Lincoln’s Imperfect Perfection
In the Bushido code, the samurai were said to have identified
with the cherry blossom particularly because it fell at the moment of its greatest
beauty, an ideal death.
It is one of the remarkable coincidences of history that the
anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s assassination often comes at the very peak of
the cherry blossom season. In many
respects, he, too, died at the moment of greatest beauty—right after he had
delivered his “with malice towards none” Second Inaugural Address, right after
he had seen Richmond and was mobbed by grateful freedmen, right after Lee had
surrendered to Grant, right after there were no more battles he could win.
The historian Richard Hofstadter once wrote, in his essay Abraham
Lincoln And The Self-Made Myth that “The Lincoln legend has come to have a
hold on the American imagination that defies comparison with anything else in
political mythology.”
That legend, which Hofstadter likens to a Christ-like
assumption of the sins of mortals, followed by their redemption through his
martyrdom, is one half of the consensus historian’s construct about how we
think about the Civil War. The other
half is best embodied in Robert E. Lee, graying, aristocratic scion of a famous
family, kind as a master, brave and brilliant as a reluctant warrior.
This iconography creates a fascinating, yet discordant
picture. Jefferson Davis is nowhere to
be found—he’s a cold and crabbed man who lacks the élan and nobility to
exemplify what the South “really” was. And
Grant is invariably portrayed as stolid, relentless, a winner because of
overwhelming force, not greater virtue.
Even the scene at Appomattox plays into this. Lee, unwilling to expose his men to further
losses, agrees to surrender. He
approaches, at the agreed-upon time, in his best dress uniform, mounted on his
magnificent horse, Traveller. Grant,
stoop shouldered, wearing a private’s tunic, dusty from the field, boots muddy,
arrives a half an hour later. They talk
briefly of old times, and Grant offers generous terms and honors, which Lee
graciously accepts. Lee, with great
dignity, rides off to his men.
It’s a wonderful image that allows both sides (and, as I
have been reminded a number of times by people a little more Southern than my
Bronx birthplace, there are still two sides) their respective heroes, and their
respective fantasies of what might have been—a peaceful, respectful
reconciliation. But, the war doesn't end
this way without a final sacrifice, and Lincoln is it. Just a few days later, John Wilkes Booth
makes his way to Lincoln’s seat at Ford’s Theatre, fires the shot that ends
Lincoln’s life, and elevates his legend. That the assassination took place on
Good Friday, and during Passover (Rabbis of the time likening it to Moses being
permitted to see, but not enter, the Promised Land) gives it an even more
powerful emotional tug.
Not everyone mourns. Lincoln
is not an immensely popular figure among the powerful. He is opposed by both Northern Democrats
(he’s just won reelection against his former General of the Army of the
Potomac, John McClellan) and by many of the more committed abolitionists in his
own Republican Party. Lincoln is too hot for some, too cool for others. Both the steadfastness of his purpose, and
the gradualism of his approach have made him many enemies. Northern Copperheads
have never stopped hating him, and the Radical Republicans want a far more
punitive response than Lincoln’s call for “binding up the
nation’s wounds.”
In the South, reaction was often careful. A few think it’s a miraculous turning point,
some of the Southern newspapers exulted, and Jefferson Davis reportedly said
“If it be done, it would be better that it be well done.” But many others (Lee amongst them) worried
about not just the anger of the North, but also the loss of Lincoln as a buffer—they
know he stands between them and a vengeful Congress. And they hate Lincoln’s Vice-President,
Andrew Johnson, a border-state Democrat, despised and feared as a traitor to
his own people.
But the common people have a different reaction than the more
calculating political class. Perhaps they felt Lincoln was one of their own;
literally millions gather to see his train, look at him as he lay in state, and
mourn. They seem to understand something that eludes the merely ambitious—and they
stand with him as he stood with them. One of the most remarkable tributes comes from the residents of Lahaina, in
the Hawaiian Islands; the people “weep
together with the republic of America for the murder, the assassination of the
great, the good, the liberator Abraham Lincoln, the victim of hell-born
treason—himself martyred, yet live his mighty deeds, victory, peace, and the
emancipation of those despised, like all of us of the colored races.”
What about Hofstadter’s “Lincoln Myth”? Does the reality
match the image of fallen saint? Last week, I asked what kind of man was Lincoln—what did he really believe? What is it about him that allowed him to
transcend his own of-the-period but anachronistic attitudes? How could a man who, in 1858, in the
Charleston debate, state “I will say in addition to
this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races
which I believe will forever forbid the two races living together on terms of
social and political equality” yet nevertheless inspire the gratitude “of those despised, like all of us of the colored races.”
I
think he had two unusual qualities, hard to find in any person, much less in
any politician. The first was his
essential tolerance. In contemporary discourse, we have bastardized the
term. Some use it in a pejorative way,
with “tolerance” a synonym for “indulgence”—the habit of ascribing all bad
behavior to moral weakness enabled by liberal guilt. Others describe it as a universal virtue that
must be applied to everyone—they command us to understand “root causes”
regardless of actual conduct. Lincoln, I
think, embodied a different type of tolerance, one so subtle that it is almost
impossible to accurately describe. His
was the tolerance of common courtesy, of accepting differences without
embracing them. He did not demand that
you look like him, think like him, worship like him, or vote like him as a
predicate to earning his respect for your basic human rights.
The
second quality was even more rare. He truly knew
himself. In Hofstadter’s words “Lincoln
was shaken by the Presidency.” He was
humbled by his duties, oppressed by his responsibilities, taxed to the extreme
by the enormity of the job. This immensely gifted man, of extraordinary
intelligence and remarkable character, was “shaken by the Presidency.”
The Lincoln reality is more than myth—an extraordinary man of remarkable
tolerance, and an acute and humbling sense of his own limitations. And one, having
given every last ounce of devotion to doing an impossible task as best as he
could, falls like the cherry blossom, at the peak of (imperfect)
perfection.
April
14, 2015
Michael
Liss
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