To the American People: An Imaginary Letter From Abraham Lincoln

(Image generated by Microsoft Copilot)

Abraham Lincoln came back today—not as marble, not as myth, but as man. The tall figure in the black coat. Solemn eyes. Furrowed brow. He does not walk onto a battlefield, but into a republic once again at war with itself—not with muskets and cannon, but with silence, indifference, and the slow erosion of law.

It is 2025. Our Constitution is fraying. That parchment on which is written We, the People still exists, but its words are treated as decoration, not directive. The people raise their voices in protest. The government calls it disorder. The law bends. The truth blurs. And the republic trembles.

And so Lincoln returns—not to govern, but to remind. Not to rule, but to warn.

He does not speak in slogans. He does not tweet. He writes.

He writes as he did in 1838, when he warned that the greatest threat to liberty would come not from foreign armies, but from within—from ambition unbound by principle, and from a people who forget to revere the law.

And so, he addresses his words not to the President, not to the Congress, not to the Courts—but to us. [*]

To the American People,

In the winter of 1838, I stood before the Young Men’s Lyceum in Springfield and spoke of the dangers that might one day imperil our republic—not from foreign armies, but from within. I warned that if destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. That day, I feared the rise of ambition unbounded by reverence for the Constitution. Today, I fear that moment has arrived.

We now witness a government that, in some quarters, disregards the very laws it was sworn to uphold. Troops cross state lines without consent. Federal facilities bar the eyes of Congress. Individuals—regardless of their legal status—are seized with violence and without due process. These are not the acts of a government bound by law, but of one loosed from its moorings.

The Constitution is not a suggestion. It is not a parchment to be admired and ignored. It is the covenant by which we govern ourselves, and by which those in power are restrained. When it is cast aside, even in the name of security or expedience, we do not gain safety—we lose liberty.

There is, too, a danger more insidious than lawless mobs—a danger I spoke of long ago. It is the rise of a man of ambition, towering and unrestrained, who sees the existing order not as a foundation to build upon, but as a monument to tear down. Such a man, I said, would scorn to tread in the footsteps of any predecessor. He would seek distinction in the wreck of our institutions, not their preservation. If ever such a figure should ascend to power, unbound by constitutional reverence and unchecked by public vigilance, then the republic itself would stand in peril—not from the sword of an enemy, but from the pen of its own ruler.

In my Lyceum speech, I spoke of the need for reverence for the laws—not as blind obedience, but as a sacred trust. That reverence must extend to all corners of government, and it must be demanded by the people. For if the people grow indifferent, if they accept unlawful power as the price of order, then the foundations of our republic will crumble—not with a bang, but with a shrug.

Let no man mistake protest for lawlessness. The right of the people peaceably to assemble and to petition their government for redress of grievances is enshrined in our founding documents. It is not the citizen who threatens our institutions, but the official who acts beyond them.

I once said that the pillars of liberty must be cemented by reason—cold, calculating, unimpassioned reason. Let us now apply that reason—not to justify abuses, but to correct them. Let us demand that our leaders be bound by the same laws that bind us all. Let us insist that the Constitution be not merely preserved, but practiced.

The perpetuation of our political institutions depends not on the strength of armies, nor the wealth of treasuries, but on the fidelity of our people to the principles of liberty and law. That fidelity must be renewed—not in silence, but in speech; not in passivity, but in action.

Yours in the cause of liberty and law, 

A. Lincoln

[*] FYI: This imaginary letter draws from the core ideas of Abraham Lincoln’s Lyceum Address, delivered in Springfield, Illinois in January 1838, when he was just 28 years old and newly admitted to the Illinois bar. The speech, titled The Perpetuation of Our Political Institutions, can be read in full .

The Constitution is not dead. But it will not defend itself. That duty falls to us. The time to choose is now.

Food for thought.

Mac

🎩 I got the idea for this imaginary letter from Vachel Lindsay’s poem, "Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight." Here's a post from the archives of this blog regarding that poem: Lincoln Walks at Midnight: A Poem, A Presence