The circumstances of the death of Abraham Lincoln, from “The Death of Abraham Lincoln,” a lecture delivered by Whitman in New York, April 14, 1879:

How often since that dark and dripping Saturday--that chilly April day, now fifteen years bygone--my heart has entertain’d the dream, the wish, to give of Abraham Lincoln’s death, its own special thought and memorial. . . .

I shall not easily forget the first time I ever saw Abraham Lincoln. It must have been about the 18th or 19th of February, 1861. It was rather a pleasant afternoon, in New York city, as he arrived there from the West, to remain a few hours, and then pass on to Washington, to prepare for his inauguration. I saw him in Broadway, near the site of the present Post-office. He came down, I think from Canal street, to stop at the Astor House. The broad spaces, sidewalks, and street in the neighborhood, and for some distance, were crowded with solid masses of people, many thousands. The omnibuses and other vehicles had all beeen turn’d off, leaving an unusual hush in that busy part of the city. Presently two or three shabby hack barouches made their way with some difficulty through the crowd, and drew up at the Astor House entrance. A tall figure step’d out of the centre of these barouches, paus’d leisurely on the sidewalk, look’d up at the granite walls and looming architecture of the grand old hotel--then, after a relieving stretch of arms and legs, turn’d round for over a minute to slowly and good-humoroudly scan the appearance of the vast and silent crowds. There were no speeches--no compliments--no welcome--as far as I could hear, not a word said. Still much anxiety was conceal’d in that quiet. . . .

I had, I say, a capital view of it all, and especially of Mr. Lincoln, his look and gait--his perfect composure and coolness--his unusual and uncouth height, his dress of complete black, stovepipe hat push’d back on the head, dark-brown complexion, seam’d and wrinkled yet canny-looking face, black, bushy head of hair, disproportionately long neck, and his hands held behind as he stood observing the people. He look’d with curiosity upon that immense sea of faces, and the sea of faces return’d the look with similar curiosity. In both there was a dash of comedy, almost farce, such as Shakespere puts in his blackest tragedies. . . .

Of the actual murder of President Lincoln, though so much has been written, probably the facts are yet very indefinite in most person’s minds. . . .

The day, April 14, 1865, seems to have been a pleasant one throughout the whold land--the moral atmosphere pleasant too--the long storm, so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom, over and ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute National victory, and utter break down of Secessionism--we almost doubted our own senses! Lee had capitulated beneath the apple-tree of Appomattox. The other armies, the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow’d. And could it really be, then Out of all the affairs of this world of woe and failure and disorder, was there really come the confirm’d, unerring sign of plan, like a shaft of pure light--of rightful rule--of God? So the day, as I saw, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers, were out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself always reminded of the great tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.) But I must not dwell on accessories. The deed hastens. The popular afternoon paper of Washington, the little Evening Star, had spatter'd all over its third page, divided among the advertisements in a sensational manner, in a hundred different places, The President and his Lady will be at the Theatre this evening. . . .

The final use of the greatest men of a Nation is, after all, not with reference to their deeds in themselves, or their direct bearing on their times or lands. The final use of a heroic-eminent life- especially of a heroic-eminent death--is its indirect filtering into the nation and the race, and to give, often at many removes, but unerringly, age after age, color and fibre to the personalism of the youth and maturity of that age, and of mankind. Then there is a cement to the whole people, subtler, more underlying, than any thing in written constitution, or courts or armies--namely, the cement of a death identified thoroughly with that people, at its head, and for its sake. . . .

I repeat it--the grand deaths of the race--the dramatic deaths of every nationality--are its most important inheritance-value--in some respects beyond its literature and art--(as the hero is beyond his finest portrait, and the battle itself beyond its choicest song or epic.) Is not here indeed the point underlying all tragedy? the famous pieces of the Grecian masters--and all masters? Why, if the old Greeks had had this man, what trilogies of plays--what epics--would have been made out of him! How the rhapsodes would have recited him! How quickly that quaint tall form would have enter’d into the region where men vitalize gods, and gods divinify men!. . . .

Dear to the Muse--thrice dear to Nationality--to the whole human race--precious to this Union- precious to Democracy--unspeakably and forever precious--their first great Martyr Chief.