In
Lincoln's heart a throb of pain answered it. His speech had been, as
he feared it would be, a failure. As he gazed steadily at these his
countrymen who would not give him even a little perfunctory applause
for his best effort, he knew that the disappointment of it cut into
his soul. And then he was aware that there was music, the choir was
singing a dirge; his part was done, and his part had failed.
When the ceremonies were over Everett at once found the President.
"Mr. President," he began, "your speech--" but Lincoln had
interrupted, flashing a kindly smile down at him, laying a hand on his
shoulder.
"We'll manage not to talk about my speech, Mr. Everett," he said.
"This isn't the first time I've felt that my dignity ought not to
permit me to be a public speaker."
He went on in a few cordial sentences to pay tribute to the orator
of the occasion. Everett listened thoughtfully and when the chief had
done, "Mr. President," he said simply, "I should be glad if I could
flatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion in
two hours as you did in two minutes."
But Lincoln shook his head and laughed and turned to speak to a
newcomer with no change of opinion--he was apt to trust his own
judgments.
The special train which left Gettysburg immediately after the
solemnities on the battle-field cemetery brought the President's party
into Washington during the night.
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