In passion's storm he stood, unmoved, patient, just and candid. In his brain there was no cloud, and in his heart no hate. He longed to save the South as well as North, to see the Nation one and free. He lived until the end was known. He lived until the Confederacy was dead--until Lee surrendered, until Davis fled, until the doors of Libby Prison were opened, until the Republic was supreme. He lived until Lincoln and Liberty were united forever. He lived to cross the desert--to reach the palms of victory--to hear the murmured music of the welcome waves. He lived until all loyal hearts were his--until the history of his deeds made music in the souls of men--until he knew that on Columbia's Calendar of worth and fame his name stood first. He lived until there remained nothing for him to do as great as he had done. What he did was worth living for, worth dying for. He lived until he stood in the midst of universal Joy, beneath the outstretched wings of Peace--the foremost man in all the world. And then the horror came. Night fell on noon. The Savior of the Republic, the breaker of chains, the liberator of millions, he who had "assured freedom to the free," was dead. Upon his brow Fame placed the immortal wreath, and for the first time in the history of the world a Nation bowed and wept. The memory of Lincoln is the strongest, tenderest tie that binds all hearts together now, and holds all States beneath a Nation's flag. XIV. ABRAHAM LINCOLN--strange mingling of mirth and tears, of the tragic and grotesque, of cap and crown, of Socrates and Democritus, of Æsop and Marcus Aurelius, of all that is gentle and just, humorous and honest, merciful, wise, laughable, lovable and divine, and all consecrated to the use of man; while through all, and over all, were an overwhelming sense of obligation, of chivalric loyalty to truth, and upon all, the shadow of the tragic end. Nearly all the great historic characters are impossible monsters, disproportioned by flattery, or by calumny deformed. We know nothing of their peculiarities, or nothing but their peculiarities. About these oaks there clings none of the earth of humanity. Washington is now only a steel engraving. About the real man who lived and loved and hated and schemed, we know but little. The glass through which we look at him is of such high magnifying power that the features are exceedingly indistinct. Hundreds of people are now engaged in smoothing out the lines of Lincoln's face--forcing all features to the common mould--so that he may be known, not as he really was, but, according to their poor standard, as he should have been. Lincoln was not a type. He stands alone--no ancestors, no fellows, and no successors.