It was stated by friends of Lincoln that he generally refrained from giving publicity to his religious opinions while in public life because of their unpopularity. In answer to this the Christian claimant retorts: "If this be true then he was a hypocrite." But let us be honest. Nearly every person entertains opinions which he does not deem it discreet or necessary to make public. You, my Christian friend, entertain doubts and heresies concerning your creed which you keep a secret or disclose only to your most intimate associates. If you, in private life, and not dependent upon the public, hide your unpopular thoughts from the world, can you consistently blame Lincoln for his silence when the fate of a nation depended upon him and the alienation even of a few bigots might turn the scales against him? A Christian general does not hesitate to deceive the enemy or withhold his plans even from his own soldiers. Again, the clergy are forever advising and entreating men not to publish their doubts and heresies. Is it consistent in them to condemn a man for following their advice?
The church should learn to respect honesty herself before she charges others with dishonesty. It is the shame of Christianity that men have been obliged to conceal their honest convictions in order to escape ostracism and persecution. When the church herself becomes honest enough to tolerate and respect the honest opinions of those who cannot conscientiously accept her creed, then will it be time for her to charge Lincoln with hypocrisy for having partially withheld his unpopular views from religious ruffians. It does not evince a want of honesty, nor even a lack of moral courage, to flee from a tiger or avoid a skunk.
To do good was Lincoln's religion. To live an honest, manly life—to add to the sum of human happiness—to make the world better for his having lived—this was the aspiration of his life and the essence of his faith.
In youth, the meanest creature found in him a friend, and if need be, a defender. He wrote essays and made speeches against cruelty to animals, and sought to impress upon his playmates' minds the sacredness of life. The same tender regard for the weak and unfortunate characterized his manhood. Whilst riding through a forest once with a party of friends, he saw a brood of young birds on the ground which a storm had blown from their nest. He dismounted from his horse, and after a laborious search, found the nest and placed the birdlings snugly in their little home. When he reached his companions, and was chided by them for his delay, he said: "I could not have slept to-night if I had not given those birds to their mother."
The narration of his many deeds of kindness and mercy while at Washington would fill a volume. He loved to rescue an erring soldier boy from the jaws of death and fill a mother's eyes with tears of joy. He loved to dispel the clouds of sorrow from a wife's sad heart and warm it with the sunshine of happiness. He loved to take the child of poverty upon his knee and plant within its little breast the seeds of confidence and hope.
A giant in stature, and a lion in strength and courage, he possessed the gentleness of a child and the tenderness of a woman. The sufferings, even of a stranger, would fill his eyes with tears, and the death of a friend would overwhelm him. In his tenth year his mother died, and for a time his heart was desolate and he could not be consoled. In his fifteenth year his only sister, a lovely, fragile flower, just blooming into womanhood, drooped and died, and life seemed purposeless to him again. Of his four children, two died while he was living—Eddie, a fair-haired babe, and his beloved Willie. When death took these his sorrow was unutterable. The untimely death of his young friend, the gallant Colonel Ellsworth, at Alexandria, and the death of his life-long friend, the lamented Edwin F. Baker, at Ball's Bluff, were blows that staggered him. At the death of his good friend, Bowlin Green, he was chosen to deliver a funeral address. When the hour arrived, and he stepped forward to perform the sacred task, his eyes fell upon the coffin of his dead friend and for a time he stood transfixed—helpless and speechless. The only tribute he could pay was the tribute of his tears. When he turned for the last time from the bedside of the beautiful Ann Rut-ledge, his betrothed, it was with a broken heart and a mind dethroned. "Oh! I can never be reconciled to have the snow, the rain, and the storm beat upon her grave," was the pitiful burden of his plaint for weeks. Reason after a time returned, but his wonted gladness never; and down through all those eventful years to that fatal April night when his own sweet life-blood slowly oozed away, beneath that sparkling surface of feigned mirth, drifted the memory and the agonies of that great grief.
In the social relations of life, he was a most exemplary man. He was a devoted husband, an indulgent father, an obliging neighbor, and a faithful friend. Mrs. Colonel Chapman, a lady who lived for a time in his family, pays this tribute to his private life: "He was all that a husband, father, and neighbor should be, kind and affectionate to his wife and child, and very pleasant to all around him. Never did I hear him utter an unkind word." "His devotion to wife and children," says George W. Julian, "was as abiding and unbounded as his love of country." The strong attachment always manifested by him for his friends has often been remarked. Rich and poor, great and humble, all were equally dear to him and alike the recipients of his regard and love. The prince he treated like a man, the humblest man he treated like a prince. Nothing in his career exhibits the greatness and nobleness of his character in a loftier degree than the cordial and unaffected manner in which, at Washington, in the midst of wealth, and splendor, and refinement, he was accustomed to receive and entertain the plain, uncultured friends of other days.
Upon his rugged honesty, I need not dwell. The sobriquet of "Honest Abe" was early won by him and never lost. In his profession—a profession in which, too often, cunning and deceit, falsehood and dishonesty, are the means, and robbery the end—a profession in which, too often, Injustice is a purpled Dives sitting at a bounteous board, and Justice, a ragged Lazarus lying at the gate—he never wavered in his loyalty to truth, to justice, and to honesty. Engaged in a just cause, he was one of the most powerful advocates that ever addressed a judge or jury; engaged in an unjust cause, he was the weakest member of his bar. In fact, he could not be induced to plead a cause in which he did not see some element of justice, even though the technicalities of law insured success. To one who had sought his services and had stated his case, he replied: "Yes, I can win it; but there are some things legally right that are not morally right; this is one: I cannot take your case." He was once employed to defend a person accused of murder. As the trial progressed, it became apparent to him that his client had done the deed. Turning to his associate counsel, with a look of disappointment and pain, he said: "Swett, the man is guilty; you defend him; I cannot." On another occasion, when he discovered that his client had grossly imposed upon his confidence and instituted an unjust suit, he left the court-room, and when the bailiff called for him, he answered: "Tell Judge Treat that I can't come; I have to wash my hands."
He was the most magnanimous of men. William H. Seward, his chief opponent for the Presidential nomination, he made the Premier of his Cabinet. Secretary Chase became his political, if not his personal, enemy. Yet, recognizing his fitness for the place, he waived all personal grievances and appointed him to the exalted position of Chief Justice of the United States, the highest gift within the power of a President to bestow. During his professional career he was sent to Cincinnati to assist Edwin M. Stanton in an important legal case. The grim Stanton had never met this plain, Western lawyer before, and displeased at his uncouth appearance, and apparent lack of ability, treated him so discourteously that Lincoln's self-respect compelled him to practically withdraw from the case. It was a brutal affront, too poignant for him ever to forget, but not to forgive, and linked together on one of the most momentous pages of history stand the names of Lincoln and Stanton, an enduring witness to his sublime magnanimity.
The murder of this loving savior of our Union was a disastrous blow, not to the victorious North alone, but to the vanquished South as well. Could he have lived, the balm of his great, kindly nature would have quickly healed the nation's wounds. At the commencement of the conflict, in pleading tones, he said: "We are not enemies, but friends." And at its close, notwithstanding all the cruel, bitter anguish he had endured during those four long years of fratricidal strife, "With malice toward none, with charity for all," he died, and many a brave Confederate deplored