‘King Richard III.’ seems to me often entirely misapprehended. It is quite common for an actor to come upon the stage, and, in a sophomoric style, to begin with a flourish:—
Made glorious summer by this sun of York,
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!’
“Now,” said he, “this is all wrong. Richard, you remember, had been, and was then, plotting the destruction of his brothers, to make room for himself. Outwardly the most loyal to the newly-crowned king, secretly he could scarcely contain his impatience at the obstacles still in the way of his own elevation. He appears upon the stage, just after the crowning of Edward, burning with repressed hate and jealousy. The prologue is the utterance of the most intense bitterness and satire.”
Then, assuming the character, perhaps without design, he repeated Richard’s soliloquy with so much effect, that Mr. Carpenter, who was present, says:—“It seemed like a new creation to me. Though familiar with the passage from boyhood, I can truly say that never till that moment had I fully appreciated its spirit.”
A delegation of the “Christian Commission” waited upon him, and, in reply to their address, he said:—
“I desire, also, to add to what I have said, that there is one association whose object and motives I have never heard in any degree impugned or questioned” [a sly rebuke at the unjust criticisms and fault-finding that prevailed]; “and that is the ‘Christian Commission.’ And, as Shakespeare says,” he added, “that is a record, gentlemen, of which you may justly be proud.” Then, as if to correct himself, he remarked, “I believe, however, it is ‘Jack Falstaff’ who talks about ‘villainy,’ though, of course, Shakespeare is responsible.”
The particular circumstances of the country, or some phase of his personal experience, appear to have been the occasion generally of these and kindred drafts upon his literary resources.
N. P. Willis, the poet, was riding with him one day, when some remark or scene drew out the following from the poet’s “Parrhasius”:
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame,—
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers,—if the links
Falsehood has broken will unite no more;
If the deep-yearning love, that has not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears;
If truth, and fervour, and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness; if beyond
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart
May spend itself,—what thrice-mock’d fools are we!”
Mr. Willis was both surprised and delighted with this evidence of familiarity with his writings, and the handsome compliment so gracefully tendered.
We do not design to speak at length of Mr. Lincoln’s mental ability; that has appeared, incidentally, from the beginning of our story. Enough has been quoted from his lip and pen to prove that Senator Trumbull’s brief tribute was not exaggerated, “He is a giant; and without the prefix ‘Little’ to it, a giant in intellect as well as in stature.” In the light of what has been said, the words of that noted Englishman, Goldwin Smith, are pertinent: “He met the most terrible of all emergencies with ability and self-possession, as well, probably, as it would have been met by any European sovereign or statesman whom you could name.”
However, this chapter should not close without his eloquent and beautiful address at the dedication of the national cemetery at Gettysburg, November 18th, 1863. Its originality and classic diction must commend it to the favourable consideration of the ripest scholars:—
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