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mentioned the American bombers that were pulverizing Afghanistan at
that very moment, and wondered aloud how Lincoln could imply such
a thing: how could war-in which human beings have at all times been
willing to risk their lives for their countries-be an effect without a
cause? Finally, one member of the class noticed the difference, rather
than the likeness, between these balanced clauses: one side would
"make" war, the other would "accept" war. Balance does not simply
equal equivalence, though Lincoln's choice of rhetoric here fits exactly
with his reluctance to point any fingers.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, Lincoln did not use rhetorical fig–
ures as flourishes, to show off, but he did use these devices with precision
and skill when they advanced his thought. Perhaps the humblest figure of
speech is asyndeton (the omission of conjunctions), but Lincoln uses it
with great effect at the end of the "Gettysburg Address." There he mem–
orably asks his listeners to "highly resolve ... that government of the
people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."
Helpfully borrowing preacher Theodore Parker's definition of democ–
racy, Lincoln lends a hand to all future teachers of history or rhetoric. For
by doing nothing more than observing the omission of the "and" in this
sentence, one can come to understand Lincoln's central political principle,
a principle bitterly disputed by some of his most capable contemporaries
and anathema to many of the nation's founders-the principle that the
United States is a union, grounded not in many States but in one People,
a democratic rather than a federal union-far better and more concretely
than if told so by a dozen historians. indeed, by saying less, Lincoln
simultaneously increased the clarity and power of his statement, while
slipping it all the more slyly into his audience's-and our-memory. Of
course, in addition to understanding Lincoln better, if we study the
rhetoric of Lincoln and his contemporaries, if we learn such names as
asyndeton, balance, and others-names that have gotten short shrift in
most contemporary English classes-we thereby gain a living connection
to the tradition of artful writing and enlarge our own literary arsenal. To
learn these strange words gives us (as they gave Lincoln) some power over
things-and in this case, a most important thing, our own language.
As a practical matter, any reader wishing to make this sort of return to
Lincoln's words should observe that it requires, if it is to be successful, a
willingness to practice the art of reading, an art which Lincoln himself
mastered. My students found encouragement in learning that Lincoln
taught himself the rules of English usage at the ripe old age of twenty-two,
studying
Kirkham's Grammar
while lying on the countertop (and getting
paid for it) at Denton Offutt's country store. Bur, in addition to knowl-
