These honored dead

In the months following the carnage at Gettysburg in July, 1863, there was a movement to turn part of the battlefield into a national cemetery honoring the fallen of both sides. (Yes, primary consideration was for the Union dead. But, you know, it was probably hard to tell some of them apart, and, in the end, every one of them was somebody’s boy.) By mid-November they were ready to dedicate the burial grounds.

Those in charge had invited Edward Everett, former president of Harvard College, former US Representative and Senator from Massachusetts, former Governor of Massachusetts, former Ambassador to Great Britain, and former Secretary of State (under Millard Fillmore), to deliver an address properly commemorating the occasion. Everett was one of the foremost orators of the day—and it was a day when orators were, uh, rock stars.

Listen—150 years ago, there was no streaming media, no IMAX theatres, no high fidelity sound systems, no—you know—rock stars. Oration was a standard, accepted form of providing both information and entertainment. Think of them as the infomercials of the 19^th Century. Only they generally went on for longer than 30 minutes. You judged an orator by how long he held your attention no matter the weather.

Everett was a sure bet for multiple hours, so he was good value for the event organizers.

They also invited President Abraham Lincoln to deliver a few “dedicatory remarks”. It seemed like the thing to do, although he definitely was not the draw. Due to Everett's schedule, the dedication was set for 19 November.

Lincoln wasn’t feeling well that day, so he would not have been in top form—although in fairness, even in top form he probably wouldn’t have been rated in the rock star region. Everett’s speech lasted for two hours (and more than 13,000 words), and by all accounts was received with acclaim, both from the crowd and the journalists present.

There was a musical interlude, and then Lincoln stepped up to speak. There’s some question now as to the exact wording of his remarks—there are different versions floating about. But, in comparison to Everett, he’d only just started when he sat down again. Just a few minutes, just ten sentences. Then the choir sang a dirge and a preacher pronounced a benediction. Lincoln didn’t hang around, but took the 1830 train back to Washington, with a fever and a headache.

And yet it’s a stunningly concise summary of the American character at its best, and a continuation of the simple clarity that marked the documents of our Founding Fathers.

I don’t know whether they make school kids memorize and declaim it any more—but if put to the test, I could probably still call up most of it, because even a school kid can get it. (By contrast, “It droppeth as the gentle rain” is about all I can recall of Portia’s quality of mercy speech in The Merchant of Venice.)

It’s worth you taking a look:

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

“Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

“But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Lincoln’s brevity disappointed the crowd, and journalists criticized it along party lines. For a while it did indeed seem as though the world would little note what he said there. But we’ve come to recognize that when it comes to encapsulating the democratic ideals on which this country is founded—the unfinished work towards which we should continue striving—no one has ever said a truer word than this speech.

It’s doubtful that any president—even one with Lincoln’s sensibilities—would get away with delivering an address like this these days. (Well, but—Lincoln wouldn’t have been elected these days; doesn’t look presidential, if you know what I mean.) Peggy Noonan in fact has deconstructed how modern professional speechwriters would modify, mollify and magnify all the points necessary to please the maximum number of constituents and piss off the minimum number of everyone else. (Although these days, doesn’t really matter what you say—haters gonna hate.)

So take some time to appreciate that, at one moment in time, we had someone rise to the occasion, speak from the heart—for all our hearts—and get the hell out when he was done.