I open my mouth in awe, for I recognize again President Lincoln—the martyr, as joining him in touch appear his generals. My memory goes back to that struggle of civil strength, at the sight.
Then I strive to awaken myself, as though I must have fallen strangely asleep, scarcely believing the illusion before me.
Not crediting the tales of spiritualist societies, I cannot likewise discredit the Bible records. Knowing I have not, as likely the excellent souls in Arc, have not, in wantonness profanely tempted this array, I, in deference to the manifestation, wait resignedly. I clasp my hands in added awe as Savant touches me to inquire:
“Who are they?”
“Upon the other side of our country’s father has appeared. Ah, who? Jefferson Davis and his gray-clad staff.”
I wring my hands as Savant touches me again.
“There was a war,” I gasp. “Do they hear? They look down and smile at me, even the rebel, at whom I shake my finger.”
“You caused it, to be a President. You tried to cut a great country in two; deluging it in blood.”
In my electric state I see the root of the real cause—ambition of earthly state. The root of evil that grew to a tree of distrust of brother to brother. Each aroused in strength of pride to combat of their separate interests.
He replies resignedly. “I did not want war. It conquered back the Union.”