Lincoln, the unknown

—LINCOLN THE UNKNOWN• 171Ask him to speak? Some argued that he was too busy for that,that he couldn't possibly find time to prepare. Others franklyasked, "Well, even if he had the time, has he the ability?"They doubted it.Oh, yes, he could make a stump speech in Illinois; but speakingat the dedication of a cemetery? No. That was different.That was not Lincoln's style. However, since he was cominganyway, they had to do something. So they finally wrote him,saying that after Mr. Everett had delivered his oration, theywould like to have him make "a few appropriate remarks."That was the way they phrased it—"a few appropriate remarks."The invitation just barely missed being an insult. But thePresident accepted it. Why? There is an interesting story behindthat. The previous autumn Lincoln had visited the battle-fieldof Antietam; and, one afternoon while he and an old friendfrom Illinois, Ward Lamon, were out driving, the Presidentturned to Lamon and asked him to sing what Lincoln called his"sad little song." It was one of Lincoln's favorites."Many a time, on the Illinois circuit and often at the WhiteHouse when Lincoln and I were alone," says Lamon, "I haveseen him in tears while I was rendering that homely melody."It went like this:I've wandered to the village, Tom; I've sat beneath the treeUpon the schoolhouse play-ground, that sheltered you and me;But none were left to greet me, Tom, and few were left to knowWho played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago.Near by the spring, upon the elm you know I cut your name,Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom; and you did mine thesame.Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark— 'twas dying surebut slow,Just as she died whose name you cut, some twenty years ago.My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes;I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties:I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strowUpon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.As Lamon sang it now, probably Lincoln fell to dreamingof the only woman he had ever loved, Ann Rutledge, and hethought of her lying back there in her neglected grave on theIllinois prairie; and the rush of these poignant memories filled