Lincoln the Rhetor
As he saved the Union, he savored the English language.
Feb 16, 2009, Vol. 14, No. 21 • By EDWIN M. YODER JR.
At last reliable count, Abraham Lincoln had been the subject of more books than any historical figure other than Jesus of Nazareth--running with scarcely a pause for breath from the quirky portrait assembled by his former law partner "Billy" Herndon. With the advent of his bicentennial year, everyone with a spare sheet of paper may feel the urge to inflate that bibliography. But is there anything new to say?
Perhaps not, though variations may always be played on familiar themes. Indeed, on one aspect of Lincoln's now undisputed greatness, there is some room for elaboration. We think automatically of his wit, his humanity, his tragic sense of life. But we think, even more, of his surpassing articulateness. We think, that is, of Lincoln the rhetor, a valuable if now disused term deriving from Aristotle's treatise on persuasion. That Lincoln wrote splendidly is hardly news to anyone. He was so persuasive when putting pen to paper that he outclassed all other noted public rhetors in our past--even Jefferson, even Madison, even Hamilton.
The ultimate proof lies in his two great inaugural addresses, and to my taste, the subtle letters he dispatched to military commanders obsessed with their own importance and foolishly blind to his.
Who can forget his laconic note to Gen. George McClellan when, in October 1862, the dilatory Union commander complained that his horses were too few and too tired?
I have just read your dispatch about sore-tongued and fatigued horses. Will you pardon me for asking what the horses of your army have done since the battle of Antietam that fatigues anything?
And this, a few months later, to McClellan's overconfident successor, General Hooker?
I have heard, in such a way as to believe it, of your recently saying that both the army and the government need a dictator. Of course it was not for this, but in spite of it, that I have given you the command. Only those generals who gain successes can set up dictators. What I now ask of you is military success and I will risk the dictatorship.
(Hooker is mainly remembered today as the boastful general who was utterly routed by Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville a few months later.)
As for the inaugural addresses, Douglas L. Wilson in Lincoln's Sword, an informative study of his writing, has shown in detail how Lincoln revised the draft of the peroration of the first inaugural submitted by William Seward, Lincoln's secretary of state-in-waiting. He and Lincoln agreed that conciliatory words should follow Lincoln's lucid statement of the unionist position.
Seward, who was no slouch as a writer himself, proposed:
I close. We are not and must not be aliens or enemies. . . . Although passion has strained our bonds of affection too hardly I am sure they will not be broken. The mystic chords which proceeding from so many battle fields and so many patriot graves pass[ing] through all the hearths in this broad continent of ours will yet again harmonize in their ancient music when breathed upon by the guardian angel of the nation.
Lincoln's burnished an immortal version:
Lincoln's buffing of Seward's draft was more than what newspaper people call pencil editing. It shows that his ear was perfectly pitched to the rhythms and tonalities of English--not in the somewhat inflated form in which it was then written but as it would shortly emerge from the laconic pens of Lincoln himself, Mark Twain, and Ulysses S. Grant.
Thirty years ago, the present writer was sitting one day at his desk at the Washington Star, wishing that he had a fresh subject for a column, when he noted a recent letter to the editor. Our reader had challenged a facile editorial pronouncement captioned "Presidents and Words" that had asserted that Lincoln, at Gettysburg, had practiced an "engineering of English," and had by "trickery tuned his language to high effect."