d workers, the children of the soil, from whom he sprang. His face
was rugged like his figure, the complexion swarthy, cheek bones high,
and bushy black hair crowning a great forehead beneath which the eyes
were deep-set, gray, and dreaming. A sort of shambling powerfulness
formed the main suggestion of face and figure, softened strangely by the
mysterious expression of the eyes, and by the singular delicacy of the
skin. The motions of this awkward giant lacked grace; the top hat and
black frock coat, sometimes rusty, which had served him on the western
circuit continued to serve him when he was virtually the dictator of his
country. It was in such dress that he visited the army, where he towered
above his generals.

Even in a book of restricted scope, such as this, one must insist upon
the distinction between the private and public Lincoln, for there is
as yet no accepted conception of him. What comes nearest to an accepted
conception is contained probably in the version of the late Charles
Francis Adams. He tells us how his father, the elder Charles Francis
Adams, ambassador to London, found Lincoln in 1861 an offensive
personality, and he insists that Lincoln under strain passed through a
transformation which made the Lincoln of 1864 a different man from the
Lincoln of 1861. Perhaps; but without being frivolous, one is tempted
to quote certain old-fashioned American papers that used to label their
news items "important if true."

What then, was the public Lincoln? What explains his vast success? As
a force in American history, what does he count for? Perhaps the most
significant detail in an answer to these questions is the fact that he
had never held conspicuous public office until at the age of fifty-two
he became President. Psychologically his place is in that small group of
great geniuses whose whole significant period lies in what we commonly
think of as the decline of life. There are several such in history:
Rome had Caesar; America had both Lincoln and Lee. By contrasting these
instances with those of the other type, the egoistic geniuses such as
Alexander or Napoleon, we become aware of some dim but profound dividing
line separating the two groups. The theory that genius, at bottom, is
pure energy seems to fit Napoleon; but does it fit these other minds who
appear to meet life with a certain indifference, with a carelessness of
their own fate, a willingness to leave much to chance? That irresistible
passion