avery as "the great Behemoth of danger," and asked,
"shall the strong grip of the nation be loosened upon him, to intrust
him to the hands of his feeble keepers?"

And, in the following passage, characteristic of the new Lincoln, I
think that either Shakespeare and the Bible had combined to inspire
him with graphic description of character and moral indignation, or
they enforced these native powers.

"Again, you have among you a sneaking individual of the class of
native tyrants known as the 'Slave-Dealer'. He watches your
necessities, and crawls up to buy your slave at a speculative price.
If you cannot help it, you sell to him; but if you can help it, you
drive him from your door. You despise him utterly. You do not
recognize him as a friend, or even as an honest man. Your children
must not play with his; they may rollick freely with the little
negroes, but not with the slave-dealer's children. If you are obliged
to deal with him you try to get through the job without so much as
touching him. It is common with you to join hands with the men you
meet, but with the slave-dealer you avoid the ceremony--instinctively
shrinking from the snaky contact."

Of Lincoln's critical appreciation of Shakespeare Frank B. Carpenter,
the artist of the "First Reading of the Emancipation Proclamation"
(see illustration on page 206), writes in his "Six Months at the White
House with Abraham Lincoln" as follows:

"Presently the conversation turned upon Shakspeare, of whom it is well
known Mr. Lincoln was very fond. He once remarked, 'It matters not to
me whether Shakspeare be well or ill acted; with him the thought
suffices.' Edwin Booth was playing an engagement at this time at
Grover's Theatre. He had been announced for the coming evening in his
famous part of _Hamlet_. The President had never witnessed his
representation of this character, and he proposed being present. The
mention of this play, which I afterward learned had at all times a
peculiar charm for Mr. Lincoln's mind, waked up a train of thought I
was not prepared for. Said he,--and his words have often returned to
me with a sad interest since his own assassination,--'There is one
passage of the play of "Hamlet" which is very apt to be slurred over
by the actor, or omitted altogether, which seems to me the choicest
part of the play. It is the soliloquy of the King, after the murder.
It always struck me as one of the finest touches of nature in the
world.'

"Then, throw