Lincoln's Call: The meaning of the Gettysburg Address, 150 years later
Written November 2013
On Thursday, November 19, 1863 the American people were in the process of coping with and comprehending a dreaded bloody mess known as the Civil War. This horrid experience had been in the middle of its third fall, a time of year traditionally steeped in death, but often associated with a touch of beauty and the promise of new life come spring. On a ridge overlooking the golden fields and glistening windows of a small farm town situated in the heart of South Central Pennsylvania, a lanky, bearded man with a stovepipe hat stood before a crowd of scores of people. At first glance, their purpose for being was there was simple, as they anxiously awaited a sure-to-be-lengthy presentation by this towering figure.
He rose, cautiously optimistic, and paced to the front of the stage. In his boney fingers he clutched a thin sheet of paper folded into three equally divided portions. With the other hand, he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his spectacles. He was an old man who had aged ten years in just three. He was weary, broken and bleak. But he was an idealist. And he was the leader of this nation split in two.
That was the true reason he was here on this day, to explain to these people—his people—why their loved ones and fellow countrymen had perished, and why this sacrifice was not a deed done in vain. Those who had died thus far—including the some three-thousand-five-hundred scattered in the crust around the weary president's midst—had accomplished a feat in the name of freeing millions of human beings from bondage, in the name of justice and in the name of preserving a Union made stronger through the bonds of the many than by the divisive tones taken by the few.
They were the defenders of an ideal spanning nearly nine decades by that time, a principle emblazoned in the annals of the great Declaration, which offered a vague-but-seemingly decisive virtue declaring the equality of all men. And it was for such a principle, argued that old bearded man—President Abraham Lincoln—that the eventual prospect of victory outweighed the grim present stages. No one could have imagined that anything positive could come out of the present situation, a time in which young men were daily pouring hot lead into the dehumanized masses of flesh who they called their enemies.
Five months earlier, this plot of land on which Lincoln now stood would have been unidentifiable by the vast majority of the nation's people, the same people whose eyes could now not shy away from it. Now, for all the wrong reasons, this collection of roads known as Gettysburg symbolized the heart of the imperative journey toward peace—a journey that made a three-day halt at this juncture inhabited by 2,400 people.
In just under 72 hours, on July 1, 2 and 3, 1863, 51,000 Americans, from both North and South, fell victim to the hell that ensued here. Crisp brown wheat, sweet golden corn and lush clusters of peaches were mowed down by the trampling feet and solid corpses of 170,000 warriors. The stalks, orchards and trees were seared, as if by a scythe. Contrary to the norm in such agricultural regions, it was not a harvest of hope or of life over those three days, but an enfilade of millions of leaden deathtraps. At the close of this trinity of days, the carnage filled the fields, covered the streets and littered the homes, barns, churches and college dormitories of this once-peaceful plethora of perfect soil, successful business and happy people. But that aura of pleasure was now replaced with the sickening stench of rotting flesh.
Between those three days at the beginning of July and this mid-November date, the healing process was struggling along, day-by-day, and week-by-week, as shallow graves were dug up, unearthing the blighted portrait of eight thousand lives lost—along with them went futures, dreams, promises. A cemetery was plotted, a dedication planned, and almost as an afterthought, the president of these presently divided states was asked to deliver brief remarks relevant to the solemn occasion. And so he accepted. And now he stood there before that crowd, those people to whom he owed his life—the people who had allied with him and the often-unpopular cause in which he believed.
He opened his mouth to speak, his thin, wiry voice flickering through the air with uneasy syllables. “Four score and seven years ago,” he proclaimed, “our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation—conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” An observer on that brisk November afternoon might have seen people crying—the mothers, fathers, siblings and sweethearts of the many perished souls lost on these fields and others like them, the parcels of southern soil forever tarnished by the ferocious reality of nigh-on three years of war. They might have seen some onlookers smiling, perhaps nodding in agreement at the consistent message of the empowering president rising above this field. They might have seen disgruntlement among individuals opposed to the unnecessary killings all across the nation, the damnable destruction of homes, of properties, of families. Who knows what they might have seen, but they would have heard the Kentucky drawl of the president’s voice as it flowed through the autumn air.
He spoke of the virtues of a nation where all men could be treated equally—a reality only allotted to this nation should it sacrifice and continue this cruel struggle against oppression. He made references to the fields around them, the place where so many had given “their lives that that nation might live.” He recognized the imperative nature of such a statement, being that he, and those around him were gathered upon the very fields—“here”—where so much pain had been caused, so many heroic deeds accomplished and so many valiant maneuvers had sealed the fate of this great battle. More importantly, he recognized that the ceremony on that November Thursday was not to dedicate, not to consecrate, not to hallow the ground upon which they stood, for “the brave men, living and dead who struggled here” worked far too tirelessly and lifelessly to allow such a claim to be bestowed upon others.
And it was at that moment—that next distinct second—that Mr. Lincoln made a blatant human error, one of the few flaws of judgment fully evident within his years of offering public service for the people of his beloved nation. “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here,” he inexcusably uttered. He could not have been more incorrect in this claim. You see, what Lincoln did not realize at that moment was that the 272 words he was in the process of sculpting would be revered throughout history as one of the defining moments in the legacy of the English language. In fact, the two-and-a-half minutes he spent on that stage are, in many ways, remembered just as much as the harrowing 72 hours during which the battle he commemorated was fought.
Abraham Lincoln ended his flawed statement with a poignant and truthful statement, however—one which has affected millions of individuals yearly, as they make the cross-state, cross-nation, and in many cases, cross-globe trek to visit the site where this monumental battle took place: “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, But it can never forget what they did here.”
And that alone, in its eleven syllables, sealed the fate of the memory of this speech, this man, this moment. Lincoln would finish his address, formulating some of the most memorable phrases in democratic history. Among his final pleas to the crowd were referencing the sacrifice through “the last full measure of devotion” and the hope of “a new birth of freedom.” He ended on a note that resonates throughout all of this land, to this day, a rallying cry for millions on all ends of the political spectrum, in all walks of life and of all codes, creeds and ideologies. “Government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.”
And so Lincoln finished, to the astonishment of the vast majority of the onlookers. He ponderously turned, moving cleverly back to his seat. He refolded his spectacles, placing them back into their warm, dark home inside his pocket. He took one last look at the crowd, nodded and clutched his now-immortal document, pulling it close to his chest, overcome by the emotion of the preceding moment: He had taken just two minutes to say what had taken his predecessor that afternoon two hours.
Some would hold this address to a high regard, while others would force their unsatisfactory lamentations upon its eventual heritage. But over time, it has taken precedence in the annals of the nearly two-and-a-half centuries of the existence of this storied nation. To this day, it has captured the attention of students, teachers, immigrants, dreamers and everyday individuals by the millions.
And that brings us to now, 150 years removed from that afternoon. We now have entirely new issues, agendas and leaders. But in all of these attitudes, we find a modern sense of hope in the words spoken that afternoon by the old bearded man with the stovepipe hat. We find that no matter our backgrounds, no matter our grievances, no matter our understanding of the world around us, we can all hold onto some ideal. Lincoln’s ideal was justice. Lincoln’s ideal was equality. Lincoln’s ideal was the hope of a nation one day healed through the thoughtful sacrifice of the many.
In some ways, we have gone back a step—perhaps a few steps under most circumstances. But what gives me hope is the fact that when I read his words—a nearly daily habit for me at this point—I can hear the voice of those who came before me, offering a sense of hope and of reality that it does not take bickering, nor conflict, nor selfishness to accomplish the seemingly insurmountable circumstances being faced today. It simply takes an appreciation for what it means to give one’s all for the cause in which he or she believes. And that’s what Abraham Lincoln did—his life would be lost some 17 months from the moment he uttered his prose at Gettysburg.
When I walk across the fields at Gettysburg, it always manages to bring a lump to my throat. It’s a sense of solemnity and a realization that the issues I face in life pale in comparison to the consequences faced head-on by my ancestors. For three days, 170,000 men stared into the navy-and-butternut-colored walls of men forcefully pursing them—and nearly one-third of them were killed, wounded, captured or missing as a result of that. That’s the legacy of Gettysburg, and for the fateful four years of the Civil War, our nation’s darkest era.
Regardless of how many hours are spent pondering troop movements and military strategy, the fact remains unimpeded—these were Americans, all of them. These were husbands, brothers, sons. These were human beings. And in the end, they suffered for a cause greater than any one man. I fully believe Abraham Lincoln realized this fact. And I fully believe the impact of his words are what bring us all to Gettysburg, whether we realize it or not. Because what happened there over the course of three July days was something ultimately glorious, yes; but it was also something terrible. We must all realize the tragedy of those days. And when we do, I pray we can all hear the call of Lincoln.
For the world will never, ever forget what they did here—or what he said there.
He rose, cautiously optimistic, and paced to the front of the stage. In his boney fingers he clutched a thin sheet of paper folded into three equally divided portions. With the other hand, he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his spectacles. He was an old man who had aged ten years in just three. He was weary, broken and bleak. But he was an idealist. And he was the leader of this nation split in two.
That was the true reason he was here on this day, to explain to these people—his people—why their loved ones and fellow countrymen had perished, and why this sacrifice was not a deed done in vain. Those who had died thus far—including the some three-thousand-five-hundred scattered in the crust around the weary president's midst—had accomplished a feat in the name of freeing millions of human beings from bondage, in the name of justice and in the name of preserving a Union made stronger through the bonds of the many than by the divisive tones taken by the few.
They were the defenders of an ideal spanning nearly nine decades by that time, a principle emblazoned in the annals of the great Declaration, which offered a vague-but-seemingly decisive virtue declaring the equality of all men. And it was for such a principle, argued that old bearded man—President Abraham Lincoln—that the eventual prospect of victory outweighed the grim present stages. No one could have imagined that anything positive could come out of the present situation, a time in which young men were daily pouring hot lead into the dehumanized masses of flesh who they called their enemies.
Five months earlier, this plot of land on which Lincoln now stood would have been unidentifiable by the vast majority of the nation's people, the same people whose eyes could now not shy away from it. Now, for all the wrong reasons, this collection of roads known as Gettysburg symbolized the heart of the imperative journey toward peace—a journey that made a three-day halt at this juncture inhabited by 2,400 people.
In just under 72 hours, on July 1, 2 and 3, 1863, 51,000 Americans, from both North and South, fell victim to the hell that ensued here. Crisp brown wheat, sweet golden corn and lush clusters of peaches were mowed down by the trampling feet and solid corpses of 170,000 warriors. The stalks, orchards and trees were seared, as if by a scythe. Contrary to the norm in such agricultural regions, it was not a harvest of hope or of life over those three days, but an enfilade of millions of leaden deathtraps. At the close of this trinity of days, the carnage filled the fields, covered the streets and littered the homes, barns, churches and college dormitories of this once-peaceful plethora of perfect soil, successful business and happy people. But that aura of pleasure was now replaced with the sickening stench of rotting flesh.
Between those three days at the beginning of July and this mid-November date, the healing process was struggling along, day-by-day, and week-by-week, as shallow graves were dug up, unearthing the blighted portrait of eight thousand lives lost—along with them went futures, dreams, promises. A cemetery was plotted, a dedication planned, and almost as an afterthought, the president of these presently divided states was asked to deliver brief remarks relevant to the solemn occasion. And so he accepted. And now he stood there before that crowd, those people to whom he owed his life—the people who had allied with him and the often-unpopular cause in which he believed.
He opened his mouth to speak, his thin, wiry voice flickering through the air with uneasy syllables. “Four score and seven years ago,” he proclaimed, “our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation—conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” An observer on that brisk November afternoon might have seen people crying—the mothers, fathers, siblings and sweethearts of the many perished souls lost on these fields and others like them, the parcels of southern soil forever tarnished by the ferocious reality of nigh-on three years of war. They might have seen some onlookers smiling, perhaps nodding in agreement at the consistent message of the empowering president rising above this field. They might have seen disgruntlement among individuals opposed to the unnecessary killings all across the nation, the damnable destruction of homes, of properties, of families. Who knows what they might have seen, but they would have heard the Kentucky drawl of the president’s voice as it flowed through the autumn air.
He spoke of the virtues of a nation where all men could be treated equally—a reality only allotted to this nation should it sacrifice and continue this cruel struggle against oppression. He made references to the fields around them, the place where so many had given “their lives that that nation might live.” He recognized the imperative nature of such a statement, being that he, and those around him were gathered upon the very fields—“here”—where so much pain had been caused, so many heroic deeds accomplished and so many valiant maneuvers had sealed the fate of this great battle. More importantly, he recognized that the ceremony on that November Thursday was not to dedicate, not to consecrate, not to hallow the ground upon which they stood, for “the brave men, living and dead who struggled here” worked far too tirelessly and lifelessly to allow such a claim to be bestowed upon others.
And it was at that moment—that next distinct second—that Mr. Lincoln made a blatant human error, one of the few flaws of judgment fully evident within his years of offering public service for the people of his beloved nation. “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here,” he inexcusably uttered. He could not have been more incorrect in this claim. You see, what Lincoln did not realize at that moment was that the 272 words he was in the process of sculpting would be revered throughout history as one of the defining moments in the legacy of the English language. In fact, the two-and-a-half minutes he spent on that stage are, in many ways, remembered just as much as the harrowing 72 hours during which the battle he commemorated was fought.
Abraham Lincoln ended his flawed statement with a poignant and truthful statement, however—one which has affected millions of individuals yearly, as they make the cross-state, cross-nation, and in many cases, cross-globe trek to visit the site where this monumental battle took place: “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, But it can never forget what they did here.”
And that alone, in its eleven syllables, sealed the fate of the memory of this speech, this man, this moment. Lincoln would finish his address, formulating some of the most memorable phrases in democratic history. Among his final pleas to the crowd were referencing the sacrifice through “the last full measure of devotion” and the hope of “a new birth of freedom.” He ended on a note that resonates throughout all of this land, to this day, a rallying cry for millions on all ends of the political spectrum, in all walks of life and of all codes, creeds and ideologies. “Government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.”
And so Lincoln finished, to the astonishment of the vast majority of the onlookers. He ponderously turned, moving cleverly back to his seat. He refolded his spectacles, placing them back into their warm, dark home inside his pocket. He took one last look at the crowd, nodded and clutched his now-immortal document, pulling it close to his chest, overcome by the emotion of the preceding moment: He had taken just two minutes to say what had taken his predecessor that afternoon two hours.
Some would hold this address to a high regard, while others would force their unsatisfactory lamentations upon its eventual heritage. But over time, it has taken precedence in the annals of the nearly two-and-a-half centuries of the existence of this storied nation. To this day, it has captured the attention of students, teachers, immigrants, dreamers and everyday individuals by the millions.
And that brings us to now, 150 years removed from that afternoon. We now have entirely new issues, agendas and leaders. But in all of these attitudes, we find a modern sense of hope in the words spoken that afternoon by the old bearded man with the stovepipe hat. We find that no matter our backgrounds, no matter our grievances, no matter our understanding of the world around us, we can all hold onto some ideal. Lincoln’s ideal was justice. Lincoln’s ideal was equality. Lincoln’s ideal was the hope of a nation one day healed through the thoughtful sacrifice of the many.
In some ways, we have gone back a step—perhaps a few steps under most circumstances. But what gives me hope is the fact that when I read his words—a nearly daily habit for me at this point—I can hear the voice of those who came before me, offering a sense of hope and of reality that it does not take bickering, nor conflict, nor selfishness to accomplish the seemingly insurmountable circumstances being faced today. It simply takes an appreciation for what it means to give one’s all for the cause in which he or she believes. And that’s what Abraham Lincoln did—his life would be lost some 17 months from the moment he uttered his prose at Gettysburg.
When I walk across the fields at Gettysburg, it always manages to bring a lump to my throat. It’s a sense of solemnity and a realization that the issues I face in life pale in comparison to the consequences faced head-on by my ancestors. For three days, 170,000 men stared into the navy-and-butternut-colored walls of men forcefully pursing them—and nearly one-third of them were killed, wounded, captured or missing as a result of that. That’s the legacy of Gettysburg, and for the fateful four years of the Civil War, our nation’s darkest era.
Regardless of how many hours are spent pondering troop movements and military strategy, the fact remains unimpeded—these were Americans, all of them. These were husbands, brothers, sons. These were human beings. And in the end, they suffered for a cause greater than any one man. I fully believe Abraham Lincoln realized this fact. And I fully believe the impact of his words are what bring us all to Gettysburg, whether we realize it or not. Because what happened there over the course of three July days was something ultimately glorious, yes; but it was also something terrible. We must all realize the tragedy of those days. And when we do, I pray we can all hear the call of Lincoln.
For the world will never, ever forget what they did here—or what he said there.
Photo: Codie Eash, taken June 30, 2013
