Subtle Artistry

As part of the Civil War unit that I'm currently covering with my 8th grade social studies class, I'll be highlighting the Battle of Gettysburg and its significance in the war. My brilliantly creative co-teacher suggested that I present a dramatic reading of the Gettysburg Address, in character, as a way to impress upon our students the masterful oratory therein, and the staying power of those words uttered nearly 150 years ago. For the past several days I've been working on memorizing the speech, and I find myself impressed not only by how much Lincoln was able to express in three short paragraphs, but also by the subtle artistry whereby he weaves together all sorts of linguistic structures, rhythmic cadence, and humble boldness.

While mentally rehearsing the speech during an 18-mile training run this morning, I happened upon a brilliant scene: the bare hedges and trees ringing the field along the road were delicately traced in frost that shone starkly against a gray overcast sky. Icy tendrils of white conspiring to outline every edge of dormant life froze my gaze while melting away the lingering bitterness of a stressful week in the classroom. Warm wonder at the hidden majesty just a few hills away from New England's second-largest city reminded me of the importance of seeking the gently shrouded craftsmanship awaiting the discerning perception of a keen spirit.

"The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here...", said Lincoln, ostensibly unaware of the future legacy of his two-minute address to the crowd gathered at Gettysburg that November day in 1863. What subtle artistry goes unnoticed amid quickened lives? What expressions of ours, though mere seconds in duration or a few sentences in length, can deeply move the lives of others? What surprises await us just beyond a bend in a day's journey, or wait to be conveyed through our very selves?

The Gettysburg Address

Gettysburg PA, 19 November 1863

President Abraham Lincoln

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.