Meanwhile, in all parts of the American continent, preparations were being made to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of Abraham Lincoln, the humblest, simplest and plainest of our national leaders, whose name no American can utter without emotion. We think of Washington with pride, of Jefferson and Madison with intellectual reverence, and of Jackson and Grant with grateful consciousness of their strength. But the memory of Lincoln, even now, so many years after his piteous death, stirs the tenderest love of the nation, thrills it with a sense of intimate relationship to his greatness and awakens a personal affection in the average American’s breast--not a mere political enthusiasm, but a peculiarly heartfelt sentiment that has no parallel in human history. If it be true that the nation has at once become old, that it has grown sinister and corrupt, that it cringes before material success, stands in awe of multi-millionaires and prostrates itself before money, why is it that we love Lincoln? If in the pride of wealth and strength we have forgotten our early republican ideals of simple justice and manhood, how is it that the movement to commemorate the birth of this lowly, clumsy backwoodsman and frontier lawyer turned President--a movement begun in the rich cities of New York and Chicago--instantly spread to the remotest villages, and all that seemed ugly and haggard, with all that seemed brave and fair and true, swarmed together, heart-naked, to make that twelfth day of February an unforgetable event? Arches and statues; flower-strewn streets with endless processions; moving ceremonies in thousands of schools and colleges; multitudes kneeling in churches; other multitudes listening to orators; warships and fortresses roaring out salutes. Yet these were the mere externals of Lincoln Day. The average American does not shout when he hears Lincoln’s name. Even the political demagogue, the stock gambler, the captain of industry, aye, the sorriest scarecrow of a yellow journalist, is likely to grow silent and reverential when that word is spoken. With all our national levity, we do not jest about Lincoln. With all our political divisions, every party to-day reveres his memory and claims his spirit. It is sober truth to say that he struck the noblest, highest, holiest note in the inmost native soul of the American people. There is nothing so arrogant or sodden and sordid in that new paganism which has set its altars in Wall Street but will in some sense uncover and kneel at the sound of his name. Our fleet, in its voyage around the world, found no record of such a man in any of the lands of its visitations. Each nation, each epoch, each race, has its hero. But there is none like Lincoln. Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Cromwell--how cold their glory seems to his, how immeasurably smaller their place in the affections of mankind?