The Republic of Nature: An Environmental History of the United States

Land of Lincoln

3 laNd oF liNcolN to enter the linColn memorial is to enter another world. The passage begins on the east side of the building. Behind you stretches the reflecting pool, its glassy, rectangular surface reaching toward the Washington Monument, which towers above the grass and trees in the heart of the nation’s city. Farther in the eastern distance rises the Capitol dome. Ahead of you, to the west, ascend broad flights of stairs, the kind that carry citizens into the halls of government or justice—or into heaven. At the top—cool, white, columned, and massive—looms the temple, an American Parthenon. Something timeless and true and powerful dwells there, and it gestures to you, inviting you to cross the boundary that separates your time and place from another realm. The air is hot, heavy, and hazy, typical for a summer day in the District of Columbia, and crowds of sweaty tourists seem to be everywhere. But none of that matters, for you are about to glimpse something unearthly, eternal, infinite.1 The initial approach is low and gentle, and you easily climb a series of steps and intervening terraces. Crossing the road that encircles the structure, you climb several more sets of steps and traverse still more terraces. About halfway up, as you near the last and steepest flights, you experience a strange sensation . Each step, repeated again and again, protracts the distance, prolongs the time, and makes you feel small. The effect is even more pronounced if you make the passage at night. Slowly, your disembodied, shrinking self rises toward the luminescent temple floating in the darkness. At the top stand the enormous fluted columns. Touching one, you sense 4 laNd oF liNcolN the solidity and great age of the republic. Looking back, you see an urban park, but you might as well be on a mountaintop, surveying a green and misty valley. You pause for a moment as the enormous compacted weight of the past pushes down on the present. Then you step between the columns—through the portal —and into the temple. There, huge, silent, and surrounded by shadows, a marble Lincoln presides over a land beyond time. His craggy, uneven face—“so awful ugly it becomes beautiful,” the poet Walt Whitman said—is at once stern, weary, tender, and sad.2 You try to meet his gaze, but you cannot quite make the connection, for his eyes see past you—or through you—to something in the distance, something large and everlasting and more important than you. “in this temPle as in the hearts of the PeoPle for Whom he saved the union,” read the words engraved on the wall, “the memory of aBraham linColn is enshrined forever.” To the north, behind a row of columns, is a chamber in which appears Lincoln’s second inaugural address and its iconic phrase “With maliCe toWard none . . . With Charity for all.” High above the words, so high that you almost miss the scene, a woman withgiantwings—anangeloragoddess—seemstobereconcilingtwogroupsof white people. Representatives of each group, a man on one side and a woman on the other, reach out and join hands, as if in marriage. The winged woman places her hands on theirs, blessing their bond. To the south, between another set of columns, is a chamber devoted to the Gettysburg Address and its most deeply felt principle, that the United States is “a neW nation ConCeived in liBerty and dediCated to the ProPosition that all men are Created equal.” Above the lines carved in marble, the winged woman, reaching in triumph to the heavens, appears to sanctify the emancipation of black people. Back in the temple’s main room, you stand before Lincoln again. It is impossible to be detached, neutral, unmoved. You are in the presence of greatness, of inevitable forces, unspeakable and omnipotent, and suddenly they lift you from yourself and carry you to a reality somewhere beyond your own. For a fleeting moment you are aware of an ultimate purpose and meaning, a higher truth, in the marble. The wave, however, passes as quickly as it came. Your body, your physical self, now reminds you that you are more of this world than of some other. The heat and humidity are oppressive. You are tired, thirsty, hungry, a little dizzy, and your feet are beginning to ache. The other tourists—their chatter and bustle and relentless picture taking—are starting to annoy you. [18.119.133.228] Project MUSE (2024-04-16 23...