This is a modern-English version of The Life of Abraham Lincoln, from His Birth to His Inauguration as President, originally written by Lamon, Ward Hill.
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THE LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN;
FROM HIS BIRTH TO HIS INAUGURATION AS PRESIDENT.
ByWard H. Lamon.
With Illustrations.
Boston:
James R. Osgood
And Company,
1872.
PREFACE.
IN the following pages I have endeavored to give the life of Abraham Lincoln, from his birth to his inauguration as President of the United States. The reader will judge the character of the performance by the work itself: for that reason I shall spare him the perusal of much prefatory explanation.
IN the following pages, I’ve tried to present the life of Abraham Lincoln, from his birth to his inauguration as President of the United States. The reader can assess the quality of this work based on the content itself; therefore, I won’t make him read a lot of introductory explanations.
At the time of Mr. Lincoln's death, I determined to write his history, as I had in my possession much valuable material for such a purpose. I did not then imagine that any person could have better or more extensive materials than I possessed. I soon learned, however, that Mr. William H. Herndon of Springfield, Ill., was similarly engaged. There could be no rivalry between us; for the supreme object of both was to make the real history and character of Mr. Lincoln as well known to the public as they were to us. He deplored, as I did, the many publications pretending to be biographies which came teeming from the press, so long as the public interest about Mr. Lincoln excited the hope of gain. Out of the mass of works which appeared, of one only—Dr. Holland's—is it possible to speak with any degree of respect.
At the time of Mr. Lincoln's death, I decided to write his story since I had a lot of valuable material for it. I didn’t think anyone could have better or more extensive resources than I did. However, I soon found out that Mr. William H. Herndon from Springfield, Ill., was working on the same thing. There was no competition between us; our main goal was to share the true history and character of Mr. Lincoln with the public just as well as we understood it. He, like me, was troubled by the numerous publications pretending to be biographies that flooded the market while the public's interest in Mr. Lincoln raised hopes for profit. Among the many works that came out, only one—Dr. Holland's—can be mentioned with any respect.
Early in 1869, Mr. Herndon placed at my disposal his remarkable collection of materials,—the richest, rarest, and fullest collection it was possible to conceive. Along with them came an offer of hearty co-operation, of which I have availed myself so extensively, that no art of mine would serve to conceal it. Added to my own collections, these acquisitions have enabled me to do what could not have been done before,—prepare an authentic biography of Mr. Lincoln.
Early in 1869, Mr. Herndon made his incredible collection of materials available to me—the richest, rarest, and most complete collection you could imagine. Along with it came a genuine offer of cooperation, which I've taken full advantage of, to the point that no effort of mine could hide it. Combined with my own collections, these new materials have allowed me to do what was previously impossible—create an authentic biography of Mr. Lincoln.
Mr. Herndon had been the partner in business and the intimate personal associate of Mr. Lincoln for something like a quarter of a century; and Mr. Lincoln had lived familiarly with several members of his family long before their individual acquaintance began. New Salem, Springfield, the old judicial circuit, the habits and friends of Mr. Lincoln, were as well known to Mr. Herndon as to himself. With these advantages, and from the numberless facts and hints which had dropped from Mr. Lincoln during the confidential intercourse of an ordinary lifetime, Mr. Herndon was able to institute a thorough system of inquiry for every noteworthy circumstance and every incident of value in Mr. Lincoln's career.
Mr. Herndon had been a business partner and close personal friend of Mr. Lincoln for about twenty-five years, and Mr. Lincoln had known several members of his family long before they personally met. New Salem, Springfield, the old judicial circuit, and the habits and friends of Mr. Lincoln were as familiar to Mr. Herndon as they were to Lincoln himself. With these insights, and from the countless facts and hints that Mr. Lincoln shared during their regular conversations over the years, Mr. Herndon was able to create a comprehensive system to investigate every significant event and moment of importance in Mr. Lincoln's life.
The fruits of Mr. Herndon's labors are garnered in three enormous volumes of original manuscripts and a mass of unarranged letters and papers. They comprise the recollections of Mr. Lincoln's nearest friends; of the surviving members of his family and his family-connections; of the men still living who knew him and his parents in Kentucky; of his schoolfellows, neighbors, and acquaintances in Indiana; of the better part of the whole population of New Salem; of his associates and relatives at Springfield; and of lawyers, judges, politicians, and statesmen everywhere, who had any thing of interest or moment to relate. They were collected at vast expense of time, labor, and money, involving the employment of many agents, long journeys, tedious examinations, and voluminous correspondence. Upon the value of these materials it would be impossible to place an estimate. That I have used them conscientiously and justly is the only merit to which I lay claim.
The results of Mr. Herndon's efforts are captured in three huge volumes of original manuscripts and a large collection of unorganized letters and documents. They include the memories of Mr. Lincoln's closest friends, surviving family members and relatives, the people who knew him and his parents in Kentucky, his schoolmates, neighbors, and acquaintances in Indiana, a significant part of the entire population of New Salem, as well as his associates and relatives in Springfield, and lawyers, judges, politicians, and statesmen everywhere who had anything interesting or important to share. Collecting these materials required a huge investment of time, effort, and money, involving many agents, long travels, exhaustive examinations, and extensive correspondence. It's impossible to put a value on these materials. My only claim to merit is that I have used them carefully and fairly.
As a general thing, my text will be found to support itself; but whether the particular authority be mentioned or not, it is proper to remark, that each statement of fact is fully sustained by indisputable evidence remaining in my possession. My original plan was to verify every important statement by one or more appropriate citations; but it was early abandoned, not because it involved unwelcome labor, but because it encumbered my pages with a great array of obscure names, which the reader would probably pass unnoticed.
As a general rule, my text will stand on its own; however, whether the specific authority is mentioned or not, it's important to point out that each factual statement is backed by undeniable evidence that I have on hand. My initial plan was to support every key statement with one or more relevant citations, but I abandoned that early on, not because it was tedious work, but because it cluttered my pages with a long list of obscure names that the reader would likely overlook.
I dismiss this volume into the world, with no claim for it of literary excellence, but with the hope that it will prove what it purports to be,—a faithful record of the life of Abraham Lincoln down to the 4th of March, 1861.
I release this book into the world, without any claims of literary greatness, but with the hope that it will demonstrate what it aims to be—a true account of Abraham Lincoln's life up to March 4, 1861.
Ward H. Lamon.
Ward H. Lamon.
Washington City, May, 1872.
Washington, D.C., May 1872.
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
Mrs. Sarah Lincoln, Mother of the President
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
Mrs. Sarah Lincoln, Mother of the President
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Birth.—His father and mother.—History of Thomas Lincoln and his family
a necessary part of Abraham Lincoln's biography.—Thomas Lincoln's
ancestors.—Members of the family remaining in Virginia.—Birth of
Thomas Lincoln.—Removal to Kentucky.—Life in the Wilderness.—Lincolns
settle in Mercer County.—Thomas Lincoln's father shot by
Indians.—Widow and family remove to Washington County.—Thomas
poor.—Wanders into Breckinridge County.—Goes to Hardin County.—Works
at the carpenter's trade.—Cannot read or write.—Personal
appearance.—Called "Linckhom," or "Linckhera."—Thomas Lincoln as
a carpenter.—Marries Nancy Hanks.—Previously courted Sally
Bush.—Character of Sally Bush.—The person and character of Nancy
Hanks.—Thomas and Nancy Lincoln go to live in a shed.—Birth of a
daughter.—They remove to Nolin Creek.—Birth of Abraham.—Removal to
Knob Creek.—Little Abe initiated into wild sports.—His sadness.—Goes
to school.—Thomas Lincoln concludes to move.—Did not fly from the
taint of slavery.—Abraham Lincoln always reticent about the history and
character of his family.—Record in his Bible... 1
CHAPTER II.
Thomas Lincoln builds a boat.—Floats down to the Ohio.—Boat
capsizes.—Lands in Perry County, Indiana.—Selects a location.—Walks
back to Knob Creek for wife and children.—Makes his way through
the wilderness.—Settles between the two Pigeon Creeks.—Gentry
ville.—Selects a site.—Lincoln builds a half-faced camp.—Clears
ground and raises a small crop.—Dennis Hanks.—Lincoln builds a
cabin.—State of the country.—Indiana admitted to the Union.—Rise
of Gentryville.—Character of the people.—Lincoln's patent for his
land.—His farm, cabin, furniture.—The milk-sickness.—Death of Nancy
Hanks Lincoln.—Funeral discourse by David Elkin.—Grave.—Tom Lincoln
marries Sally Bush.—Her goods and chattels.—Her surprise at the
poverty of the Lincoln cabin.—Clothes and comforts Abe and his
sister.—Abe leads a new life.—Is sent to school.—Abe's appearance and
dress.—Learning "manners"—Abe's essays.—Tenderness for animals.—The
last of school.—Abe excelled the masters.—Studied privately.—Did not
like to work.—Wrote on wooden shovel and boards.—How Abe studied.—The
books he read.—The "Revised Statute of Indiana."—Did not read the
Bible.—No religious opinions.—How he behaved at home.—Touching
recital by Mrs. Lincoln.—Abe's memory.—Mimicks the preachers.—Makes
"stump-speeches" in the field.—Cruelly maltreated by his father.—Works
out cheerfully.—Universal favorite.—The kind of people he lived
amongst.—Mrs. Crawford's reminiscences.—Society about Gentryville.
—His step-mother.—His sister.—The Johnstons and Hankses.—Abe a
ferryman and farm-servant.—His work and habits.—Works for Josiah
Crawford.—Mrs. Crawford's account of him.—Crawford's books.—Becomes
a wit and a poet.—Abe the tallest and strongest man in the
settlement.—Hunting in the Pigeon Creek region.—His activity.—Love of
talking and reading.—Fond of rustic sports.—Furnishes the
literature.—Would not be slighted.—His satires.—Songs and
chronicles.—Gentryville as "a centre of business."—Abe and other
boys loiter about the village.—Very temperate.—"Clerks" for Col.
Jones.—Abe saves a drunken man's life.—Fond of music.—Marriage of his
sister Nancy.—Extracts from his copy-book.—His Chronicles.—Fight with
the Grigs-bys.—Abe "the big buck of the lick."—"Speaking meetings"
at Gentryville.—Dennis Hanks's account of the way he and Abe became so
learned.—Abe attends a court.—Abe expects to be President.—Going
to mill.—Kicked in the head by a horse.—Mr. Wood.—Piece on
temperance.—On national politics.—Abe tired of home.—Works for
Mr. Gentry.—Knowledge of astronomy and geography.—Goes to New
Orleans.—Counterfeit money.—Fight with negroes.—Scar on his face.
—An apocryphal story...........19
CHAPTER III.
Abe's return from New Orleans.—Sawing planks for a new house.—The
milk-sickness.—Removal to Illinois.—Settles near Decatur.—Abe leaves
home.—Subsequent removals and death of Thomas Lincoln.—Abe's relations
to the family.—Works with John Hanks after leaving home.—Splitting
rails.—Makes a speech on the improvement of the Sangamon River.—Second
voyage to New Orleans.—Loading and departure of the boat.—"Sticks" on
New Salem dam.—Abe's contrivance to get her off.—Model in the Patent
Office.—Arrival at New Orleans.—Negroes chained.—Abe touched by the
sight.—Returns on a steamboat.—Wrestles with Daniel Needham.........73
CHAPTER IV.
The site of New Salem.—The village as it existed.—The
first store.—Number of inhabitants.—Their
houses.—Springfield.—Petersburg.—Mr. Lincoln appears a second time
at New Salem.—Clerks at an election.—Pilots a boat to
Beardstown.—Country store.—Abe as "first clerk."—"Clary's Grove
Boys."—Character of Jack Armstrong.—He and Abe become intimate
friends.—Abe's popularity.—Love of peace.—Habits of study.—Waylaying
strangers for information.—Pilots the steamer "Talisman" up and down
the Sangamon.......85
CHAPTER V.
Offutt's business gone to ruin.—The Black Hawk War.—Black Hawk crosses
the Mississippi.—Deceived by his allies.—The governor's call for
troops.—Abe enlists—Elected captain.—A speech.—Organization of the
army.—Captain Lincoln under arrest.—The march.—Captain Lincoln's
company declines to form.—Lincoln under arrest.—Stillman's
defeat.—Wasting rations.—Hunger.—Mutiny.—March to Dixon.—Attempt
to capture Black Hawk's pirogues.—Lincoln saves the life of
an Indian.—Mutiny.—Lincoln's novel method of quelling
it.—Wrestling.—His magnanimity.—Care of his men.—Dispute with a
regular officer.—Reach Dixon.—Move to Fox River.—A stampede.—Captain
Lincoln's efficiency as an officer.—Amusements of the camp.—Captain
Lincoln re-enlists as a private.—Independent spy company.—Progress of
the war.—Capture of Black Hawk.—Release.—Death.—Grave.—George
W. Harrison's recollections.—Duties of the spy company.—Company
disbanded.—Lincoln's horse stolen.—They start home on foot.—Buy
a canoe.—Feast on a raft.—Sell the boat.—Walk again.—Arrive at
Petersburg.—A sham battle........98
CHAPTER VI.
The volunteers from Sangamon return shortly before the State
election.—Abe a candidate for the Legislature.—Mode of bringing
forward candidates.—Parties and party names.—State and national
politics.—Mr. Lincoln's position.—Old way of conducting
elections.—Mr. Lincoln's first stump-speech.—"A general fight."—Mr.
Lincoln's part in it.—His dress and appearance.—Speech at Island
Grove.—His stories.—A third speech.—Agrees with the Whigs in the
policy of internal improvements.—His own hobby.—Prepares an address to
the people.—Mr. Lincoln defeated.—Received every vote but three cast
in his own precinct....121
CHAPTER VII.
Results of the canvass.—An opening in business.—The firm of Lincoln
& Berry.—How they sold liquor.—What Mr. Douglas said.—The store a
failure.—Berry's bad habits.—The credit system.—Lincoln's debts.—He
goes to board at the tavern.—Studies law.—Walks to Springfield for
books.—Progress in the law.—Does business for his neighbors.—Other
studies.—Reminiscences of J. Y. Ellis.—Shy of ladies.—His
apparel.—Fishing, and spouting Shakspeare and Burns.—Mr. Lincoln
annoyed by company.—Retires to the country.—Bowlin Greene.—Mr.
Lincoln's attempt to speak a funeral discourse.—John Calhoun.—Lincoln
studies surveying.—Gets employment.—Lincoln appointed postmaster.—How
he performed the duties.—Sale of Mr. Lincoln's personal property under
execution.—Bought by James Short.—Lincoln's visits.—Old Hannah.—Ah.
Trent.—Mr. Lincoln as a peacemaker.—His great strength.—The
judicial quality.—Acting second in fights.—A candidate for the
Legislature.—Elected.—Borrows two hundred dollars from Coleman
Smoot.—How they got acquainted.—Mr. Lincoln writes a little book on
infidelity.—It is burnt by Samuel Hill........135
CHAPTER VIII.
James Rutledge.—His family.—Ann Rutledge.—John McNeil.—Is engaged
to Ann.—His strange story.—The loveliness of Ann's person
and character.—Mr. Lincoln courts her.—They are engaged to be
married.—Await the return of McNeil.—Ann dies of a broken
heart.—Mr. Lincoln goes crazy.—Cared for by Bowlin Greene.—The poem
"Immortality."—Mr. Lincoln's melancholy broodings.—Interviews with
Isaac Cogdale after his election to the Presidency.—Mr. Herndon's
interview with McNamar.—Ann's grave.—The Concord cemetery...159
CHAPTER IX.
Bennett Able and family.—Mary Owens.—Mr. Lincoln falls in love with
her.—What she thought of him.—A misunderstanding.—Letters from Miss
Owens.—Mr. Lincoln's letters to her.—Humorous account of the affair in
a letter from Mr. Lincoln to another lady......172
CHAPTER X.
Mr. Lincoln takes his seat in the Legislature.—Schemes of internal
improvement.—Mr. Lincoln a silent member.—Meets Stephen A.
Douglas.—Log-rolling.—Mr. Lincoln a candidate for re-election.—The
canvass.—"The Long Nine."—Speech at Mechanicsburg.—Fight.—Reply to
Dr. Early.—Reply to George Forquer.—Trick on Dick Taylor.—Attempts
to create a third party.—Mr. Lincoln elected.—Federal and State
politics.—The Bank of the United States.—Suspension of specie
payments.—Mr. Lincoln wishes to be the De Witt Clinton of
Illinois.—The internal-improvement system.—Capital located
at Springfield.—Mr. Lincoln's conception of the duty of a
representative.—His part in passing the "system."—Begins
his antislavery record.—Public sentiment against the
Abolitionists.—History of antislavery in Illinois.—The
Covenanters.—Struggle to amend the Constitution.—The "black
code."—Death of Elijah P. Lovejoy.—Protest against proslavery
resolutions.—No sympathy with extremists.—Suspension of
specie payments.—Mr. Lincoln re-elected in 1838.—Candidate for
Speaker.—Finances.—Utter failure of the internal-improvement
"system."—Mr. Lincoln re-elected in 1840.—He introduces a bill.—His
speech.—Financial expedients.—Bitterness of feeling.—Democrats seek
to hold a quorum.—Mr. Lincoln jumps out of a window.—Speech by Mr.
Lincoln.—The alien question.—The Democrats undertake to "reform" the
judiciary.—Mr. Douglas a leader.—Protest of Mr. Lincoln and
other Whigs.—Reminiscences of a colleague.—Dinner to "The Long
Nine."—"Abraham Lincoln one of nature's noblemen."..........184
CHAPTER XI.
Capital removed to Springfield.—Mr. Lincoln settles there to practise
law.—First case.—Members of the bar.—Mr. Lincoln's partnership with
John T. Stuart.—Population and condition of Springfield.—Lawyers
and politicians.—Mr. Lincoln's intense ambition.—Lecture before the
Springfield Lyceum.—His style.—Political discussions run
high.—Joshua F. Speed his most intimate friend.—Scene in Speed's
store.—Debate.—Douglas, Calhoun, Lamborn, and Thomas, against Lincoln,
Logan, Baker, and Browning.—Presidential elector in 1840.—Stumping
for Harrison.—Scene between Lincoln and Douglas in the Court-House.—A
failure.—Redeems himself.—Meets Miss Mary Todd.—She takes Mr. Lincoln
captive.—She refuses Douglas.—Engaged.—Miss Matilda Edwards.—Mr.
Lincoln undergoes a change of heart.—Mr. Lincoln reveals to Mary the
state of his mind.—She releases him.—A reconciliation.—Every thing
prepared for the wedding.—Mr. Lincoln fails to appear.—Insane.—Speed
takes him to Kentucky.—Lines on "Suicide."—His gloom.—Return
to Springfield.—Secret meetings with Miss Todd.—Sudden
marriage.—Correspondence with Mr. Speed on delicate subjects.—Relics
of a great man and a great agony.—Miss Todd attacks James Shields in
certain witty and sarcastic letters.—Mr. Lincoln's name "given up"
as the author.—Challenged by Shields.—A meeting and an
explanation.—Correspondence.—Candidate for Congressional
nomination.—Letters to Speed and Morris.—Defeat.. 223
CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Lincoln a candidate for elector in 1844.—Debates with
Calhoun.—Speaks in Illinois and Indiana.—At Gentryville.—Lincoln,
Baker, Logan, Hardin, aspirants for Congress.—Supposed
bargain.—Canvass for Whig nomination in 1846.—Mr. Lincoln
nominated.—Opposed by Peter Cartwright.—Mr. Lincoln called a
deist.—Elected.—Takes his seat.—Distinguished members.—Opposed
to the Mexican War.—The "Spot Resolutions."—Speech of Mr.
Lincoln.—Murmurs of disapprobation.—Mr. Lincoln for "Old Rough" in
1848.—Defections at home.—Mr. Lincoln's campaign.—Speech.—Passage
not generally published.—Letter to his father.—Second session.—The
"Gott Resolution."—Mr. Lincoln's substitute..............274
CHAPTER XIII.
Mr. Lincoln in his character of country lawyer.—Public feeling at
the time of his death.—Judge Davis's address at a bar-meeting.—Judge
Drummond's address.—Mr. Lincoln's partnership with John T.
Stuart.—With Stephen. T. Logan.—With William H. Herndon.—Mr.
Lincoln "a case-lawyer."—Slow.—Conscientious.—Henry McHenry's
case.—Circumstantial evidence.—A startling case.—Mr. Lincoln's
account of it.—His first case in the Supreme Court.—Could not defend a
bad case.—Ignorance of technicalities.—The Eighth Circuit.—Happy
on the circuit.—Style of travelling.—His relations.—Young Johnson
indicted.—Mr. Lincoln's kindness.—Jack Armstrong's son tried
for murder.—Mr. Lincoln defends him.—Alleged use of a false
almanac.—Prisoner discharged.—Old Hannah's account of it.—Mr.
Lincoln's suit against Illinois Central Railway Company.—McCormick
Reaping Machine case.—Treatment by Edwin M. Stanton........311
CHAPTER XIV.
Mr. Lincoln not a candidate for re-election.—Judge Logan's defeat.—Mr.
Lincoln an applicant for Commissioner of the Land Office.—Offered the
Governorship of Oregon.—Views concerning the Missouri Compromise
and Compromise of 1850.—Declines to be a candidate for Congress in
1850.—Death of Thomas Lincoln.—Correspondence between Mr. Lincoln
and John Johnston.—Eulogy on Henry Clay.—In favor of voluntary
emancipation and colonization.—Answer to Mr. Douglas's Richmond
speech.—Passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill.—Mr. Lincoln's views
concerning slavery.—Opposed to conferring political privileges
upon negroes.—Aroused by the repeal of the Missouri
Compromise.—Anti-Nebraska party.—Mr. Lincoln the leader.—Mr. Douglas
speaks at Chicago.—At Springfield.—Mr. Lincoln replies.—A
great speech.—Mr. Douglas rejoins.—The Abolitionists.—Mr.
Herndon.—Determined to make Mr. Lincoln an Abolitionist.—They refuse
to enter the Know-Nothing lodges.—The Abolitionists desire to force
Mr. Lincoln to take a stand.—He runs away from Springfield.—He
is requested to "follow up" Mr. Douglas.—Speech at
Peoria.—Extract.—Slavery and popular sovereignty.—Mr. Lincoln and
Mr. Douglas agree not to speak any more.—The election.—Mr. Lincoln
announced for the Legislature by Wm. Jayne.—Mrs. Lincoln withdraws his
name.—Jayne restores it.—He is elected.—A candidate for United-States
Senator.—Resigns his seat.—Is censured.—Anti-Nebraska majority in
the Legislature.—The balloting.—Danger of Governor Matteson's
election.—Mr. Lincoln advises his friends to vote for Judge
Trumbull.—Trumbull elected.—Charges of conspiracy and corrupt
bargain.—Mr. Lincoln's denial.—Mr. Douglas imputes to Mr. Lincoln
extreme Abolitionist views.—Mr. Lincoln's answer.............333
CHAPTER XV.
The struggle in Kansas.—The South begins the struggle.—The North meets
it.—The Missourians and other proslavery forces.—Andrew H. Reeder
appointed governor.—Election frauds.—Mr. Lincoln's views on
Kansas.—Gov. Shannon arrives in the Territory.—The Free State men
repudiate the Legislature.—Mr. Lincoln's "little speech" to the
Abolitionists of Illinois.—Mr. Lincoln's party relations.—Mr. Lincoln
agrees to meet the Abolitionists.—Convention at Bloomington.—Mr.
Lincoln considered a convert.—His great speech.—Conservative
resolutions.—Ludicrous failure of a ratification meeting at
Springfield.—Mr. Lincoln's remarks.—Plot to break up the Know-Nothing
party.—"National" Republican Convention.—Mr. Lincoln receives
a hundred and ten votes for Vice-President.—National Democratic
Convention.—Mr. Lincoln a candidate for elector.—His
canvass.—Confidential letter.—Imperfect fellowship with the
Abolitionists.—Mr. Douglas's speech on Kansas in June, 1857.—Mr.
Lincoln's reply.—Mr. Douglas committed to support of the Lecompton
Constitution.—The Dred Scott Decision discussed.—Mr. Lincoln
against negro equality.—Affairs in Kansas.—Election of a new
Legislature.—Submission of the Lecompton Constitution to
the people.—Method of voting on it.—Constitution finally
rejected.—Conflict in Congress.—Mr. Douglas's defection.—Extract from
a speech by Mr. Lincoln........366
CHAPTER XVI.
Mr. Douglas opposes the Administration.—His course in
Congress.—Squatter sovereignty in full operation.—Mr. Lincoln's
definition of popular sovereignty and squatter sovereignty.—Mr.
Douglas's private conferences with Republicans.—"Judge Trumbull's
opinion.—Mr. Douglas nominated for senator by a Democratic
Convention.—Mr. Lincoln's idea of what Douglas might accomplish at
Charleston.—Mr. Lincoln writing a celebrated speech.—He is nominated
for senator.—A startling doctrine.—A council of friends.—Same
doctrine advanced at Bloomington.—The "house-divided" speech.—Mr.
Lincoln promises to explain.—What Mr. Lincoln thought of Mr.
Douglas.—What Mr. Douglas thought of Mr. Lincoln.—Popular canvass for
senator.—Mr. Lincoln determines to "kill Douglas" as a
Presidential aspirant.—Adroit plan to draw him out on squatter
sovereignty.—Absurdities of Mr. Douglas.—The election.—Success of Mr.
Douglas.—Reputation acquired by Mr. Lincoln..................389
CHAPTER XVII.
Mr. Lincoln writes and delivers a lecture.—The Presidency.—Mr.
Lincoln's "running qualities."—He thinks himself unfit.—Nominated by
"Illinois Gazette."—Letter to Dr. Canisius.—Letter to Dr. Wallace
on the protective tariff policy.—Mr. Lincoln in Ohio and Kansas.—A
private meeting of his friends.—Permitted to use his name for
the Presidency.—An invitation to speak in New York.—Choosing a
subject.—Arrives in New York.—His embarrassments.—Speech in Cooper
Institute.—Comments of the press.—He is charged with mercenary
conduct.—Letter concerning the charge.—Visits New England.—Style
and character of his speeches.—An amusing encounter with a clerical
politician...421
CHAPTER XVIII.
Meeting of the Republican State Convention.—Mr. Lincoln present.—John
Hanks and the rails.—Mr. Lincoln's speech.—Meeting of the Republican
National Convention at Chicago.—The platform.—Combinations to secure
Mr. Lincoln's nomination.—The balloting.—Mr. Lincoln nominated.—Mr.
Lincoln at Springfield waiting the results of the Convention.—How
he received the news.—Enthusiasm at Springfield.—Official
notification.—The "Constitutional Union" party.—The Democratic
Conventions at Charleston and Baltimore.—The election.—The
principle upon which Mr. Lincoln proposed to make appointments.—Mr.
Stephens.—Mr. Gilmore.—Mr. Guthrie.—Mr. Seward.—Mr. Chase.—Mr.
Bates.—The cases of Smith and Cameron.—Mr. Lincoln's visit
to Chicago.—Mr. Lincoln's visit to his relatives in Coles
County.—Apprehensions about assassination.—A visit from Hannah
Armstrong... 444
CHAPTER XIX.
Difficulties and peculiarities of Mr. Lincoln's position.—A general
review of his character.—His personal appearance and habits.—His house
and other property.—His domestic relations.—His morbid melancholy
and superstition.—Illustrated by his literary tastes.—His humor.—His
temperate habits and abstinence from sensual pleasures.—His
ambition.—Use of politics for personal advancement.—Love of power
and place.—Of justice.—Not a demagogue or a trimmer.—His religious
views.—Attempt of the Rev. Mr. Smith to convert him.—Mr. Bateman's
story as related by Dr. Holland.—Effect of his belief upon his mind and
character...........466
CHAPTER XX.
Departure of the Presidential party from Springfield.—Affecting address
by Mr. Lincoln to his friends and neighbors.—His opinions concerning
the approaching civil war.—Discovery of a supposed plot to murder
him at Baltimore.—Governor Hicks's proposal to "kill Lincoln and his
men."—The plan formed to defeat the conspiracy.—The midnight ride
from Harrisburg to Washington.—Arrival in Washington.—Before the
Inauguration.—Inauguration Day.—Inaugural Address.—Mr. Lincoln's
Oath.—Mr. Lincoln President of the United States.—Mr. Buchanan bids
him farewell............505
CHAPTER I.
Birth—His father and mother. The story of Thomas Lincoln and his family is a crucial part of Abraham Lincoln's biography. Thomas Lincoln's ancestors and family still live in Virginia. Thomas Lincoln was born and moved to Kentucky. His life in the wilderness began as the Lincolns settled in Mercer County. Thomas Lincoln's father was shot by Native Americans, and the widow and her family moved to Washington County. Thomas is poor and wanders into Breckinridge County before going to Hardin County, where he works as a carpenter. He can't read or write. Regarding his appearance, he is referred to as "Linckhom" or "Linckhera." As a carpenter, Thomas Lincoln marries Nancy Hanks after having previously dated Sally Bush, who is noted for her character. The personality of Nancy Hanks is highlighted as well. Thomas and Nancy Lincoln move into a shed, and soon a daughter is born. They later move to Nolin Creek, where Abraham is born. Following that, they relocate to Knob Creek, where little Abe is introduced to wild sports though he also feels sad. He attends school. Thomas Lincoln decides to move, and they do not escape the legacy of slavery. Abraham Lincoln remained discreet about his family's history and character, as noted in his Bible records... 1CHAPTER II.
Thomas Lincoln builds a boat and floats down to the Ohio River. The boat capsizes, landing in Perry County, Indiana. He selects a location and walks back to Knob Creek for his wife and kids, making his way through the wilderness. He settles between the two Pigeon Creeks in Gentryville, chooses a site, and builds a half-faced camp. He clears land and plants a small crop with the help of Dennis Hanks. Lincoln then builds a cabin as Indiana is admitted to the Union, and Gentryville experiences growth. The character of the people is described, along with Lincoln's land grant, cabin, and furniture. The issue of milk sickness arises, leading to the death of Nancy Hanks Lincoln. A funeral speech by David Elkin marks the event, and a grave is mentioned. Tom Lincoln later marries Sally Bush, who is surprised by the simplicity of the Lincoln cabin. Clothes and comforts are provided for Abraham and his sister. Abe starts a new life and is sent to school, during which he learns manners and becomes known for his writing. He shows compassion for animals and outperformed his teachers, studying on his own. Though he did not enjoy hard labor, he wrote on wooden shovels and boards, using various books, including the "Revised Statute of Indiana," though he didn't read the Bible or hold strong religious views. At home, he is remembered by Mrs. Lincoln for his memory and how he would imitate preachers, making "stump speeches" in the fields. He is cruelly mistreated by his father yet works with a good attitude, becoming a universal favorite among the local people. Mrs. Crawford shares her memories of the society in Gentryville. Abe worked as a ferryman and farmhand, following routines and working for Josiah Crawford, who describes him in detail. He develops wit and poetry skills and earns a reputation as the tallest and strongest man in the area. He enjoys hunts around Pigeon Creek, loves to talk and read, and appreciates rural sports, providing literature. He refuses to be overlooked, writing satirical pieces, songs, and stories. Gentryville is seen as a “business center,” and Abe hangs out with other boys in the village. He serves as a "clerk" for Col. Jones and saves a drunken man’s life while enjoying music. His sister Nancy gets married, and his notebook includes quotes and chronicles. He gets into a fight with the Grigsbys, earning the nickname "the big buck of the lick." Speaking meetings at Gentryville are referenced about Dennis Hanks sharing how they both became educated. Abe attends a court, hoping to become President. One day, while walking to the mill, he gets kicked in the head by a horse. Mr. Wood writes about temperance and national politics, as Abe grows tired of home and seeks work for Mr. Gentry while acquiring knowledge about astronomy and geography. He travels to New Orleans, encounters counterfeit money, and finds himself in a fight with some Black men, which leaves a scar on his face.
—An apocryphal story...........19CHAPTER III.
Abe's return from New Orleans involves cutting planks for a new house. The milk sickness is still an issue as they move to Illinois, settling near Decatur. Abe leaves home after a series of relocations and the death of Thomas Lincoln. His relationship with the family is discussed, especially his work with John Hanks after leaving home, splitting rails and giving a speech about improving the Sangamon River. On a second trip to New Orleans, Abe loads the boat and prepares to depart, but it gets stuck on the New Salem dam. He devises a plan to get it off and submits a model to the Patent Office. Upon arriving in New Orleans, the sight of enslaved people in chains deeply moves him. He returns on a steamboat and famously wrestles with Daniel Needham.........73CHAPTER IV.
The site of New Salem, as it existed, boasts the first store and a modest number of inhabitants in their houses. Springfield and Petersburg are nearby. Mr. Lincoln returns to New Salem for the second time, where he serves as a clerk during an election and pilots a boat to Beardstown. Working as the "first clerk" at the country store, he encounters the "Clary's Grove Boys," notably becoming friends with Jack Armstrong. Abe's popularity grows centered around his love of peace and study habits as he stops strangers for information. He pilots the steamer "Talisman" up and down the Sangamon...85CHAPTER V.
Offutt's business collapses during the Black Hawk War as Black Hawk crosses the Mississippi and is betrayed by allies. The governor calls for troops, and Abe enlists, eventually becoming elected as captain. He delivers a speech and learns how to organize the army, but Captain Lincoln faces arrest, and his company refuses to form. After another arrest, Lincoln witnesses Stillman's defeat, leading to wasted rations and hunger issues that cause mutiny. The march to Dixon features attempts to capture Black Hawk's canoes, and Lincoln notably saves an Indian’s life during another bout of mutiny. His unique approach to leadership is highlighted, along with his wrestling skills and generosity in taking care of his men. Disputes arise with a regular officer as they arrive at Dixon and move to Fox River, where a stampede tests Captain Lincoln's effectiveness as an officer. Entertainment in camp is notable, and he re-enlists as a private in an independent spy company as the war progresses. Black Hawk is eventually captured, leading to his release and death. The grave, George W. Harrison’s memories, and the spy company’s duties are discussed, ending with Lincoln's stolen horse and the group's foot journey home where they buy a canoe, feast on a raft, sell the boat, and walk again to arrive at Petersburg with a staged battle event........98CHAPTER VI.
Volunteers from Sangamon return just before the state election as Abe runs for the Legislature, outlining the candidate nomination process along with political parties and their names. He expresses his stance on both state and national politics and reflects on the outdated methods of running elections with his first campaign speech, describing it as "A general fight." Mr. Lincoln's role in it is marked by his outfit and appearance during his speech at Island Grove, where he shares anecdotes followed by a third speech. He aligns himself with the Whigs concerning the internal improvements policy and prepares a public speech, but ultimately, Mr. Lincoln loses the election, garnering all but three votes in his own precinct....121CHAPTER VII.
The results of the canvass open a new business opportunity with the firm of Lincoln & Berry, detailing how they sold alcohol, which Mr. Douglas comments on, although the store ultimately fails due to Berry's bad habits and the credit system leading to Lincoln's debts. He begins boarding at the tavern while studying law, walking to Springfield for books. His progress and businesses for neighbors escalates, and memories of J. Y. Ellis highlight his shyness around women, his clothing, and his fishing outings, during which he quotes Shakespeare and Burns. Mr. Lincoln shows annoyance at company and retreats to the country. Bowlin Greene helps him after an attempt to deliver a funeral speech for John Calhoun, and Lincoln studies surveying, eventually securing a job and being appointed postmaster. How he handled his duties is described, alongside the sale of Lincoln's personal belongings under execution which James Short purchases. He visits Old Hannah and Ah. Trent, acting as a mediator and showcasing his great strength and judicial qualities by stepping in during fights. A candidate for the Legislature, he gets elected, borrowing two hundred dollars from Coleman Smoot, recounting how they met. Mr. Lincoln writes a small book on infidelity, which is burned by Samuel Hill........135CHAPTER VIII.
James Rutledge and his family, especially Ann Rutledge, are introduced alongside John McNeil, who is engaged to Ann. His unusual story depicts Ann's beauty and character as Mr. Lincoln pursues her. They get engaged while waiting for McNeil's return, but Ann dies from a broken heart, plunging Mr. Lincoln into deep depression, cared for by Bowlin Greene. The poem "Immortality" reflects his gloomy thoughts, illustrated in conversations with Isaac Cogdale after his election to the Presidency and Mr. Herndon's meeting with McNamar. Ann's grave in the Concord cemetery is mentioned...159CHAPTER IX.
Bennett Able and family, along with Mary Owens, become part of Mr. Lincoln's love story as he falls for her. Their miscommunication is highlighted, with letters exchanged between Miss Owens and Mr. Lincoln, including a humorous account of the affair in a letter to another lady......172CHAPTER X.
Mr. Lincoln takes his seat in the Legislature with plans for internal improvement. He is a quiet member and meets Stephen A. Douglas, participating in log-rolling. As Mr. Lincoln runs for re-election, the campaign includes "The Long Nine" and a Speech at Mechanicsburg. Conflicts arise, leading to his replies to Dr. Early and George Forquer, along with a trick played on Dick Taylor. Attempts to create a third party are mentioned, and Mr. Lincoln wins the election. Federal and state politics come into play as the Bank of the United States suspends gold payments, with Mr. Lincoln expressing his wish to be the De Witt Clinton of Illinois. The internal improvement system establishes capital in Springfield. Mr. Lincoln articulates his views on a representative’s duties and actively engages in passing the "system." This begins his anti-slavery record as public sentiment begins to shift against the Abolitionists. The history of anti-slavery in Illinois, the Covenanters' struggle to amend the Constitution, and the "black code" are significant topics, along with the death of Elijah P. Lovejoy and the ensuing protests against pro-slavery resolutions. Mr. Lincoln's opposition to extremist groups and the suspension of gold payments leads to his re-election in 1838 as a candidate for Speaker, all within the context of financial troubles marked by the complete failure of the internal improvement "system." Mr. Lincoln re-elected in 1840 introduces a bill alongside his speech, reflecting on financial strategies, while discussing the Democrats' efforts to maintain a quorum and his dramatic leap out of a window while making a speech regarding immigration and their proposed judiciary reforms led by Mr. Douglas. Protests from Mr. Lincoln and other Whigs highlight memories from colleagues and culminate in a dinner for "The Long Nine," culminating in his recognition as "Abraham Lincoln one of nature's noblemen."..........184CHAPTER XI.
The capital is moved to Springfield where Mr. Lincoln settles to practice law. His first case and interactions with bar members, alongside his partnership with John T. Stuart, set the stage for the population and condition of Springfield. Lawyers and politicians populate the area, with Mr. Lincoln's intense ambition coming to light during a lecture before the Springfield Lyceum. His style and the heated political discussions lead him to develop a close friendship with Joshua F. Speed. A scene in Speed's store showcases a debate involving Douglas, Calhoun, Lamborn, and Thomas against Lincoln, Logan, Baker, and Browning. Mr. Lincoln serves as a presidential elector in 1840, campaigning for Harrison until a confrontation with Douglas in the courthouse results in a failure that he eventually redeems himself from, leading to a meeting with Miss Mary Todd, who captures his heart. She rejects Douglas and becomes engaged to Lincoln, though he experiences a change of heart regarding Miss Matilda Edwards. Mr. Lincoln shares his feelings with Mary, who lets him go but ultimately they reconcile, prepared for a wedding that Mr. Lincoln does not attend, leading to a depression where Speed takes him to Kentucky. Lines on "Suicide" reflect his sadness. Upon return to Springfield, he meets secretly with Miss Todd, leading to a sudden marriage. Correspondence with Mr. Speed about sensitive topics showcases legacies of a great man intertwining with great pain. Miss Todd engages James Shields in witty and sarcastic letters where Mr. Lincoln's name is mistakenly linked as the author, leading to a challenge from Shields, culminating in a meeting and an explanation. Mr. Lincoln's candidacy for Congressional nomination is marked by letters from Speed and Morris detailing his defeat... 223CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Lincoln runs for elector in 1844 and debates Calhoun, speaking throughout Illinois and Indiana, especially in Gentryville. Alongside Lincoln, Baker, Logan, and Hardin are all hopefuls for Congress, with rumored deals discussed. During his campaign for Whig nomination in 1846, he secures the nomination against Peter Cartwright, facing accusations of being a deist. Upon election, he takes his seat along with notable members, opposing the Mexican War. The "Spot Resolutions" arise, with Mr. Lincoln delivering a speech that leads to murmurs of disapproval. He supports "Old Rough" in 1848, though defections happen at home, marking Mr. Lincoln's campaign and speeches that go largely unpublished, including letters to his father and references to a second session along with the "Gott Resolution" as Mr. Lincoln's substitute..............274CHAPTER XIII.
Mr. Lincoln served as a country lawyer during a time when public sentiment was influenced by his death. Judge Davis's speech at a bar meeting and Judge Drummond's address reference his partnerships with John T. Stuart, Stephen T. Logan, and William H. Herndon. Lincoln was known as a "case lawyer," approaching each situation carefully, as shown in Henry McHenry’s case characterized by circumstantial evidence and its associated shocking narrative as recounted by Lincoln. He faced challenges with his first case in the Supreme Court not being able to defend a weak case due to a lack of knowledge about technicalities. The Eighth Circuit is highlighted, noting he enjoyed being on the circuit with mutual connections. Young Johnson faced charges, and Mr. Lincoln's compassion is noted when he defends Jack Armstrong's son, accused of murder. Allegations of a false almanac arise, leading to the prisoner's release. Old Hannah recounts the details of Lincoln's lawsuit against the Illinois Central Railway Company and notes the involvement in the McCormick Reaping Machine case employed by Edwin M. Stanton........311CHAPTER XIV.
Mr. Lincoln is not a candidate for re-election following Judge Logan's loss. He applies for the Commissioner of the Land Office and is offered the Governorship of Oregon. His thoughts regarding the Missouri Compromise and the Compromise of 1850 become evident as he declines the prospect of Congress in 1850 after the passing of Thomas Lincoln. Correspondence between Mr. Lincoln and John Johnston includes a eulogy for Henry Clay while Mr. Lincoln supports voluntary emancipation and colonization. His response to Mr. Douglas's speech in Richmond discusses the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, outlining Mr. Lincoln’s stances on slavery, particularly against granting political rights to Black individuals. His outrage regarding the repeal of the Missouri Compromise connects him to the Anti-Nebraska party, where he assumes a leadership position while Mr. Douglas speaks in both Chicago and Springfield, receiving Mr. Lincoln’s response in a powerful speech, leading to a counterspeech by Mr. Douglas. Critiques from the Abolitionists, with Mr. Herndon determined to label Mr. Lincoln as an Abolitionist, illustrates the refusal to join Know-Nothing clubs while the Abolitionists press him to declare a position. After leaving Springfield, he is prompted to "follow up" on Mr. Douglas, leading to his speech at Peoria, with excerpts addressing slavery and popular sovereignty. Lincoln and Douglas agree to cease debating one another, leading to Lincoln's nomination for the Legislature by Wm. Jayne, with Mrs. Lincoln withdrawing his name, before Jayne reinstates it and he gets elected. Mr. Lincoln runs for United States Senator, resigning his position to face criticism from an Anti-Nebraska majority in the Legislature, confronting concerns over Governor Matteson’s election, and advising friends to support Judge Trumbull, who wins. Allegations of conspiracy and corruption arise, leading to Mr. Lincoln's denials and Douglas accusing him of holding extreme Abolitionist views, to which Lincoln responds.............333CHAPTER XV.
The struggle in Kansas commences as the South ignites the conflict, with the North responding accordingly against Missourians and other pro-slavery factions. Andrew H. Reeder is appointed governor amidst election frauds, prompting Mr. Lincoln to share his views on Kansas. Gov. Shannon arrives in the territory while Free State supporters reject the Legislature. Mr. Lincoln delivers a "little speech" to the Illinois Abolitionists while noting his political connections and meeting agreements with the Abolitionists at the convention in Bloomington, where he emerges as a convert. His powerful speech, alongside conservative resolutions, leads to a failed ratification meeting in Springfield, culminating in Mr. Lincoln's observations. A calculated plan to disrupt the Know-Nothing party is initiated with the "National" Republican Convention where Mr. Lincoln secures a hundred and ten votes for Vice-President. He runs for elector in the National Democratic Convention, detailing his campaign and a confidential letter revealing only limited cooperation with the Abolitionists. Mr. Douglas's speech on Kansas in June 1857 elicits Mr. Lincoln's response for commitment to the Lecompton Constitution, alongside discussions on the Dred Scott Decision, where Lincoln firmly opposes black equality. Kansas then sees the election of a new Legislature and the submission of the Lecompton Constitution for public voting, ultimately leading to its rejection. In Congress, conflict arises from Mr. Douglas's betrayals, highlighted through Mr. Lincoln’s speeches........366CHAPTER XVI.
Mr. Douglas challenges the Administration, taking actions in Congress to implement squatter sovereignty. Mr. Lincoln defines both popular sovereignty and squatter sovereignty while noting Mr. Douglas's private meetings with Republicans and "Judge Trumbull's" opinion. Douglas is nominated for senator by a Democratic Convention, prompting Mr. Lincoln to share his thoughts on Douglas's potential for success in Charleston. Mr. Lincoln prepares a notable speech, leading to his own candidacy for senator. Surprising doctrines emerge as friends gather, presenting similar doctrines at Bloomington. Mr. Lincoln gives his "house-divided" speech, assuring clarity. The mutual perceptions between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas illustrate the campaigns for Senate, where Lincoln aims to "defeat Douglas" as a Presidential candidate by subtly prompting him on squatter sovereignty, revealing the absurdities of Mr. Douglas during the election. Despite Mr. Douglas's success, Mr. Lincoln garners a reputation for his efforts..................389CHAPTER XVII.
Mr. Lincoln writes and delivers a lecture, reflecting on the presidency and his perceived unqualified status. Nominated by the "Illinois Gazette," he writes letters to Dr. Canisius and Dr. Wallace regarding protective tariff policy. His travels in Ohio and Kansas lead to private meetings with friends, allowing him to permit his name for the presidency and receive an invitation to speak in New York. Choosing a topic leads to his arrival in New York where he encounters challenges with his speech at the Cooper Institute. The press reacts, accusing him of selfish behavior, leading to a letter addressing these accusations. He visits New England, showcasing his style and the nature of his speeches, including a humorous encounter with a religious politician...421CHAPTER XVIII.
The Republican State Convention convenes, where Mr. Lincoln is present alongside John Hanks and the rails. His speech and the subsequent meeting at the Republican National Convention in Chicago lead to the establishment of a platform. Efforts are made to secure Mr. Lincoln's nomination, culminating in the balloting process where he is nominated. While awaiting results in Springfield, his reception of the news results in excitement. The official notification and the emergence of the "Constitutional Union" party occur against the backdrop of the Democratic Conventions in Charleston and Baltimore, leading to the election. Mr. Lincoln proposes a principle for appointments, leading to discussions involving Mr. Stephens, Mr. Gilmore, Mr. Guthrie, Mr. Seward, Mr. Chase, and Mr. Bates, highlighting concerns about Mr. Smith and Mr. Cameron's situations. The chapter outlines Mr. Lincoln's visit to Chicago and relatives in Coles County while he grapples with concerns about assassination, culminating in a visit from Hannah Armstrong... 444CHAPTER XIX.
The challenges and unique elements surrounding Mr. Lincoln's position are introduced, providing a general overview of his character. His personal appearance, habits, home, and possessions are discussed alongside family relationships and his deep melancholy, intertwined with superstitions. His literary preferences illustrate his sense of humor and moderate habits, including avoidance of indulgence. His ambition emerges, exploring the use of politics for personal growth, as well as his desire for power and status, with reflections on justice. He is depicted as neither a demagogue nor a manipulator, defined by his religious beliefs challenged by Rev. Mr. Smith's conversion attempts. The narrative includes Mr. Bateman's story recounted by Dr. Holland, showcasing the impact of Lincoln’s beliefs on his mind and character...........466CHAPTER XX.
The presidential party departs from Springfield, marked by Mr. Lincoln's emotional address to friends and neighbors while contemplating the impending civil war. Discovery of a suspected plot to assassinate him in Baltimore and Governor Hicks's suggestion to "kill Lincoln and his associates" spur the creation of a plan to thwart this conspiracy. The midnight ride from Harrisburg to Washington culminates in his arrival in Washington before the inauguration day. On Inauguration Day, Mr. Lincoln takes the oath and becomes President of the United States as Mr. Buchanan bids him farewell............505
LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
CHAPTER I.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN was born on the twelfth day of February, 1809. His father's name was Thomas Lincoln, and his mother's maiden name was Nancy Hanks. At the time of his birth, they are supposed to have been married about three years. Although there appears to have been but little sympathy or affection between Thomas and Abraham Lincoln, they were nevertheless connected by ties and associations which make the previous history of Thomas Lincoln and his family a necessary part of any reasonably full biography of the great man who immortalized the name by wearing it.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN was born on February 12, 1809. His father's name was Thomas Lincoln, and his mother's maiden name was Nancy Hanks. At the time of his birth, they had been married for about three years. Although there seemed to be little sympathy or affection between Thomas and Abraham Lincoln, they were still connected by bonds and experiences that make the earlier history of Thomas Lincoln and his family an essential aspect of any complete biography of the remarkable man who made the name famous by bearing it.
Thomas Lincoln's ancestors were among the early settlers of Rockingham County in Virginia; but exactly whence they came, or the precise time of their settlement there, it is impossible to tell. They were manifestly of English descent; but whether emigrants directly from England to Virginia, or an offshoot of the historic Lincoln family in Massachusetts, or of the highly-respectable Lincoln family in Pennsylvania, are questions left entirely to conjecture. We have absolutely no evidence by which to determine them, Thomas Lincoln himself stoutly denied that his progenitors were either Quakers or Puritans; but he furnished nothing except his own word to sustain his denial: on the contrary, some of the family (distant relatives of Thomas Lincoln) who remain in Virginia believe themselves to have sprung from the New-England stock. They found their opinion solely on the fact that the Christian names given to the sons of the two families were the same, though only in a few cases, and at different times. But this might have arisen merely from that common religious sentiment which induces parents of a devotional turn to confer scriptural names on their children, or it might have been purely accidental. Abrahams, Isaacs, and Jacobs abound in many other families who claim no kindred on that account. In England, during the ascendency of the Puritans, in times of fanatical religious excitement, the children were almost universally baptized by the names of the patriarchs and Old-Testament heroes, or by names of their own pious invention, signifying what the infant was expected to do and to suffer in the cause of the Lord. The progenitors of all the American Lincolns were Englishmen, and they may have been Puritans. There is, therefore, nothing unreasonable in the supposition that they began the practice of conferring such names before the emigration of any of them; and the names, becoming matters of family pride and family tradition, have continued to be given ever since. But, if the fact that Christian names of a particular class prevailed among the Lincolns of Massachusetts and the Lincolns of Virginia at the same time is no proof of consanguinity, the identity of the surname is entitled to even less consideration. It is barely possible that they may have had a common ancestor; but, if they had, he must have lived and died so obscurely, and so long ago, that no trace of him can be discovered. It would be as difficult to prove a blood relationship between all the American Lincolns, as it would be to prove a general cousinship among all the Smiths or all the Joneses.1
Thomas Lincoln's ancestors were among the early settlers of Rockingham County in Virginia; however, it's impossible to know exactly where they came from or when they settled there. They were clearly of English descent, but whether they were direct emigrants from England to Virginia, or connected to the historic Lincoln family in Massachusetts, or the well-respected Lincoln family in Pennsylvania, is left entirely to speculation. We have no evidence to determine their origins. Thomas Lincoln himself strongly denied that his family were Quakers or Puritans; however, he provided no proof beyond his own word. In fact, some of his distant relatives who still live in Virginia believe they descended from the New England stock. Their belief is based solely on the fact that the Christian names given to the sons in both families were similar, though only in a few instances and over different time periods. But this could have simply resulted from the common religious sentiment that leads devout parents to give their children scriptural names, or it could have been purely coincidental. Names like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are common in many other families that claim no relation for that reason. In England, during the height of Puritan influence and times of intense religious fervor, children were often baptized with the names of patriarchs and Old Testament figures, or by names of their own pious creation, signifying what they expected the child to do and suffer in the service of the Lord. All the American Lincolns are of English descent, and they could have been Puritans. Thus, it's not unreasonable to think they might have started this naming practice before any of them emigrated, and these names, becoming a source of family pride and tradition, have continued to be used ever since. However, the fact that certain Christian names were common among the Lincolns of Massachusetts and Virginia at the same time does not prove a blood relationship, and the shared surname deserves even less weight in that regard. It's barely possible that they had a common ancestor, but if they did, he must have lived and died so obscurely, so long ago, that no evidence of him remains. Proving a blood relationship among all the American Lincolns would be as challenging as proving a general cousinship among all the Smiths or all the Joneses.
1 At the end of this volume will be found a very interesting account of the family, given by Mr. Lincoln himself. The original is in his own handwriting, and is here reproduced in fac-simile.
1 At the end of this volume, you'll find a fascinating story about the family, written by Mr. Lincoln himself. The original is in his own handwriting and is included here as a facsimile.
A patronymic so common as Lincoln, derived from a large geographical division of the old country, would almost certainly be taken by many who had no claim to it by reason of descent from its original possessors.
A last name as common as Lincoln, which comes from a large geographical area in the old country, would likely be adopted by many who have no actual connection to it through descent from its original owners.
Dr. Holland, who, of all Mr. Lincoln's biographers, has entered most extensively into the genealogy of the family, says that the father of Thomas was named Abraham; but he gives no authority for his statement, and it is as likely to be wrong as to be right. The Hankses—John and Dennis—who passed a great part of their lives in the company of Thomas Lincoln, tell us that the name of his father was Mordecai; and so also does Col. Chapman, who married Thomas Lincoln's step-daughter. The rest of those who ought to know are unable to assign him any name at all. Dr. Holland says further, that this Abraham (or Mordecai) had four brothers,—Jacob, John, Isaac, and Thomas; that Isaac went to Tennessee, where his descendants are now; that Thomas went to Kentucky after his brother Abraham; but that Jacob and John "are supposed to have" remained in Virginia.1 This is doubtless true, at least so far as it relates to Jacob and John; for there are at this day numerous Lincolns residing in Rockingham County,—the place from which the Kentucky Lincolns emigrated. One of their ancestors, Jacob,—who seems to be the brother referred to,—was a lieutenant in the army of the Revolution, and present at the siege of Yorktown. His military services were made the ground of a claim against the government, and Abraham Lincoln, whilst a representative in Congress from Illinois, was applied to by the family to assist them in prosecuting it. A correspondence of some length ensued, by which the presumed relationship of the parties was fully acknowledged on both sides. But, unfortunately, no copy of it is now in existence. The one preserved by the Virginians was lost or destroyed during the late war. The family, with perfect unanimity, espoused the cause of the Confederate States, and suffered many losses in consequence, of which these interesting papers may have been one.
Dr. Holland, who is the most thorough biographer of Mr. Lincoln regarding the family's genealogy, claims that Thomas's father was named Abraham; however, he doesn't provide any evidence for this assertion, and it could easily be incorrect. The Hanks brothers—John and Dennis—who spent much of their lives with Thomas Lincoln, state that his father's name was Mordecai; Col. Chapman, who married Thomas Lincoln's stepdaughter, also says the same. Others who should know are unable to confirm any name at all. Dr. Holland also mentions that this Abraham (or Mordecai) had four brothers: Jacob, John, Isaac, and Thomas. He states that Isaac moved to Tennessee, where his descendants live today, and that Thomas went to Kentucky after his brother Abraham; however, Jacob and John "are believed to have" stayed in Virginia. This is likely true, especially concerning Jacob and John, since there are many Lincolns living in Rockingham County today—the area from which the Kentucky Lincolns migrated. One of their ancestors, Jacob—who appears to be the brother mentioned—was a lieutenant in the Revolutionary Army and was present at the siege of Yorktown. His military service led to a claim against the government, and Abraham Lincoln, while serving in Congress from Illinois, was approached by the family for help in pursuing it. A lengthy correspondence followed, during which both parties recognized their presumed relationship. Unfortunately, no copies of this correspondence exist today. The version kept by the Virginians was lost or destroyed during the recent war. The family unanimously supported the Confederate States and suffered numerous losses as a result, including possibly these important documents.
1 The Life of Abraham Lincoln, by J. G. Holland, p. 20.
1 The Life of Abraham Lincoln, by J. G. Holland, p. 20.
Abraham (or Mordecai) the father of Thomas Lincoln, was the owner of a large and fertile tract of land on the waters of Linnville's Creek, about eight miles north of Harrisonburg, the court-house town of Rockingham County. It is difficult to ascertain the precise extent of this plantation, or the history of the title to it, inasmuch as all the records of the county were burnt by Gen. Hunter in 1864. It is clear, however, that it had been inherited by Lincoln, the emigrant to Kentucky, and that four, if not all, of his children were born upon it. At the time Gen. Sheridan received the order "to make the Valley of the Shenandoah a barren waste," this land was well improved and in a state of high cultivation; but under the operation of that order it was ravaged and desolated like the region around it.
Abraham (or Mordecai), the father of Thomas Lincoln, owned a large and fertile piece of land along Linnville's Creek, about eight miles north of Harrisonburg, the county seat of Rockingham County. It's tough to pinpoint the exact size of this plantation or the history of its ownership because all the county records were burned by General Hunter in 1864. However, it’s clear that Lincoln, the emigrant to Kentucky, inherited it, and that four, if not all, of his children were born there. When General Sheridan was ordered "to make the Valley of the Shenandoah a barren waste," this land was well-maintained and highly cultivated; but due to that order, it was heavily damaged and left desolate like the surrounding area.
Lincoln, the emigrant, had three sons and two daughters. Thomas was the third son and the fourth child. He was born in 1778; and in 1780, or a little later, his father removed with his entire family to Kentucky.
Lincoln, the emigrant, had three sons and two daughters. Thomas was the third son and the fourth child. He was born in 1778, and in 1780, or a little later, his father moved with the whole family to Kentucky.
Kentucky was then the paradise of the borderer's dreams. Fabulous tales of its sylvan charms and pastoral beauties had for years been floating about, not only along the frontiers of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and North Carolina, but farther back in the older settlements. For a while it had been known as the "Cane Country," and then as the "Country of Kentucky." Many expeditions were undertaken to explore it; two or three adventurers, and occasionally only one at a time, passing down the Ohio in canoes. But they all stopped short of the Kentucky River. The Indians were terrible; and it was known that they would surrender any other spot of earth in preference to Kentucky. The canes that were supposed to indicate the promised land—those canes of wondrous dimensions, that shot up, as thick as they could stand, from a soil of inestimable fertility—were forever receding before those who sought them. One party after another returned to report, that, after incredible dangers and hardships, they had met with no better fortune than that which had attended the efforts of their predecessors, and that they had utterly failed to find the "canes." At last they were actually found by Simon Kenton, who stealthily planted a little patch of corn, to see how the stalk that bore the yellow grain would grow beside its "brother" of the wilderness. He was one day leaning against the stem of a great tree, watching his little assemblage of sprouts, and wondering at the strange fruitfulness of the earth which fed them, when he heard a footstep behind him. It was the great Daniel Boone's. They united their fortunes for the present, but subsequently each of them became the chief of a considerable settlement. Kenton's trail had been down the Ohio, Boone's from North Carolina; and from both those directions soon came hunters, warriors, and settlers to join them. But the Indians had no thought of relinquishing their fairest hunting-grounds without a long and desperate struggle. The rich carpet of natural grasses which fed innumerable herds of buffalo, elk, and deer, all the year round; the grandeur of its primeval forests, its pure fountains, and abundant streams,—made it even more desirable to them than to the whites. They had long contended for the possession of it; and no tribe, or confederacy of tribes, had ever been able to hold it to the exclusion of the rest. Here, from time immemorial, the northern and southern, the eastern and western Indians had met each other in mortal strife, mutually shedding the blood which ought to have been husbanded for the more deadly conflict with a common foe. The character of this savage warfare had earned for Kentucky the appellation of "the dark and bloody ground;" and, now that the whites had fairly begun their encroachments upon it, the Indians were resolved that the phrase should lose none of its old significance. White settlers might therefore count upon fighting for their lives as well as their lands.
Kentucky was then the dreamland of those on the frontier. Incredible stories about its natural beauty and pastoral charm had circulated for years, not just along the borders of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and North Carolina, but even further back in older settlements. For a time, it had been referred to as the "Cane Country," and later as the "Country of Kentucky." Many expeditions were launched to explore it; a few adventurers, sometimes just one at a time, would travel down the Ohio River in canoes. But they always stopped before reaching the Kentucky River. The Native Americans were fierce, and it was known they would give up any other piece of land in favor of Kentucky. The legendary canes that were thought to mark the promised land—those enormous canes that grew thickly from a soil of unmatched fertility—kept disappearing from those who searched for them. One group after another returned to report that, after facing unbelievable dangers and hardships, they had found no better luck than their predecessors and had completely failed to locate the "canes." Eventually, they were discovered by Simon Kenton, who quietly planted a small patch of corn to see how the stalks that produced the yellow grain would grow alongside their wild counterparts. One day, as he leaned against the trunk of a large tree, watching the small cluster of sprouts and marveling at the soil's strange fertility, he heard footsteps behind him. It was the legendary Daniel Boone. They decided to join forces for the time being, but later each became the leader of a significant settlement. Kenton's route had taken him down the Ohio, while Boone had come from North Carolina; soon hunters, warriors, and settlers arrived from both directions to join them. But the Native Americans had no intention of giving up their prime hunting grounds without a lengthy and fierce struggle. The rich carpet of natural grasses that nourished countless herds of buffalo, elk, and deer all year long, along with the majestic primeval forests, pristine springs, and plentiful streams, made the land even more appealing to them than to the white settlers. They had fought for possession of it for generations, and no tribe or coalition of tribes had ever managed to hold it without interference from others. Here, for ages, northern, southern, eastern, and western tribes had clashed in deadly combat, wasting blood that should have been preserved for the common enemy. This brutal warfare earned Kentucky the nickname "the dark and bloody ground," and now that white settlers had begun to encroach on it, the Native Americans were determined to ensure that the phrase retained its meaning. Therefore, white settlers could expect to fight for their lives as well as their land.
Boone did not make his final settlement till 1775. The Lincolns came about 1780. This was but a year or two after Clark's expedition into Illinois; and it was long, long before St. Clair's defeat and Wayne's victory. Nearly the whole of the north-west territory was then occupied by hostile Indians. Kentucky volunteers had yet before them many a day of hot and bloody work on the Ohio, the Muskingum, and the Miami, to say nothing of the continual surprises to which they were subjected at home. Every man's life was in his hand. From cabin to cabin, from settlement to settlement, his trail was dogged by the eager savage. If he went to plough, he was liable to be shot down between the handles; if he attempted to procure subsistence by hunting, he was hunted himself. Unless he abandoned his "clearing" and his stock to almost certain devastation, and shut up himself and his family in a narrow "fort," for months at a time, he might expect every hour that their roof would be given "to the flames, and their flesh to the eagles."
Boone didn't settle in his final home until 1775. The Lincolns arrived around 1780. This was just a year or two after Clark's expedition into Illinois and a long time before St. Clair's defeat and Wayne's victory. Nearly all of the north-west territory was occupied by hostile Indians at that time. Kentucky volunteers still faced many days of intense and bloody conflict along the Ohio, the Muskingum, and the Miami rivers, not to mention the constant surprises they dealt with back home. Every man’s life was at risk. From cabin to cabin, from settlement to settlement, he was pursued by the eager savages. If he went to plow, he could easily be shot down. If he tried to get food by hunting, he was hunted himself. Unless he abandoned his clearing and his livestock to almost certain destruction, and shut himself and his family inside a small fort for months, he could expect at any moment that their home would be set "to the flames, and their flesh to the eagles."
To make matters worse, "the western country," and particularly Kentucky, had become the rendezvous of Tories, runaway conscripts, deserters, debtors, and criminals. Gen. Butler, who went there as a Commissioner from Congress, to treat with certain Indian tribes, kept a private journal, in which he entered a very graphic, but a very appalling description of the state of affairs in Kentucky. At the principal "points," as they were called, were collected hungry speculators, gamblers, and mere desperadoes,—these distinctions being the only divisions and degrees in society. Among other things, the journal contains a statement about land-jobbing and the traffic in town lots, at Louisville, beside which the account of the same business in "Martin Chuzzlewit" is absolutely tame. That city, now one of the most superb in the Union, was then a small collection of cabins and hovels, inhabited by a class of people of whom specimens might have been found a few months ago at Cheyenne or Promontory Point. Notwithstanding the high commissions borne by Gen. Butler and Gen. Parsons, the motley inhabitants of Louisville flatly refused even to notice them. They would probably have sold them a "corner lot" in a swamp, or a "splendid business site" in a mud-hole; but for mere civilities there was no time. The whole population were so deeply engaged in drinking, card-playing, and selling town lots to each other, that they persistently refused to pay any attention to three men who were drowning in the river near by, although their dismal cries for help were distinctly heard throughout the "city."
To make matters worse, "the western country," especially Kentucky, had turned into a meeting place for Tories, runaway soldiers, deserters, debtors, and criminals. General Butler, who went there as a Commissioner from Congress to negotiate with certain Indian tribes, kept a personal journal in which he wrote a vivid yet shocking description of the situation in Kentucky. At the main "spots," as they were called, there gathered hungry speculators, gamblers, and outright desperados—these distinctions being the only divisions and hierarchy in society. Among other things, the journal includes a commentary on land speculation and the trade in town lots in Louisville, which makes the same topic in "Martin Chuzzlewit" seem incredibly tame. That city, now one of the finest in the Union, was then just a small collection of cabins and shacks, home to a class of people who could have been found just months earlier at Cheyenne or Promontory Point. Despite the high status of General Butler and General Parsons, the mixed inhabitants of Louisville completely ignored them. They likely would have sold them a "corner lot" in a swamp or a "prime business site" in a mud pit; but when it came to basic pleasantries, there was no time. The entire population was so engrossed in drinking, gambling, and selling town lots to one another that they continually refused to pay any attention to three men drowning in the nearby river, even though their desperate cries for help could be clearly heard throughout the "city."
On the journey out, the Lincolns are said to have endured many hardships and encountered all the usual dangers, including several skirmishes with the Indians. They settled in Mercer County, but at what particular spot is uncertain. Their house was a rough log-cabin, their farm a little clearing in the midst of a vast forest. One morning, not long after their settlement, the father took Thomas, his youngest son, and went to build a fence, a short distance from the house; while the other brothers, Mordecai and Josiah, were sent to another field, not far away. They were all intent about their work, when a shot from a party of Indians in ambush broke the "listening stillness" cf the woods. The father fell dead; Josiah ran to a stockade two or three miles off; Mordecai, the eldest boy, made his way to the house, and, looking out from the loophole in the loft, saw an Indian in the act of raising his little brother from the ground. He took deliberate aim at a silver ornament on the breast of the Indian, and brought him down. Thomas sprang toward the cabin, and was admitted by his mother, while Mordecai renewed his fire at several other Indians that rose from the covert of the fence or thicket. It was not long until Josiah returned from the stockade with a party of settlers; but the Indians had fled, and none were found but the dead one, and another who was wounded and had crept into the top of a fallen tree.
On their journey, the Lincolns faced many hardships and all the usual dangers, including a few skirmishes with the Native Americans. They settled in Mercer County, but it’s unclear exactly where. Their home was a rough log cabin, and their farm was a small clearing in the middle of a vast forest. One morning, shortly after settling in, the father took his youngest son, Thomas, to build a fence a short distance from the house, while his other sons, Mordecai and Josiah, were sent to another nearby field. They were all focused on their work when a shot from an ambush by a group of Native Americans shattered the quiet of the woods. The father fell dead; Josiah ran to a stockade a couple of miles away; and Mordecai, the oldest boy, headed back to the house. Looking out from a loophole in the loft, he saw an Indian trying to lift his little brother from the ground. He carefully aimed at a silver ornament on the Indian’s chest and shot him down. Thomas ran towards the cabin and was let in by his mother, while Mordecai resumed firing at several other Indians who emerged from behind the fence or thicket. It wasn’t long before Josiah returned from the stockade with a group of settlers; however, the Indians had fled, and they only found the dead one and another who was wounded and had crawled into the top of a fallen tree.
When this tragedy was enacted, Mordecai, the hero of it, was a well-grown boy. He seems to have hated Indians ever after with a hatred which was singular for its intensity, even in those times. Many years afterwards, his neighbors believed that he was in the habit of following peaceable Indians, as they passed through the settlements, in order to get surreptitious shots at them; and it was no secret that he had killed more than one in that way.
When this tragedy happened, Mordecai, its hero, was a healthy young boy. He appeared to have developed a deep hatred for Native Americans that was particularly intense, even for that era. Many years later, his neighbors thought he often stalked peaceful Indians as they moved through the settlements to take secret shots at them; it was well known that he had killed more than one that way.
Immediately after the death of her husband, the widow abandoned the scene of her misfortunes, and removed to Washington County, near the town of Springfield, where she lived until the youngest of her children had grown up. Mor-decai and Josiah remained there until late in life, and were always numbered among the best people in the neighborhood. Mordecai was the eldest son of his father; and under the law of primogeniture, which was still a part of the Virginia code, he inherited some estate in lands. One of the daughters wedded a Mr. Krume, and the other a Mr. Brumfield.
Right after her husband's death, the widow left behind her troubles and moved to Washington County, near the town of Springfield, where she stayed until her youngest child grew up. Mordecai and Josiah lived there until they were old, and they were always regarded as some of the best people in the area. Mordecai was the oldest son, and according to the law of primogeniture, which was still part of Virginia's legal code, he inherited some land. One of the daughters married Mr. Krume, and the other married Mr. Brumfield.
Thomas seems to have been the only member of the family whose character was not entirely respectable. He was idle, thriftless, poor, a hunter, and a rover. One year he wandered away off to his uncle, on the Holston, near the confines of Tennessee. Another year he wandered into Breckinridge County, where his easy good-nature was overcome by a huge bully, and he performed the only remarkable achievement of his life, by whipping him. In 1806, we find him in Hardin County, trying to learn the carpenter's trade. Until then, he could neither read nor write; and it was only after his marriage that his ambition led him to seek accomplishments of this sort.
Thomas appears to have been the only family member whose character was less than respectable. He was lazy, careless with money, poor, a drifter, and a wanderer. One year, he traveled to visit his uncle near the Holston River, close to the Tennessee border. The following year, he ended up in Breckinridge County, where his easygoing nature was tested by a large bully, and he achieved the only notable feat of his life by defeating him. In 1806, we find him in Hardin County, attempting to learn carpentry. Until then, he had never learned to read or write, and it was only after he got married that he felt motivated to pursue skills like these.
Thomas Lincoln was not tall and thin, like Abraham, but comparatively short and stout, standing about five feet ten inches in his shoes. His hair was dark and coarse, his complexion brown, his face round and full, his eyes gray, and his nose large and prominent. He weighed, at different times, from one hundred and seventy to one hundred and ninety-six. He was built so "tight and compact," that Dennis Hanks declares he never could find the points of separation between his ribs, though he felt for them often. He was a little stoop-shouldered, and walked with a slow, halting step. But he was sinewy and brave, and, his habitually peaceable disposition once fairly overborne, was a tremendous man in a rough-and-tumble fight. He thrashed the monstrous bully of Breckinridge County in three minutes, and came off without a scratch.
Thomas Lincoln wasn't tall and thin like Abraham; he was shorter and stockier, about five feet ten inches in his shoes. His hair was dark and coarse, his complexion was brown, his face was round and full, his eyes were gray, and his nose was large and noticeable. He weighed anywhere from one hundred seventy to one hundred ninety-six pounds at different times. He was built so "tight and compact" that Dennis Hanks said he could never find the spaces between his ribs, even though he checked frequently. He had a slight stoop and walked with a slow, shuffling step. But he was strong and brave, and when his generally peaceful nature was pushed too far, he was a force to be reckoned with in a rough-and-tumble fight. He beat the big bully of Breckinridge County in three minutes and came away without a scratch.
His vagrant career had supplied him with an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes, which he told cleverly and well. He loved to sit about at "stores," or under shade-trees, and "spin yarns,"—a propensity which atoned for many sins, and made him extremely popular. In politics, he was a Democrat,—a Jackson Democrat. In religion he was nothing at times, and a member of various denominations by turns,—a Free-Will Baptist in Kentucky, a Presbyterian in Indiana, and a Disciple—vulgarly called Campbellite—in Illinois. In this latter communion he seems to have died.
His wandering career had given him an endless supply of stories, which he shared with skill and charm. He enjoyed hanging out at "stores" or under shade trees, and “spinning yarns”—a habit that made up for many mistakes and made him very popular. In politics, he was a Democrat—a Jackson Democrat. In terms of religion, he was nothing at times and a member of various denominations at others—a Free-Will Baptist in Kentucky, a Presbyterian in Indiana, and a Disciple—commonly called Campbellite—in Illinois. It seems he ended his life in this last community.
It ought, perhaps, to be mentioned, that both in Virginia and Kentucky his name was commonly pronounced "Linck-horn," and in Indiana, "Linckhern." The usage was so general, that Tom Lincoln came very near losing his real name altogether. As he never wrote it at all until after his marriage, and wrote it then only mechanically, it was never spelled one way or the other, unless by a storekeeper here and there, who had a small account against him. Whether it was properly "Lincoln," "Linckhorn," or "Linckhern," was not definitely settled until after Abraham began to write, when, as one of the neighbors has it, "he remodelled the spelling and corrected the pronunciation."
It should be noted that in Virginia and Kentucky, his name was usually pronounced "Linck-horn," while in Indiana it was "Linckhern." This was so widespread that Tom Lincoln nearly lost his actual name entirely. He never wrote it down until after he got married, and even then, it was just a mechanical process. It was often spelled differently by a few storekeepers who had small accounts with him. The correct spelling—whether it was "Lincoln," "Linckhorn," or "Linckhern"—wasn't really settled until after Abraham started writing. As one neighbor put it, "he changed the spelling and fixed the pronunciation."
By the middle of 1806, Lincoln had acquired a very limited knowledge of the carpenter's trade, and set up on his own account; but his achievements in this line were no better than those of his previous life. He was employed occasionally to do rough work, that requires neither science nor skill; but nobody alleges that he ever built a house, or pretended to do more than a few little odd jobs connected with such an undertaking. He soon got tired of the business, as he did of every thing else that required application and labor. He was no boss, not even an average journeyman, nor a steady hand. When he worked at the trade at all, he liked to make common benches, cupboards, and bureaus; and some specimens of his work of this kind are still extant in Kentucky and Indiana, and bear their own testimony to the quality of their workmanship.
By the middle of 1806, Lincoln had picked up a very basic understanding of carpentry and started working for himself; however, his results in this field were no better than in his previous jobs. He was occasionally hired for rough tasks that required neither expertise nor skill, but no one claims he ever built a house or attempted anything beyond a few small jobs related to such a project. He quickly lost interest in the trade, just like he did with anything else that needed focus and hard work. He wasn't a boss, nor even an average journeyman, and he didn’t have a steady hand. When he did work in the trade, he preferred making basic benches, cupboards, and dressers; some examples of his work in this area can still be found in Kentucky and Indiana, and they speak for themselves in terms of craftsmanship.
Some time in the year 1806 he married Nancy Hanks. It was in the shop of her uncle, Joseph Hanks, at Elizabethtown, in Hardin County, that he had essayed to learn the trade. We have no record of the courtship, but any one can readily imagine the numberless occasions that would bring together the niece and the apprentice. It is true that Nancy did not live with her uncle; but the Hankses were all very clannish, and she was doubtless a welcome and frequent guest at his house. It is admitted by all the old residents of the place that they were honestly married, but precisely when or how no one can tell. Diligent and thorough searches by the most competent persons have failed to discover any trace of the fact in the public records of Hardin and the adjoining counties. The license and the minister's return in the case of Lincoln and Sarah Johnston, his second wife, were easily found in the place where the law required them to be; but of Nancy Hanks's marriage there exists no evidence but that of mutual acknowledgment and cohabitation. At the time of their union, Thomas was twenty-eight years of age, and Nancy about twenty-three.
Some time in 1806, he married Nancy Hanks. He tried to learn the trade in her uncle, Joseph Hanks's shop in Elizabethtown, Hardin County. There's no record of their courtship, but it’s easy to imagine all the times that brought the niece and the apprentice together. It's true that Nancy didn't live with her uncle, but the Hanks family was very close-knit, so she was probably a welcomed and frequent guest at his home. All the old residents agree that they were genuinely married, but no one knows exactly when or how. Extensive and thorough searches by the most qualified people have failed to find any trace of it in the public records of Hardin and the surrounding counties. The marriage license and minister’s return for Lincoln and Sarah Johnston, his second wife, were easily found where the law required them to be; however, there is no evidence of Nancy Hanks's marriage other than their mutual acknowledgment and living together. At the time of their marriage, Thomas was twenty-eight, and Nancy was about twenty-three.
Lincoln had previously courted a girl named Sally Bush, who lived in the neighborhood of Elizabethtown; but his suit was unsuccessful, and she became the wife of Johnston, the jailer. Her reason for rejecting Lincoln comes down to us in no words of her own; but it is clear enough that it was his want of character, and the "bad luck," as the Hankses have it, which always attended him. Sally Bush was a modest and pious girl, in all things pure and decent. She was very neat in her personal appearance, and, because she was particular in the selection of her gowns and company, had long been accounted a "proud body," who held her head above common folks. Even her own relatives seem to have participated in this mean accusation; and the decency of her dress and behavior appear to have made her an object of common envy and backbiting. But she had a will as well as principles of her own, and she lived to make them both serviceable to the neglected and destitute son of Nancy Hanks. Thomas Lincoln took another wife, but he always loved Sally Bush as much as he was capable of loving anybody; and years afterwards, when her husband and his wife were both dead, he returned suddenly from the wilds of Indiana, and, representing himself as a thriving and prosperous farmer, induced her to marry him. It will be seen hereafter what value was to be attached to his representations of his own prosperity.
Lincoln had previously dated a girl named Sally Bush, who lived near Elizabethtown; however, his attempts to win her over were unsuccessful, and she ended up marrying Johnston, the jailer. The reason she rejected Lincoln isn't recorded in her own words, but it's clear that it was due to his lack of character and the "bad luck," as the Hankses would say, that always seemed to follow him. Sally Bush was a modest and religious girl, embodying purity and decency in all aspects. She took great care in her appearance and, because she was selective about her clothes and companions, she was often considered a "proud person" who looked down on common folks. Even her own relatives seemed to have taken part in this unkind judgment; her neatness and conduct made her a target of envy and gossip. Nevertheless, she was strong-willed and principled, dedicating her efforts to help the neglected and destitute son of Nancy Hanks. Thomas Lincoln remarried, but he always had a fondness for Sally Bush, as much as he was capable of loving anyone. Years later, when her husband and his wife had both passed away, he returned unexpectedly from the wilds of Indiana, claiming to be a successful and prosperous farmer, which led her to marry him. It will be made clear later how much credence should be given to his claims of prosperity.
Nancy Hanks, who accepted the honor which Sally Bush refused, was a slender, symmetrical woman, of medium stature, a brunette, with dark hair, regular features, and soft, sparkling hazel eyes. Tenderly bred she might have been beautiful; but hard labor and hard usage bent her handsome form, and imparted an unnatural coarseness to her features long before the period of her death. Toward the close, her life and her face were equally sad; and the latter habitually wore the wo-ful expression which afterwards distinguished the countenance of her son in repose.
Nancy Hanks, who accepted the honor that Sally Bush turned down, was a slender, well-proportioned woman of average height, a brunette with dark hair, regular features, and soft, sparkling hazel eyes. She could have been beautiful with a gentler upbringing; however, hard work and tough circumstances took a toll on her attractive figure and gave her features an unnatural roughness long before her death. In her later years, both her life and her face appeared equally sorrowful, and her expression often reflected the sad look that later characterized her son's face when he was at rest.
By her family, her understanding was considered something wonderful. John Hanks spoke reverently of her "high and intellectual forehead," which he considered but the proper seat of faculties like hers. Compared with the mental poverty of her husband and relatives, her accomplishments were certainly very great; for it is related by them with pride and delight that she could actually read and write. The possession of these arts placed her far above her associates, and after a little while even Tom began to meditate upon the importance of acquiring them. He set to work accordingly, in real earnest, having a competent mistress so near at hand; and with much effort she taught him what letters composed his name, and how to put them together in a stiff and clumsy fashion. Henceforth he signed no more by making his mark; but it is nowhere stated that he ever learned to write any thing else, or to read either written or printed letters.
By her family, her understanding was seen as something amazing. John Hanks spoke highly of her "high and intellectual forehead," which he believed was the proper place for someone with her abilities. Compared to the lack of intelligence in her husband and relatives, her skills were truly impressive; they proudly shared that she could actually read and write. Having these skills put her way ahead of her peers, and before long, even Tom started to think about how important it was to learn them. He got to work for real, given that he had a capable teacher so close by; with a lot of effort, she taught him what letters made up his name and how to put them together in a stiff and awkward way. From then on, he no longer signed by making his mark, but it's not mentioned that he ever learned to write anything else or to read either written or printed letters.
Nancy Hanks was the daughter of Lucy Hanks. Her mother was one of four sisters,—Lucy, Betsy, Polly, and Nancy. Betsy married Thomas Sparrow; Polly married Jesse Friend, and Nancy, Levi Hall. Lucy became the wife of Henry Sparrow, and the mother of eight children. Nancy the younger was early sent to live with her uncle and aunt, Thomas and Betsy Sparrow. Nancy, another of the four sisters, was the mother of that Dennis F. Hanks whose name will be frequently met with in the course of this history. He also was brought up, or was permitted to come up, in the family of Thomas Sparrow, where Nancy found a shelter.
Nancy Hanks was the daughter of Lucy Hanks. Her mother was one of four sisters—Lucy, Betsy, Polly, and Nancy. Betsy married Thomas Sparrow; Polly married Jesse Friend, and Nancy married Levi Hall. Lucy became the wife of Henry Sparrow and the mother of eight children. The younger Nancy was sent to live with her uncle and aunt, Thomas and Betsy Sparrow, at an early age. Nancy, another of the four sisters, was the mother of Dennis F. Hanks, a name that will often appear in this history. He was also raised, or allowed to grow up, in the family of Thomas Sparrow, where Nancy found a home.
Little Nancy became so completely identified with Thomas and Betsy Sparrow that many supposed her to have been their child. They reared her to womanhood, followed her to Indiana, dwelt under the same roof, died of the same disease, at nearly the same time, and were buried close beside her. They were the only parents she ever knew; and she must have called them by names appropriate to that relationship, for several persons who saw them die, and carried them to their graves, believe to this day that they were, in fact, her father and mother. Dennis Hanks persists even now in the assertion that her name was Sparrow; but Dennis was pitiably weak on the cross-examination: and we shall have to accept the testimony of Mr. Lincoln himself, and some dozens of other persons, to the contrary.
Little Nancy became so closely associated with Thomas and Betsy Sparrow that many thought she was their daughter. They raised her into adulthood, followed her to Indiana, lived in the same house, succumbed to the same illness around the same time, and were buried close to her. They were the only parents she ever knew, and she must have called them names fitting that role because several people who witnessed their deaths and carried them to their graves still believe they were, in fact, her mom and dad. Dennis Hanks still insists that her name was Sparrow; however, Dennis was weak under questioning, and we should trust the testimony of Mr. Lincoln himself and several others who say otherwise.
All that can be learned of that generation of Hankses to which Nancy's mother belonged has now been recorded as fully as is compatible with circumstances. They claim that their ancestors came from England to Virginia, whence they migrated to Kentucky with the Lincolns, and settled near them in Mercer County. The same, precisely, is affirmed of the Sparrows. Branches of both families maintained a more or less intimate connection with the fortunes of Thomas Lincoln, and the early life of Abraham was closely interwoven with theirs.
All that can be learned about the generation of Hankses to which Nancy's mother belonged has now been documented as thoroughly as possible given the circumstances. They claim that their ancestors came from England to Virginia, from where they migrated to Kentucky alongside the Lincolns, and settled near them in Mercer County. The same is said of the Sparrows. Branches of both families kept a more or less close connection with the fortunes of Thomas Lincoln, and Abraham's early life was closely linked with theirs.
Lincoln took Nancy to live in a shed on one of the alleys of Elizabethtown. It was a very sorry building, and nearly bare of furniture. It stands yet, or did stand in 1866, to witness for itself the wretched poverty of its early inmates. It is about fourteen feet square, has been three times removed, twice used as a slaughter-house, and once as a stable. Here a daughter was born on the tenth day of February, 1807, who was called Nancy during the life of her mother, and after her death Sarah.
Lincoln took Nancy to live in a small shed on one of the alleys in Elizabethtown. It was a rundown building, almost empty of furniture. It still stands, or at least it did in 1866, as a testament to the extreme poverty of its early residents. It's about fourteen feet square, has been moved three times, used twice as a slaughterhouse, and once as a stable. Here, a daughter was born on February 10, 1807, who was called Nancy while her mother was alive, and afterward Sarah.
But Lincoln soon wearied of Elizabethtown and carpenter-work. He thought he could do better as a farmer; and, shortly after the birth of Nancy (or Sarah), removed to a piece of land on the south fork of Nolin Creek, three miles from Hodgensville, within the present county of La Rue, and about thirteen miles from Elizabethtown. What estate he had, or attempted to get, in this land, is not clear from the papers at hand. It is said he bought it, but was unable to pay for it. It was very poor, and the landscape of which it formed a part was extremely desolate. It was then nearly destitute of timber, though it is now partially covered in spots by a young and stunted growth of post-oak and hickory. On every side the eye rested only upon weeds and low bushes, and a kind of grass which the present owner of the farm describes as "barren grass." It was, on the whole, as bad a piece of ground as there was in the neighborhood, and would hardly have sold for a dollar an acre. The general appearance of the surrounding country was not much better. A few small but pleasant streams—Nolin Creek and its tributaries—wandered through the valleys. The land was generally what is called "rolling;" that is, dead levels interspersed by little hillocks. Nearly all of it was arable; but, except the margins of the watercourses, not much of it was sufficiently fertile to repay the labor of tillage. It had no grand, un violated forests to allure the hunter, and no great bodies of deep and rich soils to tempt the husbandman. Here it was only by incessant labor and thrifty habits that an ordinary living could be wrung from the earth.
But Lincoln quickly got tired of Elizabethtown and working as a carpenter. He thought he could do better as a farmer, and shortly after Nancy (or Sarah) was born, he moved to a piece of land on the south fork of Nolin Creek, three miles from Hodgensville, in what is now La Rue County, and about thirteen miles from Elizabethtown. It's unclear from the available documents what claim he had or tried to secure on this land. Some say he bought it but couldn't afford to pay for it. It was very poor, and the landscape it was part of was extremely bleak. At the time, it was nearly devoid of trees, although it now has some young and stunted post-oak and hickory scattered around. Everywhere the view was filled only with weeds, low bushes, and a type of grass that the current owner of the farm calls "barren grass." Overall, it was one of the worst pieces of land in the area and would hardly have sold for a dollar an acre. The general look of the surrounding area wasn't much better. A few small but nice streams—Nolin Creek and its tributaries—meandered through the valleys. The land was mostly what you’d call "rolling," meaning there were flat parts with little hills mixed in. Almost all of it could be farmed, but except for the edges of the waterways, not much of it had enough fertility to be worth the effort put into farming it. There were no grand, untouched forests to attract hunters, and no large areas of rich soil to tempt farmers. Here, you could only scrape by with constant hard work and frugal habits.
The family took up their residence in a miserable cabin, which stood on a little knoll in the midst of a barren glade.
The family moved into a rundown cabin that sat on a small hill in the middle of a desolate clearing.
A few stones tumbled down, and lying about loose, still indicate the site of the mean and narrow tenement which sheltered the infancy of one of the greatest political chieftains of modern times. Near by, a "romantic spring" gushed from beneath a rock, and sent forth a slender but silvery stream, meandering through those dull and unsightly plains. As it furnished almost the only pleasing feature in the melancholy desert through which it flowed, the place was called after it, "Rock Spring Farm." In addition to this single natural beauty, Lincoln began to think, in a little while, that a couple of trees would look well, and might even be useful, if judiciously planted in the vicinity of his bare house-yard. This enterprise he actually put into execution; and three decayed pear-trees, situated on the "edge" of what was lately a rye-field, constitute the only memorials of him or his family to be seen about the premises. They were his sole permanent improvement.
A few stones rolled down, and scattered around loosely still mark the spot of the small, cramped place that sheltered the early years of one of the greatest political leaders of modern times. Nearby, a "romantic spring" flowed out from beneath a rock, sending a thin but sparkling stream winding through the dull and unattractive plains. Since it provided almost the only appealing feature in the somber landscape it passed through, the area was named "Rock Spring Farm." Besides this single natural charm, Lincoln soon thought that a couple of trees would enhance the place and could even be useful if properly planted near his bare yard. He actually went ahead with this plan, and three decayed pear trees, located on the "edge" of what was once a rye field, are the only reminders of him or his family around the property. They were his only lasting improvement.
In that solitary cabin, on this desolate spot, the illustrious Abraham Lincoln was born on the twelfth day of February, 1809.
In that lonely cabin, in this remote location, the famous Abraham Lincoln was born on February 12, 1809.
The Lincolns remained on Nolin Creek until Abraham was four years old. They then removed to a place much more picturesque, and of far greater fertility. It was situated about six miles from Hodgensville, on Knob Creek, a very clear stream, which took its rise in the gorges of Muldrews Hill, and fell into the Rolling Fork two miles above the present town of New Haven. The Rolling Fork emptied into Salt River, and Salt River into the Ohio, twenty-four miles below Louisville. This farm was well timbered, and more hilly than the one on Nolin Creek. It contained some rich valleys, which promised such excellent yields, that Lincoln bestirred himself most vigorously, and actually got into cultivation the whole of six acres, lying advantageously up and down the branch. This, however, was not all the work he did, for he still continued to pother occasionally at his trade; but, no matter what he turned his hand to, his gains were equally insignificant. He was satisfied with indifferent shelter, and a diet of "corn-bread and milk" was all he asked. John Hanks naively observes, that "happiness was the end of life with him." The land he now lived upon (two hundred and thirty-eight acres) he had pretended to buy from a Mr. Slater. The deed mentions a consideration of one hundred and eighteen pounds. The purchase must have been a mere speculation, with all the payments deferred, for the title remained in Lincoln but a single year. The deed was made to him Sept. 2, 1813; and Oct. 27, 1814, he conveyed two hundred acres to Charles Milton for one hundred pounds, leaving thirty-eight acres of the tract unsold. No public record discloses what he did with the remainder. If he retained any interest in it for-the time, it was probably permitted to be sold for taxes. The last of his voluntary transactions, in regard to this land, took place two years before his removal to Indiana; after which, he seems to have continued in possession as the tenant of Milton.
The Lincolns stayed on Nolin Creek until Abraham was four years old. They then moved to a much more picturesque place with far richer soil. It was located about six miles from Hodgensville, on Knob Creek, a very clear stream that starts in the gorges of Muldrews Hill and flows into the Rolling Fork two miles above what is now New Haven. The Rolling Fork drains into Salt River, which then flows into the Ohio River, twenty-four miles below Louisville. This farm was well-timbered and hillier than the one on Nolin Creek. It contained some rich valleys that promised excellent yields, so Lincoln worked hard and managed to cultivate a total of six acres, which were favorably located along the creek. However, this wasn’t all he did; he also continued to dabble occasionally in his trade, but no matter what he did, he earned very little. He was content with basic shelter, and a diet of "corn-bread and milk" was all he needed. John Hanks honestly notes that "happiness was the goal of life for him." The land he was living on (two hundred and thirty-eight acres) he claimed to have bought from a Mr. Slater. The deed mentions a payment of one hundred and eighteen pounds. The purchase seems to have been a speculation, with all the payments postponed, as the title only remained with Lincoln for a year. The deed was issued to him on Sept. 2, 1813; and on Oct. 27, 1814, he sold two hundred acres to Charles Milton for one hundred pounds, leaving thirty-eight acres of the property unsold. There’s no public record indicating what happened to the rest. If he kept any interest in it for the time being, it likely went unsold due to taxes. The last of his voluntary dealings regarding this land occurred two years before he moved to Indiana; afterward, he seemed to have remained in possession as Milton's tenant.
In the mean time, Dennis Hanks endeavored to initiate young Abraham, now approaching his eighth year, in the mysteries of fishing, and led him on numerous tramps up and down the picturesque branch,—the branch whose waters were so pure that a white pebble could be seen in a depth of ten feet. On Nolin he had hunted ground-hogs with an older boy, who has since become the Rev. John Duncan, and betrayed a precocious zest in the sport. On Knob Creek, he dabbled in the water, or roved the hills and climbed the trees, with a little companion named Gallaher. On one occasion, when attempting to "coon" across the stream, by swinging over on a sycamore-tree, Abraham lost his hold, and, tumbling into deep water, was saved only by the utmost exertions of the other boy. But, with all this play, the child was often serious and sad. With the earliest dawn of reason, he began to suffer and endure; and it was that peculiar moral training which developed both his heart and his intellect with such singular and astonishing rapidity. It is not likely that Tom Lincoln cared a straw about his education. He had none himself, and is said to have admired "muscle" more than mind. Nevertheless, as Abraham's sister was going to school for a few days at a time, he was sent along, as Dennis Hanks remarks, more to bear her company than with any expectation or desire that he would learn much himself. One of the masters, Zachariah Riney, taught near the Lincoln cabin. The other, Caleb Hazel, kept his school nearly four miles away, on the "Friend" farm; and the hapless children were compelled to trudge that long and weary distance with spelling-book and "dinner,"—the latter a lunch of corn-bread, Tom Lincoln's favorite dish. Hazel could teach reading and writing, after a fashion, and a little arithmetic. But his great qualification for his office lay in the strength of his arm, and his power and readiness to "whip the big boys."
In the meantime, Dennis Hanks tried to teach young Abraham, who was nearing his eighth birthday, the tricks of fishing, and he took him on many hikes along the beautiful creek—where the water was so clear that you could see a white pebble ten feet down. On Nolin, he had hunted groundhogs with an older boy who later became the Rev. John Duncan, showing an early enthusiasm for the sport. On Knob Creek, he played in the water, roamed the hills, and climbed trees with a little friend named Gallaher. One time, while trying to swing across the creek on a sycamore tree, Abraham lost his grip and fell into deep water, only being saved by the quick efforts of the other boy. Yet, despite all the play, the child often appeared serious and sad. With the early dawn of understanding, he started to feel pain and endure struggles; this unique moral training developed both his heart and mind at an extraordinary pace. It’s unlikely that Tom Lincoln cared much about education. He had little himself and was said to prefer "muscle" over intellect. Still, since Abraham’s sister was going to school for a few days, he was sent along, as Dennis Hanks noted, more to keep her company than with any hope that he would learn much himself. One of the teachers, Zachariah Riney, taught near the Lincoln cabin. The other, Caleb Hazel, ran his school almost four miles away on the "Friend" farm; and the unfortunate kids had to walk that long, tiring distance with their spelling books and "dinner," which was a lunch of corn bread, Tom Lincoln's favorite dish. Hazel could teach reading, writing, and a bit of math. But his main qualification for the job was his physical strength, and his ability and willingness to "whip the big boys."
But, as time wore on, the infelicities of Lincoln's life in this neighborhood became insupportable. He was gaining neither riches nor credit; and, being a wanderer by natural inclination, began to long for a change. His decision, however, was hastened by certain troubles which culminated in a desperate combat between him and one Abraham Enlow. They fought like savages; but Lincoln obtained a signal and permanent advantage by biting off the nose of his antagonist, so that he went bereft all the days of his life, and published his audacity and its punishment wherever he showed his face. But the affray, and the fame of it, made Lincoln more anxious than ever to escape from Kentucky. He resolved, therefore, to leave these scenes forever, and seek a roof-tree beyond the Ohio.
But as time went on, the difficulties of Lincoln's life in this neighborhood became unbearable. He wasn't gaining any wealth or respect, and being naturally inclined to wander, he started to crave a change. His decision, however, was pushed along by certain troubles that led to a fierce fight with a man named Abraham Enlow. They fought like wild animals, but Lincoln gained a clear and lasting advantage by biting off Enlow's nose, leaving him disfigured for the rest of his life, which he made sure to show off wherever he went. But the fight, along with its notoriety, made Lincoln even more eager to leave Kentucky. So he decided to leave these scenes behind for good and look for a new home beyond the Ohio River.
It has pleased some of Mr. Lincoln's biographers to represent this removal of his father as a flight from the taint of slavery. Nothing could be further from the truth. There were not at the time more than fifty slaves in all Hardin County, which then composed a vast area of territory. It was practically a free community. Lincoln's more fortunate relatives in other parts of the State were slaveholders; and there is not the slightest evidence that he ever disclosed any conscientious scruples concerning the "institution."
It has pleased some of Mr. Lincoln's biographers to portray his father's relocation as an escape from the stigma of slavery. Nothing could be further from the truth. At that time, there were no more than fifty slaves in all of Hardin County, which then covered a huge area. It was essentially a free community. Lincoln's more privileged relatives in other parts of the state owned slaves, and there is no evidence that he ever expressed any moral objections to the "institution."
The lives of his father and mother, and the history and character of the family before their settlement in Indiana, were topics upon which Mr. Lincoln never spoke but with great reluctance and significant reserve.
The lives of his father and mother, and the history and character of the family before their settlement in Indiana, were topics Mr. Lincoln never discussed without great reluctance and a lot of reserve.
In his family Bible he kept a register of births, marriages, and deaths, every entry being carefully made in his own handwriting. It contains the date of his sister's birth and his own; of the marriage and death of his sister; of the death of his mother; and of the birth and death of Thomas Lincoln. The rest of the record is almost wholly devoted to the Johnstons and their numerous descendants and connections. It has not a word about the Hankses or the Sparrows. It shows the marriage of Sally Bush, first with Daniel Johnston, and then with Thomas Lincoln; but it is entirely silent as to the marriage of his own mother. It does not even give the date of her birth, but barely recognizes her existence and demise, to make the vacancy which was speedily filled by Sarah Johnston.1
In his family Bible, he kept a record of births, marriages, and deaths, with every entry written carefully in his own handwriting. It includes the dates of his sister's birth and his own, the marriage and death of his sister, the death of his mother, and the birth and death of Thomas Lincoln. The rest of the record mainly focuses on the Johnstons and their many descendants and connections. There's no mention of the Hankses or the Sparrows. It shows the marriage of Sally Bush, first to Daniel Johnston and then to Thomas Lincoln; however, it completely omits the marriage of his mother. It doesn't even note the date of her birth, only acknowledging her existence and death, leaving a gap that was quickly filled by Sarah Johnston.1
1 The leaf of the Bible which contains these entries is in the possession of Col. Chapman.
1 The Bible page that contains these entries is with Col. Chapman.
An artist was painting his portrait, and asked him for a sketch of his early life. He gave him this brief memorandum: "I was born Feb. 12,1809, in the then Hardin County, Kentucky, at a point within the now county of La Rue, a mile or a mile and a half from where Hodgens Mill now is. My parents being dead, and my own memory not serving, I know of no means of identifying the precise locality. It was on Nolin Creek."
An artist was painting his portrait and asked him for a sketch of his early life. He provided this brief note: "I was born on February 12, 1809, in what was then Hardin County, Kentucky, at a location that is now in La Rue County, about a mile or a mile and a half from where Hodgens Mill is today. Since my parents have passed away and my own memory isn't reliable, I have no way to identify the exact location. It was on Nolin Creek."
To the compiler of the "Dictionary of Congress" he gave the following: "Born Feb. 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. Education defective. Profession, a lawyer. Have been a captain of volunteers in the Black-Hawk War. Postmaster at a very small office. Four times a member of the Illinois Legislature, and was a member of the Lower House of Congress."
To the compiler of the "Dictionary of Congress," he provided the following: "Born on February 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. Education incomplete. Profession: lawyer. Served as a captain of volunteers in the Black Hawk War. Was postmaster at a very small office. Served four terms in the Illinois Legislature and was a member of the House of Representatives."
To a campaign biographer who applied for particulars of his early history, he replied that they could be of no interest; that they were but
To a campaign biographer who asked for details of his early history, he responded that they wouldn’t be of any interest; that they were just
"The short and simple annals of the poor."
"A concise and clear history of the less fortunate."
"The chief difficulty I had to encounter," writes this latter gentleman, "was to induce him to communicate the homely facts and incidents of his early life. He seemed to be painfully impressed with the extreme poverty of his early surroundings, the utter absence of all romantic and heroic elements; and I know he thought poorly of the idea of attempting a biographical sketch for campaign purposes.... Mr. Lincoln communicated some facts to me about his ancestry, which he did not wish published, and which I have never spoken of or alluded to before. I do not think, however, that Dennis Hanks, if he knows any thing about these matters, would be very likely to say any thing about them."
"The main challenge I faced," this gentleman writes, "was getting him to share the simple facts and stories from his early life. He seemed to be deeply affected by the extreme poverty of his upbringing, the complete lack of any romantic or heroic aspects; and I know he looked down on the idea of creating a biographical sketch for campaign purposes.... Mr. Lincoln shared some details about his family history with me that he didn’t want published, and I've never mentioned or hinted at them before. However, I don't believe that Dennis Hanks, if he knows anything about these issues, would be very likely to say anything about them."
CHAPTER II.
THOMAS LINCOLN was something of a waterman. In the frequent changes of occupation, which had hitherto made his life so barren of good results, he could not resist the temptation to the career of a flat-boatman. He had accordingly made one, or perhaps two trips to New Orleans, in the company and employment of Isaac Bush, who was probably a near relative of Sally Bush. It was therefore very natural, that when, in the fall of 1816, he finally determined to emigrate, he should attempt to transport his goods by water. He built himself a boat, which seems to have been none of the best, and launched it on the Rolling Fork, at the mouth of Knob Creek, a half-mile from his cabin. Some of his personal property, including carpenter's tools, he put on board, and the rest he traded for four hundred gallons of whiskey. With this crazy boat and this singular cargo, he put out into the stream alone, and floating with the current down the Rolling Fork, and then down Salt River, reached the Ohio without any mishap. Here his craft proved somewhat rickety when contending with the difficulties of the larger stream, or perhaps there was a lack of force in the management of her, or perhaps the single navigator had consoled himself during the lonely voyage by too frequent applications to a portion of his cargo: at all events, the boat capsized, and the lading went to the bottom. He fished up a few of the tools "and most of the whiskey," and, righting the little boat, again floated down to a landing at Thompson's Ferry, two and a half miles west of Troy, in Perry County, Indiana. Here he sold his treacherous boat, and, leaving his remaining property in the care of a settler named Posey, trudged off on foot to select "a location" in the wilderness. He did not go far, but found a place that he thought would suit him only sixteen miles distant from the river. He then turned about, and walked all the way back to Knob Creek, in Kentucky, where he took a fresh start with his wife and her children. Of the latter there were only two,—Nancy (or Sarah), nine years of age, and Abraham, seven. Mrs. Lincoln had given birth to another son some years before, but he had died when only three days old. After leaving Kentucky, she had no more children.
THOMAS LINCOLN was somewhat of a riverboat man. In the many changes of his jobs, which had made his life so unproductive until now, he could not resist the urge to work as a flat-boatman. He had made one, or maybe two trips to New Orleans with Isaac Bush, who was probably a close relative of Sally Bush. So, it was only natural that when he decided to move in the fall of 1816, he would try to transport his belongings by water. He built a boat for himself, which wasn’t the best, and launched it on the Rolling Fork at the mouth of Knob Creek, half a mile from his cabin. He loaded some of his personal property, including carpentry tools, onto the boat and traded the rest for four hundred gallons of whiskey. With this quirky boat and unusual cargo, he set out alone, drifting with the current down the Rolling Fork, then down Salt River, and reached the Ohio without any problems. However, his boat became a bit unstable when facing the challenges of the larger river, or maybe he wasn’t managing it well, or perhaps the lone navigator had distracted himself during the lonely trip with too much of his cargo; regardless, the boat capsized, and most of the cargo sank. He managed to recover a few tools and "most of the whiskey," and, after righting the small boat, continued on to a landing at Thompson's Ferry, two and a half miles west of Troy, in Perry County, Indiana. There, he sold the unreliable boat and left his remaining belongings with a settler named Posey while he walked off on foot to find "a location" in the wilderness. He didn’t go far, only sixteen miles from the river, to a spot he thought would be suitable. Then he turned around and made the long trek back to Knob Creek, Kentucky, where he started fresh with his wife and her children. There were just two of them—Nancy (or Sarah), who was nine, and Abraham, who was seven. Mrs. Lincoln had given birth to another son a few years earlier, but he had died when he was only three days old. After leaving Kentucky, she had no more children.
This time Lincoln loaded what little he had left upon two horses, and "packed through to Posey's." Besides clothing and bedding, they carried such cooking utensils as would be needed by the way, and would be indispensable when they reached their destination. The stock was not large. It consisted of "one oven and lid, one skillet and lid, and some tin-ware." They camped out during the nights, and of course cooked their own food. Lincoln's skill as a hunter must now have stood him in good stead.
This time, Lincoln loaded what little he had left onto two horses and "packed through to Posey's." Besides clothing and bedding, they brought along the cooking utensils they would need on the journey and that would be essential when they arrived. Their supplies weren't extensive. They included "one oven and lid, one skillet and lid, and some tin ware." They camped out at night and naturally cooked their own food. Lincoln's hunting skills must have really helped him out.
Where he got the horses used upon this occasion, it is impossible to say; but they were likely borrowed from his brother-in-law, Krume, of Breckinridge County, who owned such stock, and subsequently moved Sarah Johnston's goods to Indiana, after her marriage with Lincoln.
Where he got the horses used on this occasion is hard to determine; but they were probably borrowed from his brother-in-law, Krume, of Breckinridge County, who owned such stock, and later moved Sarah Johnston's belongings to Indiana after her marriage to Lincoln.
When they got to Posey's, Lincoln hired a wagon, and, loading on it the whiskey and other things he had stored there, went on toward the place which has since become famous as the "Lincoln Farm." He was now making his way through an almost untrodden wilderness. There was no road, and for a part of the distance not even a foot-trail. He was slightly assisted by a path of a few miles in length, which had been "blazed out" by an earlier settler named Hoskins. But he was obliged to suffer long delays, and cut out a passage for the wagon with his axe. At length, after many detentions and difficulties he reached the point where he intended to make his future home. It was situated between the forks of Big Pigeon and Little Pigeon Creeks, a mile and a half east of Gentryville, a village which grew up afterwards, and now numbers about three hundred inhabitants. The whole country was covered with a dense forest of oaks, beeches, walnuts, sugar-maples, and nearly all the varieties of trees that flourish in North America. The woods were usually open, and devoid of underbrush; the trees were of the largest growth, and beneath the deep shades they afforded was spread out a rich greensward. The natural grazing was very good, and hogs found abundant sustenance in the prodigious quantity of mast. There was occasionally a little glade or prairie set down in the midst of this vast expanse of forest. One of these, not far from the Lincoln place, was a famous resort for the deer, and the hunters knew it well for its numerous "licks." Upon this prairie the militia "musters" were had at a later day, and from it the south fork of the Pigeon came finally to be known as the "Prairie Fork."
When they arrived at Posey's, Lincoln rented a wagon and loaded it with the whiskey and other items he had stored there, then continued toward the location that would later be known as the "Lincoln Farm." He was navigating through a nearly untouched wilderness. There were no roads, and for part of the journey, not even a footpath. He was somewhat aided by a few miles of trail that had been marked out by an earlier settler named Hoskins. However, he faced long delays and had to clear a path for the wagon with his axe. Eventually, after many setbacks and challenges, he reached the spot where he planned to make his home. It was located between the forks of Big Pigeon and Little Pigeon Creeks, a mile and a half east of Gentryville, a village that later developed and now has about three hundred residents. The entire area was covered with a thick forest of oaks, beeches, walnuts, sugar maples, and almost all the types of trees that grow in North America. The woods were generally open and free of underbrush; the trees were very large, and beneath their deep shade, there was lush greenery. The natural grazing conditions were excellent, and pigs found plenty to eat in the huge amount of mast. Occasionally, there was a small clearing or prairie within this vast forest. One of these, not far from the Lincoln property, was a well-known spot for deer, and hunters recognized it for its many "licks." This prairie later became the site for militia "musters," and eventually, the south fork of the Pigeon came to be known as the "Prairie Fork."
Lincoln laid off his curtilage on a gentle hillock having a slope on every side. The spot was very beautiful, and the soil was excellent. The selection was wise in every respect but one. There was no water near, except what was collected in holes in the ground after a rain; but it was very foul, and had to be strained before using. At a later period we find Abraham and his step-sister carrying water from a spring situated a mile away. Dennis Hanks asserts that Tom Lincoln "riddled his land like a honeycomb," in search of good water, and was at last sorely tempted to employ a Yankee, who came around with a divining-rod, and declared that for the small consideration of five dollars in cash, he would make his rod point to a cool, flowing spring beneath the surface.
Lincoln set up his home on a gentle hill with slopes on every side. The location was beautiful, and the soil was really good. The choice was smart in almost every way, except for one thing. There was no water nearby, except what collected in holes in the ground after it rained; but it was very dirty and had to be filtered before using. Later on, we find Abraham and his step-sister carrying water from a spring located a mile away. Dennis Hanks claims that Tom Lincoln "riddled his land like a honeycomb," searching for good water, and was eventually very tempted to hire a Yankee who came around with a divining rod, claiming that for just five dollars in cash, he could make his rod point to a cool, flowing spring underneath the ground.
Here Lincoln built "a half-faced camp,"—a cabin enclosed on three sides and open on the fourth. It was built, not of logs, but of poles, and was therefore denominated a "camp," to distinguish it from a "cabin." It was about fourteen feet square, and had no floor. It was no larger than the first house he lived in at Elizabethtown, and on the whole not as good a shelter. But Lincoln was now under the influence of a transient access of ambition, and the camp was merely preliminary to something better. He lived in it, however, for a whole year, before he attained to the dignity of a residence in a cabin. "In the mean time he cleaned some land, and raised a small crop of corn and vegetables."
Here, Lincoln built "a half-faced camp," a cabin with three sides enclosed and open on the fourth. It was made not of logs but of poles, which is why it was called a "camp" to differentiate it from a "cabin." It was about fourteen feet square and had no floor. It was no bigger than the first house he lived in at Elizabethtown and wasn't as good of a shelter overall. However, Lincoln was feeling a surge of ambition, and the camp was just a step toward something better. He lived in it for an entire year before he moved up to the status of living in a cabin. "In the meantime, he cleared some land and grew a small crop of corn and vegetables."
In the fall of 1817, Thomas and Betsy Sparrow came out from Kentucky, and took up their abode in the old camp which the Lincolns had just deserted for the cabin. Betsy was the aunt who had raised Nancy Hanks. She had done the same in part for our friend Dennis Hanks, who was the offspring of another sister, and she now brought him with her. Dennis thus became the constant companion of young Abraham; and all the other members of that family, as originally settled in Indiana, being dead, Dennis remains a most important witness as to this period of Mr. Lincoln's life.
In the fall of 1817, Thomas and Betsy Sparrow moved from Kentucky and set up their home in the old camp that the Lincolns had just left for the cabin. Betsy was the aunt who raised Nancy Hanks. She partly raised our friend Dennis Hanks, who was the child of another sister, and she brought him along with her. As a result, Dennis became the constant companion of young Abraham; and since all the other members of that family, as initially settled in Indiana, had passed away, Dennis remains a crucial witness to this period of Mr. Lincoln's life.
Lincoln's second house was a "rough, rough log" one: the timbers were not hewed; and until after the arrival of Sally Bush, in 1819, it had neither floor, door, nor window. It stood about forty yards from what Dennis Hanks calls that "darned little half-faced camp," which was now the dwelling of the Sparrows. It was "right in the bush,"—in the heart of a virgin wilderness. There were only seven or eight older settlers in the neighborhood of the two Pigeon Creeks. Lincoln had had some previous acquaintance with one of them,—a Mr. Thomas Carter; and it is highly probable that nothing but this trivial circumstance induced him to settle here.1
Lincoln's second house was a "rough, rough log" structure: the logs weren't smoothed down; and until Sally Bush arrived in 1819, it had no floor, door, or window. It was located about forty yards from what Dennis Hanks called that "darned little half-faced camp," which was now home to the Sparrows. It was "right in the bush,"—in the middle of an untouched wilderness. There were only seven or eight older settlers near the two Pigeon Creeks. Lincoln had a bit of prior acquaintance with one of them,—a Mr. Thomas Carter; and it's likely that this trivial connection was the only reason he decided to settle here.
1 The principal authorities for this part of our narrative are necessarily Dennis and John Hanks; but their statements have been carefully collated with those of other persons, both in Kentucky and Indiana.
1 The primary sources for this part of our story are certainly Dennis and John Hanks; however, their accounts have been carefully compared with those of other people from both Kentucky and Indiana.
The nearest town was Troy, situated on the Ohio, about half a mile from the mouth of Anderson Creek. Gentryville had as yet no existence. Travelling was on horseback or on foot, and the only resort of commerce was to the pack-horse or the canoe. But a prodigious immigration was now sweeping into this inviting country. Harrison's victories over the Indians had opened it up to the peaceful settler; and Indiana was admitted into the Union in 1816, with a population of sixty-five thousand. The county in which Thomas Lincoln settled was Perry, with the county-seat at Troy; but he soon found himself in the new county of Spencer, with the court-house at Rockport, twenty miles south of him, and the thriving village of Gentryville within a mile and a half of his door.
The nearest town was Troy, located on the Ohio River, about half a mile from where Anderson Creek meets it. Gentryville didn't exist yet. People traveled on horseback or by foot, and the main means of transporting goods was by pack-horse or canoe. However, a huge wave of immigrants was moving into this attractive region. Harrison’s victories over the Native Americans had opened the area up to peaceful settlers, and Indiana joined the Union in 1816 with a population of sixty-five thousand. The county where Thomas Lincoln settled was Perry, with the county seat in Troy; but he soon found himself in the new county of Spencer, with the courthouse in Rockport, twenty miles to the south, and the growing village of Gentryville just a mile and a half from his home.
A post-office was established at Gentryville in 1824 or 1825. Dennis Hanks helped to hew the logs used to build the first storeroom. The following letter from Mr. David Turnham, now of Dale, Spencer County, presents some interesting and perfectly authentic information regarding the village and the settlements around it in those early times:—
A post office was set up in Gentryville in 1824 or 1825. Dennis Hanks helped chop the logs used to build the first storeroom. The following letter from Mr. David Turnham, now living in Dale, Spencer County, provides some interesting and completely genuine information about the village and the surrounding settlements during those early days:—
"Yours of the 5th inst. is at hand. As you wish me to answer several questions, I will give you a few items of the early settlement of Indiana.
"Your letter from the 5th is here. Since you want me to respond to several questions, I’ll share some details about the early settlement of Indiana."
"When my father came here in the spring of 1819, he settled in Spencer County, within one mile of Thomas Lincoln, then a widower. The chance for schooling was poor; but, such as it was, Abraham and myself attended the same schools.
"When my father arrived here in the spring of 1819, he settled in Spencer County, just a mile away from Thomas Lincoln, who was a widower at the time. The opportunities for schooling were limited, but despite that, Abraham and I went to the same schools."
"We first had to go seven miles to mill; and then it was a hand-mill that would grind from ten to fifteen bushels of corn in a day. There was but little wheat grown at that time; and, when we did have wheat, we had to grind it on the mill described, and use it without bolting, as there were no bolts in the country. In the course of two or three years, a man by the name of Huffman built a mill on Anderson River, about twelve miles distant. Abe and I had to do the milling on horseback, frequently going twice to get one grist. Then they began building horse-mills of a little better quality than the hand-mills.
"We first had to travel seven miles to the mill, which was a hand mill capable of grinding ten to fifteen bushels of corn in a day. There was very little wheat grown at that time, and when we did have wheat, we had to grind it on the same mill and use it without sifting, since there were no sifters in the area. After a few years, a man named Huffman built a mill on Anderson River, about twelve miles away. Abe and I often had to ride horseback to the mill, sometimes making two trips just to get one batch ground. Then they started building horse mills that were of slightly better quality than the hand mills."
"The country was very rough, especially in the low lands, so thick with bush that a man could scarcely get through on foot. These places were called Roughs. The country abounded in game, such as bears, deer, turkeys, and the smaller game.
"The country was very rugged, especially in the lowlands, so dense with vegetation that a person could barely get through on foot. These areas were known as Roughs. The land was full of wildlife, including bears, deer, turkeys, and smaller game."
"About the time Huffman built his mill, there was a road laid out from Corydon to Evansville, running by Mr. Lincoln's farm, and through what is now Gentryville. Corydon was then the State capital.
"About the time Huffman built his mill, a road was built from Corydon to Evansville, passing by Mr. Lincoln's farm and through what is now Gentryville. Corydon was the state capital at that time."
"About the year 1823, there was another road laid out from Rockport to Bloomington, crossing the aforesaid at right angles, where Gentryville now stands. James Gentry entered the land; and in about a year Gideon Romine brought goods there, and shortly after succeeded in getting a post-office, by the name of Gentryville Post-office. Then followed the laying out of lots, and the selling of them, and a few were improved. But for some cause the lots all fell back to the original owner. The lots were sold in 1824 or 1825. Romine kept goods there a short time, and sold out to Gentry, but the place kept on increasing slowly. William Jones came in with a store, that made it improve a little faster, but Gentry bought him out. Jones bought a tract of land one-half mile from Gentryville, moved to it, went into business there, and drew nearly all the custom. Gentry saw that it was ruining his town: he compromised with Jones, and got him back to Gentryville; and about the year 1847 or 1848 there was another survey of lots, which remains.
"Around 1823, a new road was established connecting Rockport to Bloomington, intersecting at right angles where Gentryville is located today. James Gentry acquired the land, and about a year later, Gideon Romine brought in goods and soon managed to set up a post office named Gentryville Post-office. This was followed by the laying out and selling of lots, with a few of them being developed. However, for some reason, all the lots reverted back to the original owner. The lots were sold in 1824 or 1825. Romine operated a store there for a brief period before selling it to Gentry, but the town continued to grow slowly. William Jones opened a store, which accelerated the town's development, but Gentry eventually bought him out. Jones then purchased land half a mile from Gentryville, moved there, started a business, and attracted most of the customers. Gentry realized this was hurting his town, so he struck a deal with Jones to bring him back to Gentryville; around 1847 or 1848, another survey of lots was conducted, which still exists today."
"This is as good a history of the rise of Gentryville as I can give, after consulting several of the old settlers.
"This is the best history of the rise of Gentryville that I can provide, after talking to several of the old settlers."
"At that time there were a great many deer-licks; and Abe and myself would go to those licks sometimes, and watch of nights to kill deer, though Abe was not so fond of a gun as I was. There were ten or twelve of these licks in a small prairie on the creek, lying between Mr. Lincoln's and Mr. Wood's (the man you call Moore). This gave it the name of Prairie Fork of Pigeon Creek.
"Back then, there were a lot of deer-licks, and Abe and I would sometimes go to those licks and wait at night to hunt deer, although Abe wasn't as into guns as I was. There were ten or twelve of these licks in a small prairie along the creek, located between Mr. Lincoln's and Mr. Wood's (the guy you call Moore). This is what led to it being called Prairie Fork of Pigeon Creek."
"The people in the first settling of this country were very sociable, kind, and accommodating; but there was more drunkenness and stealing on a small scale, more immorality, less religion, less well-placed confidence."
"The people who first settled this country were very friendly, kind, and helpful; however, there was more petty crime and drunkenness, more immorality, less religion, and less trust."
The steps taken by Lincoln to complete his title to the land upon which he settled are thus recited by the Commissioner of the General Land Office:—
The actions taken by Lincoln to finalize his ownership of the land where he settled are described by the Commissioner of the General Land Office:—
"In reply to the letter of Mr. W. H. Herndon, who is writing the biography of the late President, dated June 19, 1865, herewith returned, I have the honor to state, pursuant to the Secretary's reference, that on the 15th of October, 1817, Mr. Thomas Lincoln, then of Perry County, Indiana, entered under the old credit system,—
"In response to the letter from Mr. W. H. Herndon, who is writing a biography of the late President, dated June 19, 1865, I am pleased to share the following information, as requested by the Secretary. On October 15, 1817, Mr. Thomas Lincoln, who was then living in Perry County, Indiana, registered under the old credit system—
"1. The South-West Quarter of Section 82, in Township 4, South of Range 5 West, lying in Spencer County, Indiana.
"1. The South-West Quarter of Section 82, in Township 4, South of Range 5 West, located in Spencer County, Indiana."
"2. Afterwards the said Thomas Lincoln relinquished to the United States the East half of said South-West Quarter; and the amount paid thereon was passed to his credit to complete payment of the West half of said South-West Quarter of Section 32, in Township 4, South of Range 5 West; and accordingly a patent was issued to said Thomas Lincoln for the latter tract. The patent was dated June 6, 1827, and was signed by John Quincy Adams, then President of the United States, and countersigned by George Graham, then Commissioner of the General Land Office." 1
"2. Later, Thomas Lincoln gave the East half of the South-West Quarter to the United States. The amount he received was credited to him to cover the payment for the West half of the South-West Quarter of Section 32, in Township 4, South of Range 5 West. As a result, a patent was issued to Thomas Lincoln for that land. The patent was dated June 6, 1827, and was signed by John Quincy Adams, who was the President of the United States at the time, and countersigned by George Graham, the Commissioner of the General Land Office." 1
1 The patent was issued to Thomas Lincoln alias Linckhern the other half he never paid, and finally lost the whole of the land.
1 The patent was given to Thomas Lincoln, who was also called Linckhern, but he never paid for the other half and eventually lost all the land.
It will be observed, that, although Lincoln squatted upon the land in the fall of 1816, he did not enter it until October of the next year; and that the patent was not issued to him until June, 1827, but a little more than a year before he left it altogether. Beginning by entering a full quarter section, he was afterwards content with eighty acres, and took eleven years to make the necessary payments upon that. It is very probable that the money which finally secured the patent was furnished by Gentry or Aaron Grigsby, and the title passed out of Lincoln in the course of the transaction. Dennis Hanks says, "He settled on a piece of government land,—eighty acres. This land he afterwards bought under the Two-Dollar Act; was to pay for it in instalments; one-half he paid."
It can be noted that, although Lincoln settled on the land in the fall of 1816, he didn’t officially enter it until October of the following year; the patent wasn’t issued until June 1827, just a little over a year before he completely left it. He started by entering a full quarter section but later decided to keep only eighty acres, taking eleven years to make the necessary payments. It's likely that the money used to secure the patent came from Gentry or Aaron Grigsby, and Lincoln may have lost the title during the process. Dennis Hanks mentions, "He settled on a piece of government land—eighty acres. This land he later bought under the Two-Dollar Act; he was supposed to pay for it in installments; he paid half."
For two years Lincoln continued to live along in the old way. He did not like to farm, and he never got much of his land under cultivation. His principal crop was corn; and this, with the game which a rifleman so expert would easily take from the woods around him, supplied his table. It does not appear that he employed any of his mechanical skill in completing and furnishing his own cabin. It has already been stated that the latter had no window, door, or floor. But the furniture—if it may be called furniture—was even worse than the house. Three-legged stools served for chairs. A bedstead was made of poles stuck in the cracks of the logs in one corner of the cabin, while the other end rested in the crotch of a forked stick sunk in the earthen floor. On these were laid some boards, and on the boards a "shake-down" of leaves covered with skins and old petticoats. The table was a hewed puncheon, supported by four legs. They had a few pewter and tin dishes to eat from, but the most minute inventory of their effects makes no mention of knives or forks. Their cooking utensils were a Dutch oven and a skillet. Abraham slept in the loft, to which he ascended by means of pins driven into holes in the wall.
For two years, Lincoln continued to live in the old way. He didn't like farming, and he never cultivated much of his land. His main crop was corn, and this, along with the game that a skilled marksman could easily catch from the woods around him, provided his meals. It seems he didn't use any of his mechanical skills to finish or furnish his own cabin. It's already mentioned that the cabin had no windows, doors, or floor. But the furniture—if it could even be called that—was worse than the house. Three-legged stools acted as chairs. A bed frame was made of poles stuck into the cracks of the logs in one corner of the cabin, while the other end rested in the fork of a stick buried in the dirt floor. On these, there were some boards, and on the boards was a "shake-down" of leaves covered with skins and old petticoats. The table was a hewn log supported by four legs. They had a few pewter and tin dishes to eat from, but the most detailed inventory of their belongings doesn't mention any knives or forks. Their cooking tools were a Dutch oven and a skillet. Abraham slept in the loft, which he accessed by using pins driven into holes in the wall.
In the summer of 1818, the Pigeon-Creek settlements were visited by a fearful disease, called, in common parlance, "the milk-sickness." It swept off the cattle which gave the milk, as well as the human beings who drank it. It seems to have prevailed in the neighborhood from 1818 to 1829; for it is given as one of the reasons for Thomas Lincoln's removal to Illinois at the latter date. But in the year first mentioned its ravages were especially awful. Its most immediate effects were severe retchings and vomitings; and, while the deaths from it were not necessarily sudden, the proportion of those who finally died was uncommonly large.1 Among the number who were attacked by it, and lingered on for some time in the midst of great sufferings, were Thomas and Betsy Sparrow and Mrs. Nancy Lincoln.
In the summer of 1818, the Pigeon Creek settlements were hit by a terrible disease commonly known as "milk sickness." It wiped out the cows that produced the milk, as well as the people who drank it. This illness seemed to stick around in the area from 1818 to 1829; it’s listed as one of the reasons Thomas Lincoln moved to Illinois in the latter year. However, in the first year mentioned, its impact was particularly devastating. The immediate symptoms included severe nausea and vomiting; while not all deaths were sudden, the number of people who eventually died from it was unusually high.1 Among those affected and who suffered for a long time were Thomas and Betsy Sparrow, along with Mrs. Nancy Lincoln.
1 The peculiar disease which carried off so many of Abraham's family, and induced the removal of the remainder to Illinois, deserves more than a passing allusion. The following, regarding its nature and treatment, is from the pen of an eminent physician of Danville, Illinois:— Ward H. Lamon, Esq. Dear Sir,—Your favor of the 17th inst. has been received. You request me to present you with my theory in relation to the origin of the disease called "milk-sickness," and also a "general statement of the best treatment of the disease," and the proportion of fatal cases. I have quite a number of cases of the so-called disease in Danville, Ill., and its vicinity; but perhaps you are not aware, that, between the great majority of the medical faculty in this region of country and myself, there is quite a discrepancy of opinion. They believe in the existence of the disease in Vermilion County; while, on the contrary, I am firmly of opinion, that, instead of genuine milk- sickness, it is only a modified form of malarial fever with which we here have to contend. Though sceptical of its existence in this part of the country, we have too much evidence from different intelligent sources to doubt, for a moment, that, in many parts of the West and South-west, there is a distinct malady, witnessed more than fifty years ago, and different from every other heretofore recognized in any system of Nosology. In the opinion of medical men, as well as in that of the people in general, where milk-sickness prevails, cattle, sheep, and horses contract the disease by feeding on wild pasture-lands; and, when those pastures have been enclosed and cultivated, the cause entirely disappears. This has also been the observation of the farmers and physicians of Vermilion County, Illinois. From this it might be inferred that the disease had a vegetable origin. But it appears that it prevails as early in the season as March and April in some localities; and I am informed that, in an early day, say thirty-five or forty years ago, it showed itself in the winter-time in this county. This seems to argue that it may be produced by water holding some mineral substance in solution. Even in this case, however, some vegetable producing the disease may have been gathered and preserved with the hay on which the cattle were fed at the time; for in that early day the farmers were in the habit of cutting wild grass for their stock. On the whole, I am inclined to attribute the cause to a vegetable origin. The symptoms of what is called milk-sickness in this county— and they are similar to those described by authors who have written on the disease in other sections of the Western country—are a whitish coat on the tongue, burning sensation of the stomach severe vomiting, obstinate constipation of the bowels, coolness of the extremities, great restlessness and jactitation, pulse rather small, somewhat more frequent than natural, and slightly corded. In the course of the disease, the coat on the tongue becomes brownish and dark, the countenance dejected, and the prostration of the patient is great. A fatal termination may take place in sixty hours, or life may be prolonged for a period of fourteen days. These are the symptoms of the acute form of the disease. Sometimes it runs into the chronic form, or it may assume that form from the commencement; and, after months or years, the patient may finally die, or recover only a partial degree of health. The treatment which I have found most successful is pills composed of calomel and opium, given at intervals of two, three, or four hours, so as to bring the patient pretty strongly under the influence of opium by the time the second or third dose had been administered; some effervescing mixture, pro re nata; injections; castor oil, when the stomach will retain it; blisters to the stomach; brandy or good whiskey freely administered throughout the disease; and quinine after the bowels have been moved. Under the above treatment, modified according to the circumstances, I would not expect to lose more than one case in eight or ten, as the disease manifests itself in this county.... As ever, Theo. Lemon.
1 The strange illness that affected so many of Abraham's family and caused the others to relocate to Illinois deserves more than just a quick mention. Here's some insight on its nature and treatment from a well-respected doctor in Danville, Illinois:— Ward H. Lamon, Esq. Dear Sir,— I received your letter dated the 17th. You asked me to share my thoughts on the origin of the disease known as "milk-sickness," along with a "general outline of the best treatment for the disease" and the rate of fatal cases. I have seen several cases of this so-called disease in Danville and nearby areas; however, you might not know that there is significant disagreement between most medical professionals in this region and myself. They believe the disease exists in Vermilion County; whereas, I wholeheartedly believe that, instead of true milk-sickness, we are dealing with a modified form of malarial fever. While I’m doubtful about its existence in this area, there is too much evidence from reputable sources to ignore, even for a second, that there is a distinct illness in many parts of the West and Southwest, recognized more than fifty years ago, which is different from previously identified medical classifications. According to medical professionals and the general public, in areas where milk-sickness is common, cattle, sheep, and horses become ill from grazing on wild pastures; and when those pastures are fenced and cultivated, the issue completely disappears. This has also been observed by farmers and doctors in Vermilion County, Illinois. From this, one might conclude that the illness has a plant-based origin. However, it seems that it can appear as early as March and April in some regions; and I’ve been informed that, about thirty-five or forty years ago, it showed up during winter in this county. This suggests that it might be triggered by water containing some mineral substance. Even in this case, though, it’s possible that some plant causing the illness was gathered and stored with the hay that the cattle were fed at that time; as at that time, farmers often cut wild grass for their livestock. Overall, I tend to lean towards a plant-based origin for the cause. The symptoms of what’s called milk-sickness in this county—similar to those described by authors discussing the disease in other Western areas—include a whitish coating on the tongue, a burning sensation in the stomach, severe vomiting, persistent constipation, coolness in the extremities, a high level of restlessness and agitation, a pulse that’s somewhat small, slightly more frequent than normal, and slightly corded. As the illness progresses, the coating on the tongue turns brownish and dark, the person's expression becomes sad, and they become extremely weak. A fatal outcome can happen within sixty hours, or life may be extended for up to fourteen days. These symptoms are associated with the acute form of the illness. Sometimes it transitions into the chronic form, or it might start that way from the beginning; after months or years, the patient might either die or only regain partial health. The treatment I’ve found to be most effective consists of pills made with calomel and opium, given every two, three, or four hours to ensure the patient is significantly affected by the opium by the time the second or third dose is given; some effervescent mixture as needed; injections; castor oil, if the stomach can tolerate it; blistering the stomach; and administering brandy or good whiskey liberally throughout the illness; followed by quinine after the bowels have moved. With the above-mentioned treatment, adjusted according to the circumstances, I would not expect to lose more than one case in eight or ten, as the disease manifests in this county.... As always, Theo. Lemon.
It was now found expedient to remove the Sparrows from the wretched "half-faced camp," through which the cold autumn winds could sweep almost unobstructed, to the cabin of the Lincolns, which in truth was then very little better. Many in the neighborhood had already died, and Thomas Lincoln had made all their coffins out of "green lumber cut with a whip-saw." In the mean time the Sparrows and Nancy were growing alarmingly worse. There was no physician in the county,—not even a pretender to the science of medicine; and the nearest regular practitioner was located at Yellow Banks, Ky., over thirty miles distant. It is not probable that they ever secured his services. They would have been too costly, and none of the persons who witnessed and describe these scenes speak of his having been there. At length, in the first days of October, the Sparrows died; and Thomas Lincoln sawed up his green lumber, and made rough boxes to enclose the mortal remains of his wife's two best and oldest friends. A day or two after, on the 5th of October, 1818, Nancy Hanks Lincoln rested from her troubles. Thomas Lincoln took to his green wood again, and made a box for Nancy. There were about twenty persons at her funeral. They took her to the summit of a deeply-wooded knoll, about half a mile south-east of the cabin, and laid her beside the Sparrows. If there were any burial ceremonies, they were of the briefest. But it happened that a few months later an itinerant preacher, named David Elkin, whom the Lincolns had known in Kentucky, wandered into the settlement; and he either volunteered or was employed to preach a sermon, which should commemorate the many virtues and pass in silence the few frailties of the poor woman who slept in the forest. Many years later the bodies of Levi Hall and his wife, Nancy Hanks, were deposited in the same earth with that of Mrs. Lincoln. The graves of two or three children belonging to a neighbor's family are also near theirs. They are all crumbled in, sunken, and covered with wild vines in deep and tangled mats. The great trees were originally cut away to make a small cleared space for this primitive graveyard; but the young dogwoods have sprung up unopposed in great luxuriance, and in many instances the names of pilgrims to the burial-place of the great Abraham Lincoln's mother are carved in their bark. With this exception, the spot is wholly unmarked. Her grave never had a stone, nor even a board, at its head or its foot; and the neighbors still dispute as to which one of those unsightly hollows contains the ashes of Nancy Lincoln.
It was decided it was necessary to move the Sparrows from the miserable "half-faced camp," where the cold autumn winds could blow through almost freely, to the Lincolns' cabin, which wasn't much better. Many in the area had already died, and Thomas Lincoln had made all their coffins from "green lumber cut with a whip-saw." Meanwhile, the Sparrows and Nancy were getting alarmingly worse. There was no doctor in the county—not even someone pretending to be one; the nearest real doctor was in Yellow Banks, KY, over thirty miles away. It’s unlikely they ever got his help. It would have been too expensive, and none of the people who witnessed and described these events mention him being there. Finally, in early October, the Sparrows died, and Thomas Lincoln sawed up his green lumber to make rough boxes for the remains of his wife’s two oldest and dearest friends. A day or two later, on October 5, 1818, Nancy Hanks Lincoln passed away. Thomas Lincoln went back to his green wood and made a box for Nancy. About twenty people attended her funeral. They took her to the top of a thickly wooded knoll, about half a mile southeast of the cabin, and buried her next to the Sparrows. If there were any burial rituals, they were very brief. A few months later, an itinerant preacher named David Elkin, whom the Lincolns had known in Kentucky, arrived in the settlement; he either volunteered or was asked to give a sermon to honor the many virtues and quietly acknowledge the few flaws of the poor woman resting in the woods. Many years later, the remains of Levi Hall and his wife, Nancy Hanks, were laid to rest in the same ground as Mrs. Lincoln. The graves of two or three children from a neighbor’s family are also nearby. They are all sunken and covered with wild vines in thick, tangled mats. The large trees were originally cleared to create a small space for this simple graveyard; however, young dogwoods have grown peacefully in abundance, and in many cases, the names of visitors to the burial site of the great Abraham Lincoln's mother are carved into their bark. Aside from that, the location is completely unmarked. Her grave never had a stone or even a board at either end, and neighbors still argue about which of those ugly depressions holds the ashes of Nancy Lincoln.
Thirteen months after the burial of Nancy Hanks, and nine or ten months after the solemnities conducted by Elkin, Thomas Lincoln appeared at Elizabethtown, Ky., in search of another wife. Sally Bush had married Johnston, the jailer, in the spring of the same year in which Lincoln had married Nancy Hanks. She had then rejected him for a better match, but was now a widow. In 1814 many persons in and about Elizabethtown had died of a disease which the people called the "cold plague," and among them the jailer. Both parties being free again, Lincoln came back, very unexpectedly to Mrs. Johnston, and opened his suit in an exceedingly abrupt manner. "Well, Miss Johnston," said he, "I have no wife, and you have no husband. I came a purpose to marry you: I knowed you from a gal, and you knowed me from a boy. I have no time to lose; and, if you are willin', let it be done straight off." To this she replied, "Tommy, I know you well, and have no objection to marrying you; but I cannot do it straight off, as I owe some debts that must first be paid." "The next morning," says Hon. Samuel Haycraft, the clerk of the courts and the gentleman who reports this quaint courtship, "I issued his license, and they were married straight off on that day, and left, and I never saw her or Tom Lincoln since." From the death of her husband to that day, she had been living, "an honest, poor widow," "in a round log-cabin," which stood in an "alley" just below Mr. Haycraft's house. Dennis Hanks says that it was only "on the earnest solicitation of her friends" that Mrs. Johnston consented to marry Lincoln. They all liked Lincoln, and it was with a member of her family that he had made several voyages to New Orleans. Mr. Helm, who at that time was doing business in his uncle's store at Elizabethtown, remarks that "life among the Hankses, the Lincolns, and the Enlows was a long ways below life among the Bushes." Sally was the best and the proudest of the Bushes; but, nevertheless, she appears to have maintained some intercourse with the Lincolns as long as they remained in Kentucky. She had a particular kindness for little Abe, and had him with her on several occasions at Helm's store, where, strange to say, he sat on a nail-keg, and ate a lump of sugar, "just like any other boy."
Thirteen months after Nancy Hanks was buried, and nine or ten months after the ceremonies led by Elkin, Thomas Lincoln showed up in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, looking for a new wife. Sally Bush had married the jailer, Johnston, in the spring of the same year Lincoln had married Nancy Hanks. She had turned him down back then for a better match, but she was now a widow. In 1814, a lot of people in and around Elizabethtown had died from a disease referred to as the "cold plague," including the jailer. With both parties free again, Lincoln returned unexpectedly to Mrs. Johnston and made his intentions known in a very direct way. "Well, Miss Johnston," he said, "I don’t have a wife, and you don’t have a husband. I came here to marry you: I’ve known you since you were a girl, and you’ve known me since I was a boy. I don’t have time to waste; if you’re willing, let’s do this right away." She replied, "Tommy, I know you well and wouldn’t mind marrying you; but I can’t do it right now because I have some debts that need to be settled first." "The next morning," says Hon. Samuel Haycraft, the court clerk and the gentleman reporting this unusual courtship, "I issued his license, and they got married right away that day and left, and I never saw her or Tom Lincoln again." Since her husband's death up until that day, she had been living "an honest, poor widow" "in a round log cabin," which was located in an "alley" just below Mr. Haycraft’s house. Dennis Hanks mentions that it was only "after the strong encouragement of her friends" that Mrs. Johnston agreed to marry Lincoln. They all liked him, and he had gone on several trips to New Orleans with a member of her family. Mr. Helm, who was then working in his uncle's store in Elizabethtown, noted that "life among the Hankses, the Lincolns, and the Enlows was far below life among the Bushes." Sally was the most distinguished of the Bushes; however, she seems to have kept in touch with the Lincolns as long as they were in Kentucky. She had a special fondness for little Abe and had him with her several times at Helm's store, where, oddly enough, he sat on a nail keg and ate a piece of sugar "just like any other boy."
Mrs. Johnston has been denominated a "poor widow;" but she possessed goods, which, in the eyes of Tom Lincoln, were of almost unparalleled magnificence. Among other things, she had a bureau that cost forty dollars; and he informed her, on their arrival in Indiana, that, in his deliberate opinion, it was little less than sinful to be the owner of such a thing. He demanded that she should turn it into cash, which she positively refused to do. She had quite a lot of other articles, however, which he thought well enough in their way, and some of which were sadly needed in his miserable cabin in the wilds of Indiana. Dennis Hanks speaks with great rapture of the "large supply of household goods" which she brought out with her. There was "one fine bureau, one table, one set of chairs, one large clothes-chest, cooking utensils, knives, forks, bedding, and other articles." It was a glorious day for little Abe and Sarah and Dennis when this wondrous collection of rich furniture arrived in the Pigeon Creek settlement. But all this wealth required extraordinary means of transportation; and Lincoln had recourse to his brother-in-law, Ralph Krume, who lived just over the line, in Breckinridge County. Krume came with a four-horse team, and moved Mrs. Johnston, now Mrs. Lincoln, with her family and effects, to the home of her new husband in Indiana. When she got there, Mrs. Lincoln was much "surprised" at the contrast between the glowing representations which her husband had made to her before leaving Kentucky and the real poverty and meanness of the place. She had evidently been given to understand that the bridegroom had reformed his old Kentucky ways, and was now an industrious and prosperous farmer. She was scarcely able to restrain the expression of her astonishment and discontent; but, though sadly overreached in a bad bargain, her lofty pride and her high sense of Christian duty saved her from hopeless and useless repinings.
Mrs. Johnston has been called a "poor widow," but she owned items that, in Tom Lincoln's eyes, were incredibly impressive. Among other things, she had a bureau that cost forty dollars, and when they arrived in Indiana, he told her that he thought it was almost sinful to own something like that. He asked her to sell it, but she firmly refused. She had quite a few other items that he considered acceptable, some of which were desperately needed in his worn-down cabin in the Indiana wilderness. Dennis Hanks speaks excitedly about the "large supply of household goods" she brought with her. There was "one nice bureau, one table, one set of chairs, one large clothes chest, cooking utensils, knives, forks, bedding, and other things." It was a fantastic day for little Abe, Sarah, and Dennis when this amazing collection of furniture arrived in the Pigeon Creek settlement. But all this wealth required special transportation, so Lincoln turned to his brother-in-law, Ralph Krume, who lived just over the line in Breckinridge County. Krume showed up with a four-horse team and helped move Mrs. Johnston, now Mrs. Lincoln, along with her family and belongings to her new husband's home in Indiana. Upon arriving, Mrs. Lincoln was quite "surprised" by the difference between the glowing descriptions her husband had given her before leaving Kentucky and the actual poverty and shabby conditions of the place. She had clearly been led to believe that her husband had changed his old Kentucky ways and was now a hardworking and successful farmer. She could hardly hide her shock and disappointment, but despite being tricked in a bad deal, her strong pride and sense of Christian duty kept her from falling into despair.
On the contrary, she set about mending what was amiss with all her strength and energy. Her own goods furnished the cabin with tolerable decency. She made Lincoln put down a floor, and hang windows and doors. It was in the depth of winter; and the children, as they nestled in the warm beds she provided them, enjoying the strange luxury of security from the cold winds of December, must have thanked her from the bottoms of their newly-comforted hearts. She had brought a son and two daughters of her own,—John, Sarah, and Matilda; but Abe and his sister Nancy (whose name was speedily changed to Sarah), the ragged and hapless little strangers to her blood, were given an equal place in her affections. They were half naked, and she clad them from the stores of clothing she had laid up for her own. They were dirty, and she washed them; they had been ill-used, and she treated them with motherly tenderness. In her own modest language, she "made them look a little more human." "In fact," says Dennis Hanks, "in a few weeks all had changed; and where every thing was wanting, now all was snug and comfortable. She was a woman of great energy of remarkable good sense, very industrious and saving, and also very neat and tidy in her person and manners, and knew exactly how to manage children. She took an especial liking to young Abe. Her love for him was warmly returned, and continued to the day of his death. But few children loved their parents as he loved his step-mother. She soon dressed him up in entire new clothes, and from that time on he appeared to lead a new life. He was encouraged by her to study, and any wish on his part was gratified when it could be done. The two sets of children got along finely together, as if they had all been the children of the same parents. Mrs. Lincoln soon discovered that young Abe was a boy of uncommon natural talents, and that, if rightly trained, a bright future was before him, and she did all in her power to develop those talents." When, in after years, Mr. Lincoln spoke of his "saintly mother," and of his "angel of a mother," he referred to this noble woman,1 who first made him feel "like a human being,"—whose goodness first touched his childish heart, and taught him that blows and taunts and degradation were not to be his only portion in the world.2
On the other hand, she went to work fixing what was wrong with all her strength and energy. Her own belongings made the cabin look pretty decent. She had Lincoln put down a floor, and hang windows and doors. It was the middle of winter, and the children, snuggled in the warm beds she got for them, enjoying the rare luxury of being safe from the cold winds of December, must have deeply appreciated her efforts. She had brought her own son and two daughters—John, Sarah, and Matilda; but Abe and his sister Nancy (who she quickly renamed Sarah), the ragged and unfortunate little strangers, held a special place in her heart too. They were nearly naked, so she dressed them using the clothes she had saved for her own kids. They were dirty, so she washed them. They had been mistreated, and she showed them motherly love. In her own simple way, she "made them look a little more human." "In fact," says Dennis Hanks, "within a few weeks everything had changed; where there had been nothing, now all was snug and comfortable. She was a woman of great energy, remarkable good sense, very hard-working and frugal, and also very neat and tidy in her appearance and behavior. She knew exactly how to manage kids. She took a special liking to young Abe. His love for her was deeply mutual, lasting until the day he died. Few children loved their parents as much as he loved his stepmother. She quickly got him all new clothes, and from that point on, he seemed to lead a new life. She encouraged him to study, and she made sure to fulfill any wish he had whenever it was possible. The two sets of children got along wonderfully, as if they were all siblings. Mrs. Lincoln soon realized that young Abe was exceptionally gifted, and if he received the right training, a bright future awaited him. She did everything she could to nurture those talents." Later in life, when Mr. Lincoln spoke of his "saintly mother" and his "angel of a mother," he was referring to this remarkable woman,1 who first made him feel "like a human being," whose goodness first touched his young heart, teaching him that pain, mockery, and humiliation were not going to be his only experiences in the world.2
1 The author has many times heard him make the application. While he seldom, if ever, spoke of his own mother, he loved to dwell on the beautiful character of Sally Bush. 2 The following description of her personal appearance is from the pen of her granddaughter, the daughter of Dennis Hanks:— "When I landed in Indiana," says Mrs. Lincoln, "Abe was about nine years old, and the country was wild and desolate. It is certain enough that her presence took away much that was desolate in his lot. She clothed him decently, and had him sent to school as soon as there was a school to send him to. But, notwithstanding her determination to do the best for him, his advantages in this respect were very limited. He had already had a few days', or perhaps a few weeks' experience, under the discipline of Riney and Hazel, in Kentucky; and, as he was naturally quick in the acquisition of any sort of knowledge, it is likely that by this time he could read and write a little. He was now to have the benefit of a few months more of public instruction; but the poverty of the family, and the necessity for his being made to work at home in the shop and on the farm, or abroad as a hired boy, made his attendance at school, for any great length of time, a thing impossible. Accordingly, all his school-days added together would not make a single year in the aggregate. "His wife, my grandmother, is a very tall woman; straight as an Indian, fair complexion, and was, when I first remember her, very handsome, sprightly, talkative, and proud; wore her hair curled till gray; is kind-hearted and very charitable, and also very industrious."—Mrs. H. A, Chapman.
1 The author has often heard him mention this. While he rarely talked about his own mother, he loved to highlight the wonderful character of Sally Bush. 2 The following description of her appearance comes from her granddaughter, Dennis Hanks' daughter:— "When I arrived in Indiana," Mrs. Lincoln recalls, "Abe was around nine years old, and the area was wild and desolate. It's clear that her presence brought a lot of brightness to his life. She made sure he was dressed well and sent him to school as soon as one was available. However, despite her determination to give him the best, his opportunities were quite limited. He had already spent a few days, or maybe a few weeks, learning from Riney and Hazel in Kentucky, and since he was naturally quick at picking up knowledge, he likely could read and write a bit by then. He was about to have a few more months of public schooling, but the family's poverty and the need for him to work at home in the shop and on the farm, or as a hired boy, made it impossible for him to attend school for any significant length of time. Altogether, his school days would barely amount to a full year. "His wife, my grandmother, is a very tall woman; straight like an Indian, with a fair complexion, and when I first remember her, she was very beautiful, lively, talkative, and proud; she wore her hair curled until it turned gray; she is kind-hearted, very charitable, and also very hardworking."—Mrs. H. A, Chapman.
Abraham began his irregular attendance at the nearest school very soon after he fell under the care of the second Mrs. Lincoln. It was probably in the winter of 1819, she having come out in the December of that year. It has been seen that she was as much impressed by his mental precocity as by the good qualities of his heart.
Abraham started going to the nearest school sporadically soon after he came under the care of the second Mrs. Lincoln. This likely happened in the winter of 1819, since she arrived in December of that year. It's clear that she was just as struck by his intelligence as she was by the positive qualities of his character.
Hazel Dorsey was his first master.1 He presided in a small house near the Little Pigeon Creek meeting-house, a mile and a half from the Lincoln cabin. It was built of unhewn logs, and had "holes for windows," in which "greased paper" served for glass. The roof was just high enough for a man to stand erect. Here he was taught reading, writing, and ciphering. They spelled in classes, and "trapped" up and down. These juvenile contests were very exciting to the participants; and it is said by the survivors, that Abe was even then the equal, if not the superior, of any scholar in his class.
Hazel Dorsey was his first teacher.1 He lived in a small house near the Little Pigeon Creek meeting house, about a mile and a half from the Lincoln cabin. It was made of rough logs, and had “holes for windows,” where “greased paper” acted as glass. The roof was just tall enough for a person to stand up straight. Here, he learned how to read, write, and do math. They practiced spelling in groups and worked on exercises up and down the scale. These youthful competitions were really thrilling for those involved; and it’s said by those who remember that even back then, Abe was as good as, if not better than, any student in his class.
1 The account of the schools is taken from the Grigsbys, Turnham, and others, who attended them along with Abe, as well as from the members of his own family.
1 The details about the schools are provided by the Grigsbys, Turnham, and others who went to school with Abe, along with insights from his family members.
The next teacher was Andrew Crawford. Mrs. Gentry says he began pedagogue in the neighborhood in the winter of 1822-3, whilst most of his other scholars are unable to fix an exact date. He "kept" in the same little schoolhouse which had been the scene of Dorsey's labors, and the windows were still adorned with the greased leaves of old copybooks that had come down from Dorsey's time. Abe was now in his fifteenth year, and began to exhibit symptoms of gallantry toward the weaker sex, as we shall presently discover. He was growing at a tremendous rate, and two years later attained his full height of six feet four inches. He was long, wiry, and strong; while his big feet and hands, and the length of his legs and arms, were out of all proportion to his small trunk and head. His complexion was very swarthy, and Mrs. Gentry says that his skin was shrivelled and yellow even then. He wore low shoes, buckskin breeches, linsey-woolsey shirt, and a cap made of the skin of an opossum or a coon. The breeches clung close to his thighs and legs, but failed by a large space to meet the tops of his shoes. Twelve inches remained uncovered, and exposed that much of "shinbone, sharp, blue, and narrow."1 "He would always come to school thus, good-humoredly and laughing," says his old friend, Nat Grigsby. "He was always in good health, never was sick, had an excellent constitution, and took care of it."
The next teacher was Andrew Crawford. Mrs. Gentry says he started teaching in the neighborhood in the winter of 1822-23, while most of his other students can't pinpoint an exact date. He taught in the same little schoolhouse that Dorsey had used, and the windows were still decorated with the greased leaves of old copybooks that dated back to Dorsey's time. Abe was now fifteen years old and began to show signs of charm toward the ladies, as we will soon see. He was growing at an incredible rate, and two years later he reached his full height of six feet four inches. He was tall, wiry, and strong; his big feet and hands, along with the length of his legs and arms, were out of proportion to his small torso and head. His complexion was quite dark, and Mrs. Gentry mentioned that his skin was already wrinkled and yellow at that time. He wore low shoes, buckskin pants, a linsey-woolsey shirt, and a cap made from opossum or raccoon skin. The pants fit closely around his thighs and legs but left a big gap above his shoes. Twelve inches of his "shinbone, sharp, blue, and narrow" remained uncovered. "He would always come to school like that, good-natured and laughing," says his old friend, Nat Grigsby. "He was always healthy, never got sick, had a great constitution, and took care of it."
1 "They had no woollen clothing in the family until about the year 1824."—Dennis Hanks.
1 "The family didn't own any wool clothes until about 1824."—Dennis Hanks.
Crawford taught "manners." This was a feature of backwoods education to which Dorsey had not aspired, and Crawford had doubtless introduced it as a refinement which would put to shame the humbler efforts of his predecessor. One of the scholars was required to retire, and re-enter as a polite gentleman is supposed to enter a drawing-room. He was received at the door by another scholar, and conducted from bench to bench, until he had been introduced to all the "young ladies and gentlemen" in the room. Abe went through the ordeal countless times. If he took a serious view of the business, it must have put him to exquisite torture; for he was conscious that he was not a perfect type of manly beauty, with his long legs and blue shins, his small head, his great ears, and shrivelled skin. If, however, it struck him as at all funny, it must have filled him with unspeakable mirth, and given rise to many antic tricks and sly jokes, as he was gravely led about, shamefaced and gawky, under the very eye of the precise Crawford, to be introduced to the boys and girls of his most ancient acquaintance.
Crawford taught "manners." This was a part of rural education that Dorsey hadn't aimed for, and Crawford likely introduced it as a way to elevate the simpler methods of his predecessor. One of the students had to step out and come back in like a polite gentleman entering a drawing room. He was greeted at the door by another student and guided from bench to bench until he had been introduced to all the "young ladies and gentlemen" in the room. Abe went through this awkward process countless times. If he took it seriously, it must have been torture for him, as he was aware that he wasn't the ideal image of masculine beauty, with his long legs and blue shins, small head, large ears, and wrinkled skin. However, if he found it at all funny, it must have brought him immense joy and inspired many silly antics and jokes as he was led around, embarrassed and awkward, under the watchful eye of the exacting Crawford, to be introduced to the boys and girls he'd known for ages.
But, though Crawford inculcated manners, he by no means neglected spelling. Abe was a good speller, and liked to use his knowledge, not only to secure honors for himself, but to help his less fortunate schoolmates out of their troubles, and he was exceedingly ingenious in the selection of expedients for conveying prohibited hints. One day Crawford gave out the difficult word defied. A large class was on the floor, but they all provokingly failed to spell it. D-e-f-i-d-e, said one; d-e-f-y-d-e, said another; d-e-f-y-d,—d-e-f-y-e-d, cried another and another. But it was all wrong: it was shameful, that, among all these big boys and girls, nobody could spell "defied;" Crawford's wrath gathered in clouds over his terrible brow. He made the helpless culprits shake with fear. He declared he would keep the whole class in all day and all night, if "defied" was not spelled. There was among them a Miss Roby, a girl fifteen years of age, whom we must suppose to have been pretty, for Abe was evidently half in love with her. "I saw Lincoln at the window," says she: "he had his finger in his eye, and a smile on his face; I instantly took the hint, that I must change the letter y into an i. Hence I spelled the word,—the class let out. I felt grateful to Lincoln for this simple thing."
But even though Crawford emphasized manners, he definitely didn’t overlook spelling. Abe was a good speller and enjoyed using his skills, not only to earn accolades for himself but also to help his less fortunate classmates out of their struggles. He was really clever at coming up with ways to convey hints about things they weren't allowed to say. One day, Crawford announced the tricky word defied. A large class was present, but they all frustratingly failed to spell it correctly. “D-e-f-i-d-e,” one student said; “d-e-f-y-d-e,” said another; “d-e-f-y-d,—d-e-f-y-e-d,” shouted one after another. But it was all wrong: it was embarrassing that, among all those older boys and girls, nobody could spell "defied." Crawford’s anger grew intense, and it made the unfortunate students tremble with fear. He threatened to keep the whole class in all day and all night if "defied" wasn’t spelled. Among them was a Miss Roby, a girl who was fifteen and whom we can assume was pretty, since Abe was clearly somewhat in love with her. “I saw Lincoln at the window,” she said: “he had his finger in his eye, and a smile on his face; I immediately took that as a hint that I should change the letter y into an i. So I spelled the word—and the class was let out. I felt grateful to Lincoln for this simple act.”
Nat Grigsby tells us, with unnecessary particularity, that "essays and poetry were not taught in this school." "Abe took it (them) up on his own account." He first wrote short sentences against "cruelty to animals," and at last came forward with a regular "composition" on the subject. He was very much annoyed and pained by the conduct of the boys, who were in the habit of catching terrapins, and putting coals of fire on their backs. "He would chide us," says Nat, "tell us it was wrong, and would write against it."
Nat Grigsby tells us, with unnecessary detail, that "essays and poetry were not taught in this school." "Abe took it up on his own." He first wrote short sentences about "cruelty to animals," and eventually produced a full "composition" on the topic. He was very annoyed and hurt by the behavior of the boys, who often caught turtles and placed hot coals on their backs. "He would scold us," says Nat, "tell us it was wrong, and would write against it."
The third and last school to which Abe went was taught by a Mr. Swaney, in 1826. To get there, he had to travel four and a half miles; and this going back and forth so great a distance occupied entirely too much of his time. His attendance was therefore only at odd times, and was speedily broken off altogether. The schoolhouse was much like the other one near the Pigeon Creek meeting-house, except that it had two chimneys instead of one. The course of instruction was precisely the same as under Dorsey and Crawford, save that Swaney, like Dorsey, omitted the great department of "manners." "Here," says John Hoskins, the son of the settler who had "blazed out" the trail for Tom Lincoln, "we would choose up, and spell as in old times every Friday night." Hoskins himself tore down "the old schoolhouse" long since, and built a stable with the logs. He is now half sorry for his haste, and reverently presented Mr. Herndon a piece of the wood as a precious memento of his old friend Abe. An oak-tree, blackened and killed by the smoke that issued from the two chimneys, spreads its naked arms over the spot where the schoolhouse stood. Among its roots is a fine, large spring, over whose limpid waters Abe often bent to drink, and laughed at the reflection of his own homely face.
The third and final school Abe attended was run by Mr. Swaney in 1826. He had to travel four and a half miles to get there, which took up way too much of his time. As a result, he only attended occasionally and eventually stopped going altogether. The schoolhouse was quite similar to the other one near the Pigeon Creek meeting house, except it had two chimneys instead of one. The subjects taught were exactly like those at Dorsey and Crawford's schools, except that, like Dorsey, Swaney skipped the important topic of "manners." "Here," says John Hoskins, the son of the settler who cleared the path for Tom Lincoln, "we would gather and spell like in the old days every Friday night." Hoskins himself demolished "the old schoolhouse" long ago and built a stable with the logs. He now somewhat regrets his rush and gave Mr. Herndon a piece of the wood as a treasured keepsake of his old friend Abe. An oak tree, blackened and killed by the smoke from the two chimneys, reaches its bare branches over the spot where the schoolhouse once stood. Among its roots is a large spring, where Abe often leaned down to drink and laughed at the reflection of his own plain face.
Abe never went to school again in Indiana or elsewhere. Mr. Turnham tells us, that he had excelled all his masters, and it was "no use" for him to attempt to learn any thing from them. But he continued his studies at home, or wherever he was hired out to work, with a perseverance which showed that he could scarcely live without some species of mental excitement. He was by no means fond of the hard manual labor to which his own necessities and those of his family compelled him. Many of his acquaintances state this fact with strong emphasis,—among them Dennis Hanks and Mrs. Lincoln. His neighbor, John Romine, declares that Abe was "awful lazy. He worked for me; was always reading and thinking; used to get mad at him. He worked for me in 1829, pulling fodder. I say Abe was awful lazy: he would laugh and talk and crack jokes and tell stories all the time; didn't love work, but did dearly love his pay. He worked for me frequently, a few days only at a time.... Lincoln said to me one day, that his father taught him to work, but never learned him to love it."
Abe never went to school again in Indiana or anywhere else. Mr. Turnham tells us that he excelled beyond all his teachers, and it was "no use" for him to try to learn anything from them. But he kept studying at home or wherever he was hired to work, showing a determination that suggested he could hardly live without some form of mental stimulation. He definitely wasn’t fond of the hard manual labor that his own needs and those of his family forced him into. Many of his acquaintances emphasize this, including Dennis Hanks and Mrs. Lincoln. His neighbor, John Romine, says that Abe was "really lazy. He worked for me; was always reading and thinking; I used to get frustrated with him. He worked for me in 1829, pulling fodder. I say Abe was really lazy: he would laugh and talk and tell jokes and stories all the time; didn’t like work, but loved getting paid. He worked for me often, just a few days at a time.... Lincoln told me one day that his father taught him how to work but never taught him to enjoy it."
1 Whenever Mrs. Sarah Lincoln speaks, we follow her implicitly. Regarding Abe's habits and conduct at home, her statement is a very full one. It is, however, confirmed and supplemented by all the other members of the family who were alive in 1866.
1 Whenever Mrs. Sarah Lincoln talks, we listen to her without hesitation. Her description of Abe's habits and behavior at home is very detailed. However, it is backed up and elaborated on by all the other family members who were alive in 1866.
Abe loved to lie under a shade-tree, or up in the loft of the cabin, and read, cipher, and scribble. At night he sat by the chimney "jamb," and ciphered, by the light of the fire, on the wooden fire-shovel. When the shovel was fairly covered, he would shave it off with Tom Lincoln's drawing-knife, and begin again. In the daytime he used boards for the same purpose, out of doors, and went through the shaving process everlastingly. His step-mother1 repeats often, that "he read every book he could lay his hand on." She says, "Abe read diligently.... He read every book he could lay his hands on; and, when he came across a passage that struck him, he would write it down on boards if he had no paper, and keep it there until he did get paper. Then he would re-write it, look at it, repeat it. He had a copy-book, a kind of scrapbook, in which he put down all things, and thus preserved them."
Abe loved to lie under a shade tree or up in the loft of the cabin, reading, calculating, and scribbling. At night, he sat by the fireplace and worked out problems by the light of the fire on the wooden fire shovel. When the shovel was completely covered, he would shave it off with Tom Lincoln's drawing knife and start over. During the day, he used boards for the same purpose outside and went through the shaving process endlessly. His stepmother often repeats that "he read every book he could get his hands on." She says, "Abe read diligently.... He read every book he could find; and when he came across a passage that impressed him, he would write it down on boards if he didn’t have paper, and keep it there until he got paper. Then he would rewrite it, look at it, and memorize it. He had a copybook, a kind of scrapbook, where he recorded everything, preserving them that way."
John Hanks came out from Kentucky when Abe was fourteen years of age, and lived four years with the Lincolns. We cannot describe some of Abe's habits better than John has described them for us: "When Lincoln—Abe and I—returned to the house from work, he would go to the cupboard, snatch a piece of corn-bread, take down a book, sit down on a chair, cock his legs up high as his head, and read. He and I worked barefooted, grubbed it, ploughed, mowed, and cradled together; ploughed corn, gathered it, and shucked corn. Abraham read constantly when he had an opportunity."
John Hanks came from Kentucky when Abe was fourteen, and he lived with the Lincolns for four years. We can’t describe some of Abe's habits better than John has: "When Lincoln—Abe and I—got back to the house after working, he would go to the cupboard, grab a piece of corn bread, take a book down, sit in a chair, kick his legs up as high as his head, and read. He and I worked barefoot, cleared land, plowed, mowed, and harvested together; we plowed corn, gathered it, and shucked corn. Abraham read constantly whenever he had the chance."
Among the books upon which Abe "laid his hands" were "Æsop's Fables," "Robinson Crusoe," Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," a "History of the United States," and Weems's "Life of Washington." All these he read many times, and transferred extracts from them to the boards and the scrapbook. He had procured the scrap-book because most of his literature was borrowed, and he thought it profitable to take copious notes from the books before he returned them. David Turnham had bought a volume of "The Revised Statutes of Indiana;" but, as he was "acting constable" at the time, he could not lend it to Abe. But Abe was not to be baffled in his purpose of going through and through every book in the neighborhood; and so, says Mr. Turnham, "he used to come to my house and sit and read it." 1 Dennis Hanks would fain have us believe that he himself was the purchaser of this book, and that he had stood as a sort of first preceptor to Abe in the science of law. "I had like to forgot," writes Dennis, with his usual modesty, "How did Abe get his knowledge of law? This is the fact about it. I bought the 'Statute of Indiana,' and from that he learned the principles of law, and also myself. Every man should become acquainted of the principles of law." The Bible, according to Mrs. Lincoln, was not one of his studies: "he sought more congenial books." At that time he neither talked nor read upon religious subjects. If he had any opinions about them, he kept them to himself.
Among the books that Abe "got his hands on" were "Æsop's Fables," "Robinson Crusoe," Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," a "History of the United States," and Weems's "Life of Washington." He read all these many times and copied excerpts from them into boards and a scrapbook. He got the scrapbook because most of the literature he had was borrowed, and he thought it was smart to take detailed notes before returning the books. David Turnham had bought a volume of "The Revised Statutes of Indiana," but since he was "acting constable" at the time, he couldn't lend it to Abe. However, Abe was determined to read every book in the neighborhood, so, according to Mr. Turnham, "he used to come to my house and sit and read it." Dennis Hanks wants us to believe that he was the one who bought this book and that he acted as a kind of first teacher to Abe in law. "I nearly forgot," Dennis writes humbly, "How did Abe learn law? Here’s the truth: I bought the 'Statute of Indiana,' and from that, he learned the principles of law, as well as from me. Every man should understand the principles of law." The Bible, according to Mrs. Lincoln, was not one of his interests: "he preferred more enjoyable books." At that time, he neither spoke nor read about religious topics. If he had any opinions on them, he kept them to himself.
1 He also read at Turnham's house Scott's Lessons and Sindbad the Sailor.
1 He also read Scott's Lessons and Sinbad the Sailor at Turnham's house.
Abraham borrowed Weems's "Life of Washington" from his neighbor, old Josiah Crawford,—not Andrew Crawford, the school-teacher, as some of his biographers have it. The "Life" was read with great avidity in the intervals of work, and, when not in use, was carefully deposited on a shelf, made of a clapboard laid on two pins. But just behind the shelf there was a great crack between the logs of the wall; and one night, while Abe was dreaming in the loft, a storm came up, and the rain, blown through the opening, soaked his precious book from cover to cover. Crawford was a sour and churlish fellow at best, and flatly refused to take the damaged book back again. He said, that, if Abe had no money to pay for it, he could work it out. Of course, there was no alternative; and Abe was obliged to discharge the debt by "pulling fodder" three days, at twenty-five cents a day. Crawford afterwards paid dearly for his churlishness.
Abraham borrowed Weems's "Life of Washington" from his neighbor, old Josiah Crawford—not Andrew Crawford, the schoolteacher, as some of his biographers say. He read the "Life" eagerly during breaks from work, and when he wasn't using it, he carefully placed it on a shelf made of a clapboard resting on two nails. However, right behind the shelf, there was a big crack between the logs of the wall; one night, while Abe was dreaming in the loft, a storm rolled in, and the rain blew through the gap, soaking his precious book from cover to cover. Crawford was a grumpy and unfriendly guy at best, and he flatly refused to take the damaged book back. He said that if Abe didn't have any money to pay for it, he could work it off. Of course, Abe had no choice, so he had to pay off the debt by "pulling fodder" for three days at twenty-five cents a day. Crawford later paid dearly for his stinginess.
At home, with his step-mother and the children, he was the most agreeable fellow in the world. "He was always ready to do every thing for everybody." When he was not doing some special act of kindness, he told stories or "cracked jokes." "He was as full of his yarns in Indiana as ever he was in Illinois." Dennis Hanks was a clever hand at the same business, and so was old Tom Lincoln. Among them they must have made things very lively, during the long winter evenings, for John Johnston and the good old lady and the girls.
At home, with his stepmom and the kids, he was the most pleasant guy in the world. "He was always willing to do anything for everyone." When he wasn't doing something kind, he shared stories or told jokes. "He had just as many tales in Indiana as he ever did in Illinois." Dennis Hanks was really good at this too, and so was old Tom Lincoln. They must have kept things pretty lively during the long winter evenings for John Johnston, the nice old lady, and the girls.
Mrs. Lincoln was never able to speak of Abe's conduct to her without tears. In her interview with Mr. Herndon, when the sands of her life had nearly run out, she spoke with deep emotion of her own son, but said she thought that Abe was kinder, better, truer, than the other. Even the mother's instinct was lost as she looked back over those long years of poverty and privation in the Indiana cabin, when Abe's grateful love softened the rigors of her lot, and his great heart and giant frame were always at her command. "Abe was a poor boy," said she; "and I can say what scarcely one woman—a mother—can say in a thousand. Abe never gave me a cross word or look, and never refused, in fact or appearance, to do any thing I requested him. I never gave him a cross word in all my life.... His mind and mine—what little I had—seemed to run together.... He was here after he was elected President." (At this point the aged speaker turned away to weep, and then, wiping her eyes with her apron, went on with the story). "He was dutiful to me always. I think he loved me truly. I had a son, John, who was raised with Abe. Both were good boys; but I must say, both now being dead, that Abe was the best boy I ever saw, or expect to see. I wish I had died when my husband died. I did not want Abe to run for President; did not want him elected; was afraid somehow,—felt in my heart; and when he came down to see me, after he was elected President, I still felt that something told me that something would befall Abe, and that I should see him no more."
Mrs. Lincoln could never talk about Abe’s behavior without getting emotional. In her conversation with Mr. Herndon, near the end of her life, she spoke passionately about her son, but said she believed Abe was kinder, better, more genuine than the other. Even her motherly intuition seemed lost as she thought back on those long years of hardship in the Indiana cabin, when Abe’s loving gratitude eased her struggles, and his big heart and strong presence were always there for her. "Abe was a poor boy," she said; "and I can say what hardly any woman—a mother—can say in a thousand. Abe never gave me a harsh word or look, and never refused to do anything I asked of him, in action or appearance. I never gave him a harsh word in my life... Our minds—what little I had—seemed to connect... He was here after he was elected President." (At this point, the elderly speaker turned away to cry, then wiped her eyes with her apron and continued with the story). "He was always obedient to me. I think he truly loved me. I had a son, John, who grew up with Abe. Both were good boys; but I must admit, now that both are gone, that Abe was the best boy I ever knew or expect to meet. I wish I had died when my husband died. I didn’t want Abe to run for President; I didn’t want him elected; I had this fear inside me, and when he came to visit me after he was elected President, I still felt that something was telling me that something would happen to Abe, and that I wouldn’t see him again."
Is there any thing in the language we speak more touching than that simple plaint of the woman whom we must regard as Abraham Lincoln's mother? The apprehension in her "heart" was well grounded. She "saw him no more." When Mr. Herndon rose to depart, her eyes again filled with tears; and, wringing his hands as if loath to part with one who talked so much of her beloved Abe, she said, "Good-by, my good son's friend. Farewell."
Is there anything in the language we use that’s more moving than the simple lament of the woman we consider to be Abraham Lincoln's mother? The worry in her "heart" was justified. She "saw him no more." When Mr. Herndon got ready to leave, her eyes filled with tears again; and, wringing her hands as if hesitant to say goodbye to someone who spoke so fondly of her beloved Abe, she said, "Goodbye, my dear son's friend. Farewell."
Abe had a very retentive memory. He frequently amused his young companions by repeating to them long passages from the books he had been reading. On Monday mornings he would mount a stump, and deliver, with a wonderful approach to exactness, the sermon he had heard the day before. His taste for public speaking appeared to be natural and irresistible. His step-sister, Matilda Johnston, says he was an indefatigable "preacher." "When father and mother would go to church, Abe would take down the Bible, read a verse, give out a hymn, and we would sing. Abe was about fifteen years of age. He preached, and we would do the crying. Sometimes he would join in the chorus of tears. One day my brother, John Johnston, caught a land terrapin, brought it to the place where Abe was preaching, threw it against the tree, and crushed the shell. It suffered much,—quivered all over. Abe then preached against cruelty to animals, contending that an ant's life was as sweet to it as ours to us."
Abe had an excellent memory. He often entertained his younger friends by reciting long passages from the books he had read. On Monday mornings, he would stand on a stump and deliver, with remarkable accuracy, the sermon he had heard the day before. His natural talent and enthusiasm for public speaking were evident. His step-sister, Matilda Johnston, says he was tireless in his role as a "preacher." "When Mom and Dad went to church, Abe would pull out the Bible, read a verse, pick a hymn, and we would sing. Abe was about fifteen years old. He preached, and we did the crying. Sometimes he would join in the chorus of tears. One day my brother, John Johnston, caught a land turtle, brought it to where Abe was preaching, threw it against a tree, and crushed its shell. It suffered a lot—quivered all over. Abe then preached against cruelty to animals, arguing that an ant’s life is as valuable to it as ours is to us."
But this practice of "preaching" and political speaking, into which Abe had fallen, at length became a great nuisance to old, Tom. It distracted everybody, and sadly interfered with the work. If Abe had confined his discourses to Sunday preaching, while the old folks were away, it would not have been so objectionable. But he knew his power, liked to please everybody, and would be sure to set up as an orator wherever he found the greatest number of people together. When it was announced that Abe had taken the "stump" in the harvest-field, there was an end of work. The hands flocked around him, and listened to his curious speeches with infinite delight. "The sight of such a thing amused all," says Mrs. Lincoln; though she admits that her husband was compelled to break it up with the strong hand; and poor Abe was many times dragged from the platform, and hustled off to his work in no gentle manner.1
But this habit of "preaching" and giving political speeches that Abe had developed eventually became a huge annoyance to old Tom. It distracted everyone and seriously interrupted the work. If Abe had limited his talks to Sunday preaching while the older folks were away, it wouldn't have been so objectionable. But he knew he had a knack for it, enjoyed making everyone happy, and would always step up as a speaker wherever he found the biggest crowd. When it was announced that Abe had taken the "stump" in the harvest field, work came to a halt. People gathered around him and listened to his unusual speeches with great enjoyment. "The sight of such a thing amused all," says Mrs. Lincoln; though she admits that her husband had to break it up forcefully; and poor Abe was often pulled from the platform and pushed back to work in a rough way.
1 We are told by Col. Chapman that Abe's father habitually treated him with great barbarity. Dennis Hanks insists that he loved him sincerely, but admits that he now and then knocked him from the fence for merely answering traveller's questions about the roads.
1 Col. Chapman informs us that Abe's father often treated him quite harshly. Dennis Hanks insists that he truly cared for him but admits that he sometimes pushed him off the fence just for answering travelers' questions about the roads.
Abe worked occasionally with Tom Lincoln in the shop; but he did it reluctantly, and never intended to learn even so much of the trade as Lincoln was able to teach him. The rough work turned out at that shop was far beneath his ambition, and he had made up his mind to lead a life as wholly unlike his father's as he could possibly make it. He therefore refused to be a carpenter. But he could not afford to be idle; and, as soon as he was able to earn wages, he was hired out among the neighbors. He worked for many of them a few months at a time, and seemed perfectly willing to transfer his services wherever they were wanted, so that his father had no excuse for persecuting him with entreaties about learning to make tables and cupboards.
Abe occasionally worked with Tom Lincoln in the shop, but he did it reluctantly and never intended to learn even as much of the trade as Lincoln could teach him. The rough work produced in that shop was far below his ambitions, and he was determined to live a life as different from his father's as possible. Therefore, he refused to become a carpenter. However, he couldn’t afford to be idle, and as soon as he could earn a wage, he found work among the neighbors. He worked for many of them for a few months at a time and seemed perfectly willing to offer his services wherever they were needed, so his father had no reason to pressure him with requests to learn how to make tables and cupboards.
Abe was now becoming a man, and was, in fact, already taller than any man in the neighborhood. He was a universal favorite, and his wit and humor made him heartily welcome at every cabin between the two Pigeon Creeks. Any family was glad when "Abe Linkern" was hired to work with them; for he did his work well, and made them all merry while he was about it. The women were especially pleased, for Abe was not above doing any kind of "chores" for them. He was always ready to make a fire, carry water, or nurse a baby. But what manner of people were these amongst whom he passed the most critical part of his life? We must know them if we desire to know him.
Abe was growing into a man and was already taller than anyone else in the neighborhood. He was a favorite everywhere, and his wit and humor made him warmly welcomed at every cabin between the two Pigeon Creeks. Any family felt lucky when "Abe Linkern" was hired to help them; he did his work well and made everyone happy while he was there. The women especially appreciated him because Abe was always willing to do any kind of chores for them. He was ready to start a fire, fetch water, or take care of a baby. But what kind of people were these among whom he spent the most important part of his life? We need to know them if we want to know him.
There lived in the neighborhood of Gentryville a Mrs. Elizabeth Crawford, wife to the now celebrated Josiah with the sour temper and the blue nose. Abe was very fond of her, and inclined to "let himself out" in her company. She fortunately possessed a rare memory, and Mr. Herndon's rich collection of manuscripts was made richer still by her contributions. We have from her a great mass of valuable, and sometimes extremely amusing, information. Among it is the following graphic, although rude, account of the Pigeon Creek people in general:—
There lived in the neighborhood of Gentryville a Mrs. Elizabeth Crawford, wife to the now-famous Josiah, who had a sour temper and a blue nose. Abe was very fond of her and tended to "open up" when he was with her. Fortunately, she had a remarkable memory, and Mr. Herndon's extensive collection of manuscripts became even richer thanks to her contributions. We have a wealth of valuable, and sometimes quite humorous, information from her. Among it is the following vivid, albeit rough, description of the Pigeon Creek people in general:—
"You wish me to tell you how the people used to go to meeting,—how far they went. At that time we thought it nothing to go eight or ten miles. The old ladies did not stop for the want of a shawl, or cloak, or riding-dress, or two horses, in the winter-time; but they would put on their husbands' old overcoats, and wrap up their little ones, and take one or two of them up on their beasts, and their husbands would walk, and they would go to church, and stay in the neighborhood until the next day, and then go home. The old men would start out of their fields from their work, or out of the woods from hunting, with their guns on their shoulders, and go to church. Some of them dressed in deer-skin pants and moccasins, hunting-shirts with a rope or leather strap around them. They would come in laughing, shake hands all around, sit down and talk about their game they had killed, or some other work they had done, and smoke their pipes together with the old ladies. If in warm weather, they would kindle up a little fire out in the meeting-house yard, to light their pipes. If in winter-time, they would hold church in some of the neighbors' houses. At such times they were always treated with the utmost of kindness: a bottle of whiskey, a pitcher of water, sugar and glass, were set out, or a basket of apples, or turnips, or some pies and cakes. Apples were scarce them times. Sometimes potatoes were used as a treat. (I must tell you that the first treat I ever received in old Mr. Linkern's house, that was our President's father's house, was a plate of potatoes, washed and pared very nicely, and handed round. It was something new to me, for I never had seen a raw potato eaten before. I looked to see how they made use of them. They took off a potato, and ate them like apples.) Thus they spent the time till time for preaching to commence, then they would all take their seats: the preacher would take his stand, draw his coat, open his shirt-collar, commence service by singing and prayer; take his text and preach till the sweat would roll off in great drops. Shaking hands and singing then ended the service. The people seemed to enjoy religion more in them days than they do now. They were glad to see each other, and enjoyed themselves better than they do now."
"You want me to tell you how people used to go to church and how far they traveled. Back then, it was nothing for them to walk eight or ten miles. The older women didn’t hesitate because they didn’t have a shawl, cloak, riding dress, or two horses in winter; they just put on their husbands' old overcoats, wrapped up their little ones, took one or two of them on their horses, while their husbands walked. They would go to church, stay in the area until the next day, and then head home. The older men would leave their work in the fields or finish hunting in the woods, walking to church with their guns slung over their shoulders. Some wore deer-skin pants and moccasins, hunting shirts with a rope or leather strap. They would arrive laughing, shake hands all around, sit down, and talk about the game they’d killed or other work they’d done, enjoying a smoke with the older women. In warm weather, they would start a little fire in the meeting house yard to light their pipes. In winter, church would be held in someone’s home. During these gatherings, they were always treated very kindly: there would be a bottle of whiskey, a pitcher of water, sugar, and glasses, or a basket of apples, turnips, or some pies and cakes. Apples were rare back then. Sometimes potatoes were served as a treat. (I should mention that the first treat I ever had at old Mr. Linkern's house, our President's father's house, was a plate of nicely washed and peeled potatoes passed around. It was a new thing for me since I’d never seen raw potatoes eaten before. I watched to see how they did it. They would take a potato and eat it like an apple.) They spent time this way until it was time for the sermon to begin, then everyone took their seats: the preacher would stand, pull his coat back, open his shirt collar, and start the service with singing and prayer; he would take his text and preach until sweat dripped from him. The service ended with handshakes and singing. The people seemed to enjoy their faith more back then than they do now. They were happy to see each other and had a better time compared to today."
Society about Gentryville was little different from that of any other backwoods settlement of the same day. The houses were scattered far apart; but the inhabitants would travel long distances to a log-rolling, a house-raising, a wedding, or any thing else that might be turned into a fast and furious frolic. On such occasions the young women carried their shoes in their hands, and only put them on when about to join the company. The ladies drank whiskey-toddy, while the men took it straight; and both sexes danced the live-long night, barefooted, on puncheon floors.
Society around Gentryville was pretty similar to that of any other rural community of the time. The houses were spread out, but people would travel far for a log-rolling, a house-raising, a wedding, or any event that could turn into a lively celebration. On these occasions, the young women carried their shoes in their hands and only put them on when they were about to join the group. The ladies drank whiskey-toddy, while the men took it straight, and both women and men danced all night long, barefooted, on rough wooden floors.
The fair sex wore "cornfield bonnets, scoop-shaped, flaring in front, and long though narrow behind." Shoes were the mode when entering the ball-room; but it was not at all fashionable to scuff them out by walking or dancing in them. "Four yards of linsey-woolsey, a yard in width, made a dress for any woman." The waist was short, and terminated just under the arms, whilst the skirt was long and narrow. "Crimps and puckering frills" it had none. The coats of the men were home-made; the materials, jeans or linsey-woolsey. The waists were short, like the frocks of the women, and the long "claw-hammer" tail was split up to the waist. This, however, was company dress, and the hunting-shirt did duty for every day. The breeches were of buck-skin or jeans; the cap was of coon-skin; and the shoes of leather tanned at home. If no member of the family could make shoes, the leather was taken to some one who could, and the customer paid the maker a fair price in some other sort of labor.
The ladies wore "cornfield bonnets, scoop-shaped, flaring in front, and long though narrow behind." Shoes were the trend when entering the ballroom, but it was considered uncool to scuff them by walking or dancing in them. "Four yards of linsey-woolsey, a yard in width, made a dress for any woman." The waist was short and ended just below the arms, while the skirt was long and narrow. "Crimps and puckering frills" were not included. The men wore homemade coats made from materials like jeans or linsey-woolsey. The waists were short, similar to the women's dresses, and the long "claw-hammer" tails were split up to the waist. However, this was considered formal wear, while the hunting-shirt was worn for everyday use. The breeches were made of buckskin or jeans; the cap was made of coonskin; and the shoes were made from leather tanned at home. If no family member could make shoes, the leather was taken to someone who could, and the customer paid the maker a fair price in a different kind of work.
The state of agriculture was what it always is where there is no market, either to sell or buy; where the implements are few and primitive, and where there are no regular mechanics. The Pigeon Creek farmer "tickled" two acres of ground in a day with his old shovel-plough, and got but half a crop. He cut one acre with his sickle, while the modern machine lays down in neat rows ten. With his flail and horse tramping, he threshed out fifteen bushels of wheat; while the machine of to-day, with a few more hands, would turn out three hundred and fifty. He "fanned" and "cleaned with a sheet." When he wanted flour, he took his team and went to a "horse-mill," where he spent a whole day in converting fifteen bushels of grain.1
The state of agriculture was what it always is when there’s no market, either to sell or buy; where the tools are few and basic, and where there are no skilled mechanics. The Pigeon Creek farmer "tickled" two acres of land in a day with his old shovel-plow and only managed to get half a crop. He cut one acre with his sickle, while modern machines can lay down neat rows of ten. Using his flail and having his horse stomp, he threshed out fifteen bushels of wheat; nowadays, with just a few more hands, a machine would produce three hundred and fifty. He "fanned" and "cleaned with a sheet." When he needed flour, he took his team and went to a "horse-mill," where he spent an entire day converting fifteen bushels of grain.1
1 "Size of the fields from ten, twelve, sixteen, twenty. Raised corn mostly; some wheat,—enough for a cake on Sunday morning. Hogs and venison hams were legal tender, and coon-skins also. We raised sheep and cattle, but they did not fetch much. Cows and calves were only worth six dollars; corn, ten cents; wheat, twenty-five cents at that time."— Dennis Hanks.
1 "The fields were ten, twelve, sixteen, and twenty acres. We mainly grew corn and a little wheat—just enough for a cake on Sunday morning. Hogs and deer hams were accepted as payment, along with coon-skins. We raised sheep and cattle, but they didn’t sell for much. Cows and calves were only worth six dollars; corn was ten cents; wheat was twenty-five cents back then."—Dennis Hanks.
The minds of these people were filled with superstitions, which most persons imagine to be, at least, as antiquated as witch-burning. They firmly believed in witches and all kind of witch-doings. They sent for wizards to cure sick cattle. They shot the image of the witch with a silver ball, to break the spell she was supposed to have laid on a human being. If a dog ran directly across a man's path whilst he was hunting, it was terrible "luck," unless he instantly hooked his two little fingers together, and pulled with all his might, until the dog was out of sight. There were wizards who took charmed twigs in their hands, and made them point to springs of water and all kinds of treasure beneath the earth's surface. There were "faith doctors," who cured diseases by performing mysterious ceremonies and muttering cabalistic words. If a bird alighted in a window, one of the family would speedily die. If a horse breathed on a child, the child would have the whooping-cough. Every thing must be done at certain "times and seasons," else it would be attended with "bad luck." They must cut trees for rails in the early part of the day, and in "the light of the moon." They must make fence in "the light of the moon;" otherwise, the fence would sink. Potatoes and other roots were to be planted in the "dark of the moon," but trees, and plants which bore their fruits above ground, must be "put out in the light of the moon." The moon exerted a fearful influence, either kindly or malignant, as the good old rules were observed or not. It was even required to make soap "in the light of the moon," and, moreover, it must be stirred only one way, and by one person. Nothing of importance was to be begun on Friday. All enterprises inaugurated on that day went fatally amiss. A horse-colt could be begotten only "in the dark of the moon," and animals treated otherwise than "according to the signs in the almanac" were nearly sure to die.
The minds of these people were filled with superstitions, which most people think are as outdated as witch-burning. They strongly believed in witches and all sorts of witchcraft. They called wizards to heal sick livestock. They shot a witch's image with a silver bullet to break the spell she was thought to have cast on someone. If a dog crossed a man's path while he was hunting, it was considered terrible "luck," unless he immediately hooked his two little fingers together and pulled with all his strength until the dog was out of sight. There were wizards who used charmed sticks to find springs of water and all kinds of treasures underground. There were "faith doctors" who healed ailments by performing mysterious rituals and mumbling secret words. If a bird landed on a window, someone in the family would soon die. If a horse breathed on a child, the child would get whooping cough. Everything had to be done at specific "times and seasons," or it would bring "bad luck." They had to cut trees for rails early in the day and "in the light of the moon." They had to build fences "in the light of the moon;" otherwise, the fence would sink. Potatoes and other roots were to be planted in the "dark of the moon," while trees and plants that bore fruit above ground had to be "put out in the light of the moon." The moon had a powerful influence, either beneficial or harmful, depending on whether the old rules were followed. It was also important to make soap "in the light of the moon," and it had to be stirred in only one direction and by one person. Nothing significant was supposed to be started on Friday, as all projects begun that day were bound to go wrong. A horse colt could only be conceived "in the dark of the moon," and animals treated differently than "according to the signs in the almanac" were almost guaranteed to die.
Such were the people among whom Abe grew to manhood. With their sons and daughters he went to school. Upon their farms he earned his daily bread by daily toil. From their conversation he formed his earliest opinions of men and things, the world over. Many of their peculiarities became his; and many of their thoughts and feelings concerning a multitude of subjects were assimilated with his own, and helped to create that unique character, which, in the eyes of a great host of the American people, was only less curious and amusing than it was noble and august.
Such were the people among whom Abe grew up. He went to school with their sons and daughters. He earned his daily bread through hard work on their farms. From their conversations, he developed his earliest views on people and the world. Many of their quirks became his own, and many of their thoughts and feelings on a variety of subjects blended with his, helping to shape the unique character that, in the eyes of many Americans, was as fascinating and entertaining as it was noble and impressive.
His most intimate companions were of course, for a long time, the members of his own family. The reader already knows something of Thomas Lincoln, and that pre-eminently good woman, Sally Bush. The latter, we know, washed, clothed, loved, and encouraged Abe in well-doing, from the moment he fell in her way. How much he owed to her goodness and affection, he was himself never able to estimate. That it was a great debt, fondly acknowledged and cheerfully repaid as far as in him lay, there can be no doubt. His own sister, the child of Nancy Hanks, was warmly attached to him. Her face somewhat resembled his. In repose it had the gravity which they both, perhaps, inherited from their mother; but it was capable of being lighted almost into beauty by one of Abe's ridiculous stories or rapturous sallies of humor. She was a modest, plain, industrious girl, and is kindly remembered by all who knew her. She was married to Aaron Grigsby at eighteen, and a year after died in child-bed. Like Abe, she occasionally worked out at the houses of the neighbors, and at one time was employed in Mrs. Crawford's kitchen, while her brother was a laborer on the same farm. She lies buried, not with her mother, but in the yard of the old Pigeon Creek meeting-house. It is especially pleasing to read the encomiums lavished upon her memory by the Grigsbys; for between the Grigsbys on one side, and Abe and his step-brother on the other, there once subsisted a fierce feud.
His closest companions were, for a long time, the members of his own family. The reader already knows a bit about Thomas Lincoln and that remarkable woman, Sally Bush. She cared for, clothed, loved, and encouraged Abe in doing good from the moment they met. He could never fully appreciate how much he owed her kindness and love. There’s no doubt it was a significant debt, which he fondly recognized and tried to repay as best as he could. His sister, the child of Nancy Hanks, was very close to him. Her face looked somewhat like his. When she was relaxed, it had the seriousness they both likely inherited from their mother; but it could light up with beauty at one of Abe's funny stories or bursts of humor. She was a modest, plain, hardworking girl and is fondly remembered by everyone who knew her. She married Aaron Grigsby at eighteen, and a year later, she died after giving birth. Like Abe, she sometimes worked at other people's homes, and at one point, she worked in Mrs. Crawford's kitchen while her brother labored on the same farm. She is buried in the yard of the old Pigeon Creek meeting-house, not with her mother. It's especially heartwarming to read the praises given in her memory by the Grigsbys, considering that there was once a fierce feud between the Grigsbys on one side and Abe and his step-brother on the other.
As we have already learned from Dennis Hanks, the two families—the Johnstons and the Lincolns—"got along finely together." The affectionate relations between Abe and his two step-sisters were the subject of common remark throughout the neighborhood. One of them married Dennis Hanks, and the other Levi Hall, or, as he is better known, Squire Hall,—a cousin of Abe. Both these women (the latter now Mrs. Moore) furnished Mr. Herndon very valuable memoirs of Abe's life whilst he dwelt under the same roof with them; and they have given an account of him which shows that the ties between them were of the strongest and tenderest kind. But what is most remarkable in their statements is, that they never opened their lips without telling how worthy of everybody's love their mother was, and how Abe revered her as much as they did. They were interesting girls, and became exemplary women.
As we've already learned from Dennis Hanks, the two families—the Johnstons and the Lincolns—"got along really well." The close relationship between Abe and his two stepsisters was often talked about in the neighborhood. One of them married Dennis Hanks, and the other married Levi Hall, who is better known as Squire Hall—a cousin of Abe. Both of these women (the latter now Mrs. Moore) provided Mr. Herndon with very valuable memoirs of Abe's life while they lived together; they've shared accounts that show the deep and affectionate bonds between them. What's most striking in their statements is that they always spoke highly of their mother, highlighting how deserving she was of everyone’s love and how much Abe respected her, just like they did. They were interesting girls who grew into exemplary women.
John D. Johnston, the only son of Mrs. Lincoln, was not the best boy, and did not grow to be the best man, in all the Pigeon Creek region. He had no positive vice, except idleness, and no special virtue but good temper. He was not a fortunate man; never made money; was always needy, and always clamoring for the aid of his friends. Mr. Lincoln, all through John's life, had much trouble to keep him on his legs, and succeeded indifferently in all his attempts. In a subsequent chapter a letter will be given from him, which indirectly portrays his step-brother's character much better than it can be done here. But, as youths, the intimacy between them was very close; and in another place it will appear that Abe undertook his second voyage to New Orleans only on condition that John would go along.
John D. Johnston, the only son of Mrs. Lincoln, wasn't the best kid and didn't grow up to be the best man in the Pigeon Creek area. He didn't have any major vices aside from being lazy, and his only redeeming quality was a good attitude. He wasn't a lucky guy; he never made money, always struggled financially, and constantly begged his friends for help. Mr. Lincoln had a lot of trouble throughout John's life trying to support him, and he was only somewhat successful in his efforts. In a later chapter, there will be a letter from him that indirectly reveals more about his step-brother's character than can be expressed here. However, as kids, they were very close; and it's worth noting that Abe agreed to make his second trip to New Orleans only if John would come along.
But the most constant of his companions was his jolly cousin, Dennis Hanks. Of all the contributors to Mr. Herndon's store of information, good, bad, and indifferent, concerning this period of Mr. Lincoln's life, Dennis is the most amusing, insinuating, and prolific. He would have it distinctly understood that the well of his memory is the only proper source whence any thing like truth may be drawn.1 He has covered countless sheets of paper devoted to indiscriminate laudations of Abe and all his kindred. But in all this he does not neglect to say a word for himself.
But the most constant of his friends was his cheerful cousin, Dennis Hanks. Among all the people who contributed to Mr. Herndon's collection of information—good, bad, and average—about this part of Mr. Lincoln's life, Dennis is the most entertaining, charming, and talkative. He wants everyone to know that his memory is the only reliable source for any kind of truth. He has filled countless sheets of paper with unqualified praises for Abe and all his relatives. Yet in all of this, he makes sure to say a little something about himself.
1 The following random selections from his writings leave us no room to doubt Dennis's opinion of his own value:— "William, let in, don't keep any thing back, for I am in for the whole hog sure; for I know nobody can do any for you much, for all they know is from me at last. Every thing you see is from my notes,—this you can tell yourself. "I have in my possession a little book, the private life of A. Lincoln, comprising a full life of his early years, and a succinct record of his career as statesman and President, by O. J. Victor, author of Lives of Garibaldi, Winfield Scott, John Paul Jones, &c., New York, Beadle and Company, publishers, No. 118 Williams Street. Now, sir, I find a great many things pertaining to Abe Lincoln's life that is not true. If you would like to have the book, I will mail it to you. I will say this much to you: if you don't have my name very frequently in your book, it won't go at all; for I have been East for two months, have seen a great many persons in that time, stating to them that there would be a book, 'The Life of A. Lincoln,' published, giving a full account of the family, from England to this country. Now, William, if there be any thing you want to know, let me know: I will give you all the information I can. "I have seen a letter that you wrote to my daughter, Harriet Chapman, of inquiry about some things. I thought you were informed all about them. I don't know what she has stated to you about your questions; but you had better consult me about them. "Billy, it seems to me, from the letters that you write to me asking questions, that you ask the same questions over several times. How is this? Do you forget, or are you like the lawyer, trying to make me cross my path, or not? Now, I will. Look below for the answer."
1 The following random excerpts from his writings make it clear that Dennis has a high opinion of himself:— "William, come on in, don’t hold back at all, because I’m fully invested in this; I know nobody can really assist you much since everything they know ultimately comes from me. Everything you're seeing is based on my notes—this is something you can verify yourself. I have a little book called The Private Life of A. Lincoln, which contains a complete account of his early years and a brief overview of his career as a statesman and President, written by O. J. Victor, who also wrote Lives of Garibaldi, Winfield Scott, John Paul Jones, and others, published by Beadle and Company, located at No. 118 Williams Street, New York. Now, I’ve discovered a lot of inaccuracies about Abe Lincoln’s life. If you’d like the book, I’ll send it to you. I’ll say this much: if you don’t mention my name often in your book, it won’t succeed at all; I’ve been on the East Coast for two months, met many people during that time, and told them about a book, ‘The Life of A. Lincoln,’ that will provide a complete account of the family history from England to this country. Now, William, if there’s anything you want to know, let me know: I’ll give you all the information I can. "I’ve seen a letter you wrote to my daughter, Harriet Chapman, asking about some issues. I thought you knew all that. I don’t know what she has told you regarding your questions; but you’d do better to consult me about them. "Billy, it seems to me, from the letters you send asking questions, that you’re repeating the same questions multiple times. Why is that? Do you forget, or are you trying to confuse me like a lawyer? Now, I will. Look below for the answer."
At one place, "his cousin, Dennis Hanks," is said to have taught Abe to read and write. At another, he is represented as the benevolent purchaser of the volumes from which Abe (and Dennis too) derived a wonderfully clear and accurate conception of the science of law. In all studies their minds advanced pari passu. Whenever any differences are noted (and they are few and slight), Dennis is a step ahead, benignantly extending a helping hand to the lagging pupil behind. But Dennis's heart is big and kind: he defames no one; he is merely a harmless romancer. In the gallery of family portraits painted by Dennis, every face looks down upon us with the serenity of innocence and virtue. There is no spot on the fame of any one of them. No family could have a more vigorous or chivalrous defender than he, or one who repelled with greater scorn any rumor to their discredit. That Enlow story! Dennis almost scorned to confute it; but, when he did get at it, he settled it by a magnificent exercise of inventive genius. He knew "this Abe Enlow" well, he said, and he had been dead precisely fifty-five years. But, whenever the truth can be told without damage to the character of a Lincoln or a Hanks, Dennis will tell it candidly enough, provided there is no temptation to magnify himself. His testimony, however, has been sparingly used throughout these pages; and no statement has been taken from him unless it was more or less directly corroborated by some one else. The better part of his evidence Mr. Herndon took the precaution of reading carefully to John Hanks, who pronounced it substantially true; and that circumstance gives it undeniable value.
At one point, "his cousin, Dennis Hanks," is noted to have taught Abe how to read and write. In another instance, he is portrayed as the generous buyer of the books from which Abe (and Dennis as well) gained a remarkably clear and accurate understanding of the law. Throughout their studies, their minds progressed together. When there are any differences (which are few and minor), Dennis is slightly ahead, kindly offering a helping hand to the struggling student lagging behind. But Dennis has a big and kind heart: he doesn’t speak ill of anyone; he’s just a harmless storyteller. In the gallery of family portraits painted by Dennis, every face looks down on us with a sense of innocence and virtue. There is no blemish on the reputation of any of them. No family could have a more passionate or chivalrous defender than he is, or one who more fiercely dismisses any rumors against them. That Enlow story! Dennis almost disdained to argue against it; but when he did address it, he resolved it through a brilliant display of creative storytelling. He claimed to know "this Abe Enlow" well and said he had been dead for exactly fifty-five years. However, whenever the truth can be told without harming the reputation of a Lincoln or a Hanks, Dennis will tell it honestly enough, as long as there’s no temptation to exaggerate his role. His testimony, though, has been used sparingly in these pages; no statement has been included from him unless it was more or less directly backed up by someone else. Mr. Herndon took the precaution of reading the majority of his evidence carefully to John Hanks, who confirmed that it was basically true; and that circumstance gives it undeniable value.
When Thomas and Betsy Sparrow died in the fall of 1818, Dennis was taken from the "little half-faced camp," and became one of the Lincoln family. Until Thomas Lincoln's second marriage, Dennis, Abe, and Sarah were all three poor, ragged, and miserable together. After that, Dennis got along better, as well as the rest. He was a lively, volatile, sympathetic fellow, and Abe liked him well from the beginning. They fished, hunted, and worked in company; loafed at the grocery, where Dennis got drunk, and Abe told stories; talked politics with Col. Jones; "swapped jokes" with Baldwin the blacksmith; and faithfully attended the sittings of the nearest justice of the peace, where both had opportunities to correct and annotate the law they thought they had learned from the "Statute of Indiana." Dennis was kind, genial, lazy, brimming over with humor, and full of amusing anecdotes. He revelled in song, from the vulgarest ballad to the loftiest hymn of devotion; from "The turbaned Turk, that scorns the world," to the holiest lines of Doctor Watts. These qualities marked him wherever he went; and in excessive good-nature, and in the ease with which he passed from the extreme of rigor to the extreme of laxity, he was distinguished above the others of his name.
When Thomas and Betsy Sparrow died in the fall of 1818, Dennis was taken from the "little half-faced camp" and became part of the Lincoln family. Until Thomas Lincoln remarried, Dennis, Abe, and Sarah were all poor, ragged, and miserable together. After that, Dennis and the others improved their situation. He was a lively, unpredictable, sympathetic guy, and Abe liked him right from the start. They fished, hunted, and worked together; hung out at the grocery store where Dennis would get drunk while Abe told stories; discussed politics with Col. Jones; exchanged jokes with Baldwin the blacksmith; and regularly attended the sessions of the closest justice of the peace, where they both had chances to correct and comment on the law they thought they had learned from the "Statute of Indiana." Dennis was kind, cheerful, lazy, overflowing with humor, and full of funny anecdotes. He loved to sing, from the most basic ballads to the grandest hymns; from "The turbaned Turk that scorns the world" to the holiest verses of Doctor Watts. These traits marked him wherever he went, and in his overwhelming good-nature and in how easily he switched from strictness to laxness, he stood out among others with his name.
There was one Hanks, however, who was not like Dennis, or any other Hanks we know any thing about: this was "old John," as he is familiarly called in Illinois,—a sober, honest, truthful man, with none of the wit and none of the questionable accomplishments of Dennis. He was the son of Joseph, the carpenter with whom Tom Lincoln learned the trade. He went to Indiana to live with the Lincolns when Abe was fourteen years of age, and remained there four years. He then returned to Kentucky, and subsequently went to Illinois, where he was speedily joined by the old friends he had left in Indiana. When Abe separated from the family, and went in search of individual fortune, it was in company with "old John." Together they split the rails that did so much to make Abe President; and "old John" set the ball in motion by carrying a part of them into the Decatur Convention on his own broad shoulders. John had no education whatever, except that of the muscles and the heart. He could neither read nor write; but his character was pure and respectable, and Lincoln esteemed him as a man, and loved him as a friend and relative.
There was one Hank, however, who wasn’t like Dennis or any other Hanks we know about: this was "old John," as he’s commonly called in Illinois—a sober, honest, truthful man, without the wit and questionable skills of Dennis. He was the son of Joseph, the carpenter who taught Tom Lincoln the trade. He moved to Indiana to live with the Lincolns when Abe was fourteen and stayed there for four years. He then returned to Kentucky and later went to Illinois, where he was quickly reunited with old friends from Indiana. When Abe left the family to seek his own path, he did so with "old John." Together, they split the rails that ultimately helped make Abe President; "old John" kicked things off by carrying some of them into the Decatur Convention on his broad shoulders. John had no formal education aside from what his muscles and heart taught him. He couldn’t read or write, but his character was pure and respectable, and Lincoln valued him as a man and cherished him as a friend and relative.
About six years after the death of the first Mrs. Lincoln, Levi Hall and his wife and family came to Indiana, and settled near the Lincolns. Mrs. Hall was Nancy Hanks, the mother of our friend Dennis, and the aunt of Nancy Hanks, the mother of Abraham Lincoln. She had numerous children by her husband. One of them, Levi, as already mentioned, married one of Abe's step-sisters, while Dennis, his half-brother, married the other one. The father and mother of the Halls speedily died of the milk-sickness, but Levi was for many years a constant companion of Abe and Dennis.
About six years after the first Mrs. Lincoln passed away, Levi Hall, his wife, and their family moved to Indiana and settled near the Lincolns. Mrs. Hall was Nancy Hanks, the mother of our friend Dennis and the aunt of Nancy Hanks, who was Abraham Lincoln's mother. She had several children with her husband. One of them, Levi, as previously mentioned, married one of Abe's half-sisters, while Dennis, his half-brother, married the other one. The Halls' parents quickly died from milk sickness, but for many years, Levi was a close companion of Abe and Dennis.
In 1825 Abraham was employed by James Taylor, who lived at the mouth of Anderson's Creek. He was paid six dollars a month, and remained for nine months. His principal business was the management of a ferry-boat which Mr. Taylor had plying across the Ohio, as well as Anderson's Creek. But, in addition to this, he was required to do all sorts of farm-work, and even to perform some menial services about the house. He was hostler, ploughman, ferryman, out of doors, and man-of-all-work within doors. He ground corn with a hand-mill, or "grated" it when too young to be ground; rose early, built fires, put on the water in the kitchen, "fixed around generally," and had things prepared for cooking before the mistress of the house was stirring. He slept up stairs with young Green Taylor, who says that he usually read "till near midnight," notwithstanding the necessity for being out of his bed before day. Green was somewhat disposed to ill-use the poor hired boy, and once struck him with an ear of hard corn, and cut a deep gash over his eye. He makes no comment upon this generous act, except that "Abe got mad," but did not thrash him.
In 1825, Abraham was hired by James Taylor, who lived at the mouth of Anderson's Creek. He earned six dollars a month and stayed for nine months. His main job was managing a ferry-boat that Mr. Taylor operated across the Ohio River and Anderson's Creek. On top of that, he had to do all kinds of farm work and even some house chores. He was responsible for taking care of the horses, plowing the fields, ferrying passengers, and doing various tasks around the house. He ground corn with a hand mill or "grated" it when it was too young to grind; he woke up early to build fires, boil water in the kitchen, tidied up in general, and got things ready for cooking before the lady of the house was awake. He slept upstairs with young Green Taylor, who noted that he usually read "until nearly midnight," despite needing to get up before dawn. Green tended to bully the poor hired boy and once hit him with a hard ear of corn, causing a deep gash above his eye. He doesn’t say much about this kind act, just that "Abe got mad," but didn’t retaliate.
Abe was a hand much in demand in "hog-killing time." He butchered not only for Mr. Taylor, but for John Woods, John Duthan, Stephen McDaniels, and others. At this he earned thirty-one cents a day, as it was considered "rough work."
Abe was in high demand during "hog-killing season." He butchered not just for Mr. Taylor, but also for John Woods, John Duthan, Stephen McDaniels, and others. He earned thirty-one cents a day for this, as it was seen as "rough work."
For a long time there was only one person in the neighborhood for whom Abe felt a decided dislike; and that was Josiah Crawford, who had made him "pull fodder," to pay for the Weems's "Washington." On that score he was "hurt" and "mad," and often declared "he would have revenge." But being a poor boy,—a circumstance of which Crawford had already taken shameful advantage to extort three days' labor,—he was glad to get work any place, and frequently "hired to his old adversary." Abe's first business in his employ was daubing his cabin, which was built of logs, unhewed, and with the bark on. In the loft of this house, thus finished by his own hands, he slept for many weeks at a time. He spent his evenings as he did at home,—writing on wooden shovels or boards with "a coal, or keel, from the branch." This family was rich in the possession of several books, which Abe read through time and again, according to his usual custom. One of them was the "Kentucky Preceptor," from which Mrs. Crawford insists that he "learned his school orations, speeches, and pieces to write." She tells us also that "Abe was a sensitive lad, never coming where he was not wanted;" that he always lifted his hat, and bowed, when he made his appearance; and that "he was tender and kind," like his sister, who was at the same time her maid-of-all-work. His pay was twenty-five cents a day; "and, when he missed time, he would not charge for it." This latter remark of good Mrs. Crawford reveals the fact that her husband was in the habit of docking Abe on his miserable wages whenever he happened to lose a few minutes from steady work.
For a long time, there was only one person in the neighborhood that Abe really disliked, and that was Josiah Crawford, who had made him "pull fodder" to pay for the Weems's "Washington." Over that, he felt "hurt" and "mad," often saying "he would get revenge." But being a poor boy—something Crawford had already exploited to force him into three days of labor—he was just happy to get work anywhere and often ended up "hired by his old enemy." Abe's first task in his job was painting Crawford's cabin, which was made of unhewn logs with the bark still on. In the loft of that house, which he finished with his own hands, he slept for many weeks at a time. He spent his evenings just like he did at home—writing on wooden shovels or boards using "a coal or keel from the branch." This family was fortunate to have several books, which Abe read over and over, as was his custom. One of them was the "Kentucky Preceptor," from which Mrs. Crawford claims he "learned his school orations, speeches, and pieces to write." She also tells us that "Abe was a sensitive kid, never showing up where he wasn’t wanted"; that he always lifted his hat and bowed when he appeared; and that "he was caring and kind," just like his sister, who was also her servant. His pay was twenty-five cents a day; "and when he missed work, he wouldn't charge for it." This last remark from good Mrs. Crawford shows that her husband often docked Abe's already low wages whenever he skipped a few minutes of steady work.
The time came, however, when Abe got his "revenge" for all this petty brutality. Crawford was as ugly as he was surly. His nose was a monstrosity,—long and crooked, with a huge, misshapen "stub" at the end, surmounted by a host of pimples, and the whole as "blue" as the usual state of Mr. Crawford's spirits. Upon this member Abe levelled his attack in rhyme, song, and "chronicle;" and, though he could not reduce the nose, he gave it a fame as wide as to the Wabash and the Ohio. It is not improbable that he learned the art of making the doggerel rhymes in which he celebrated Crawford's nose from the study of Crawford's own "Kentucky Preceptor." At all events, his sallies upon this single topic achieved him great reputation as a "poet" and a wit, and caused Crawford intolerable anguish.
The time finally came when Abe got his "revenge" for all this petty cruelty. Crawford was just as ugly as he was grumpy. His nose was a mess—long and crooked, with a huge, misshapen "stub" at the end, covered in pimples, and the whole thing was as "blue" as Crawford's usual mood. Abe aimed his attacks at this feature with rhymes, songs, and stories; and while he couldn't change the nose, he made it famous as far as the Wabash and the Ohio. It's likely that he picked up the skill of creating silly rhymes for praising Crawford's nose from reading Crawford's own "Kentucky Preceptor." In any case, his jokes about this one topic earned him a great reputation as a "poet" and a wit, and caused Crawford a lot of pain.
It is likely that Abe was reconciled to his situation in this family by the presence of his sister, and the opportunity it gave him of being in the company of Mrs. Crawford, for whom he had a genuine attachment; for she was nothing that her husband was, and every thing that he was not. According to her account, he split rails, ploughed, threshed, and did whatever else he was ordered to do; but she distinctly affirms that "Abe was no hand to pitch into his work like killing snakes." He went about it "calmly," and generally took the opportunity to throw "Crawford" down two or three times "before they went to the field." It is fair to presume, that, when Abe managed to inveigle his disagreeable employer into a tussle, he hoisted him high and threw him hard, for he felt that he had no reason to be careful of his bones. After meals Abe "hung about," lingered long to gossip and joke with the women; and these pleasant, stolen conferences were generally broken up with the exclamation, "Well, this won't buy the child a coat!" and the long-legged hired boy would stride away to join his master.
It’s likely that Abe came to terms with his family situation because of his sister’s presence and the chance it gave him to be around Mrs. Crawford, whom he genuinely cared about; she was everything her husband was not. According to her, he split rails, plowed, threshed, and did whatever tasks he was assigned; but she clearly states that "Abe was no hand to pitch into his work like killing snakes." He approached his tasks "calmly" and usually took the chance to throw "Crawford" down two or three times "before they went to the field." It’s fair to assume that when Abe managed to get his unpleasant boss into a scuffle, he threw him down hard because he didn’t feel the need to hold back. After meals, Abe "hung about," lingering to chat and joke with the women; these enjoyable, secret conversations were often interrupted by the saying, "Well, this won’t buy the child a coat!" and the lanky hired boy would walk off to join his master.
In the mean time Abe had become, not only the longest, but the strongest, man in the settlement. Some of his feats almost surpass belief, and those who beheld them with their own eyes stood literally amazed. Richardson, a neighbor, declares that he could carry a load to which the strength of "three ordinary men" would scarcely be equal. He saw him quietly pick up and walk away with "a chicken-house, made of poles pinned together, and covered, that weighed at least six hundred, if not much more." At another time the Richardsons were building a corn-crib: Abe was there; and, seeing three or four men preparing "sticks" upon which to carry some huge posts, he relieved them of all further trouble by shouldering the posts, single-handed, and walking away with them to the place where they were wanted. "He could strike with a mall," says old Mr. Wood, "a heavier blow than any man.... He could sink an axe deeper into wood than any man I ever saw."
In the meantime, Abe had become not only the tallest but also the strongest man in the settlement. Some of his accomplishments are almost unbelievable, and those who witnessed them were truly amazed. Richardson, a neighbor, claims that he could carry a load that would barely be matched by the strength of "three ordinary men." He saw Abe calmly lift and walk away with "a chicken house made of poles pinned together and covered, weighing at least six hundred pounds, if not much more." At another time, the Richardsons were building a corn crib. Abe was there, and seeing three or four men getting "sticks" ready to carry some large posts, he took over their task by shouldering the posts himself and walking away with them to where they were needed. "He could strike with a mallet," says old Mr. Wood, "a harder blow than any man... He could sink an axe deeper into wood than anyone I ever saw."
For hunting purposes, the Pigeon Creek region was one of the most inviting on earth. The uplands were all covered with an original growth of majestic forest trees,1 whilst on the hillsides, and wherever an opening in the woods permitted the access of sunlight, there were beds of fragrant and beautiful wild-flowers, presenting, in contrast with the dense green around them, the most brilliant and agreeable effects. Here the game had vast and secluded ranges, which, until very recently, had heard the report of no white man's gun. In Abe's time, the squirrels, rabbits, partridges, and other varieties of smaller game, were so abundant as to be a nuisance. They devastated grain-fields and gardens; and while they were seldom shot for the table, the settlers frequently devised the most cunning means of destroying them in great quantities, in order to save the growing crops. Wild turkeys and deer were the principal reliance for food; but besides these were the bears, the wild-cats, and the panthers.1 The scream of the latter, the most ferocious and bloodthirsty of the cat kind, hastened Abe's homeward steps on many a dark night, as he came late from Dave Turnham's, "Uncle" Wood's, or the Gentryville grocery. That terrific cry appeals not only to the natural fear of the monster's teeth and claws, but, heard in the solitude of night and the forest, it awakens a feeling of superstitious horror, that chills the heart of the bravest.
For hunting, the Pigeon Creek area was one of the most inviting places on earth. The highlands were covered in a natural growth of majestic forest trees, while on the hillsides, wherever sunlight could reach through openings in the woods, there were patches of fragrant and beautiful wildflowers, creating a stunning contrast against the dense green around them. Here, the game had vast and secluded territories that, until very recently, had never heard the sound of a white man's gun. In Abe's time, the squirrels, rabbits, partridges, and other kinds of small game were so plentiful that they became a nuisance. They ruined grain fields and gardens; while they were rarely shot for food, the settlers often came up with clever ways to eliminate them in large numbers to protect their crops. Wild turkeys and deer were the main sources of food, but there were also bears, wildcats, and panthers. The scream of the latter, the most vicious and bloodthirsty of the feline species, made Abe hurry home on many dark nights after visiting Dave Turnham's, "Uncle" Wood's, or the Gentryville grocery. That terrifying cry not only tapped into a natural fear of the creature’s teeth and claws but, heard in the stillness of night and in the woods, stirred a sense of superstitious horror that chilled the heart of even the bravest.
"Now about the timber: it was black walnut and black oak, hickory and jack oak, elm and white oak, undergrowth, logwood in abundance, grape-vines and shoe-make bushes, and milk-sick plenty. All my relations died of that disease on Little Pigeon Creek, Spencer County."—Dennis Hanks.
"Now regarding the timber: it consisted of black walnut and black oak, hickory and jack oak, elm and white oak, underbrush, a lot of logwood, grapevines, and shoemake bushes, along with plenty of milk-sick. All my relatives died from that disease at Little Pigeon Creek, Spencer County."—Dennis Hanks.
Everybody about Abe made hunting a part of his business.2 Tom Lincoln and Dennis Hanks doubtless regaled him continually with wonderful stories of their luck and prowess; but he was no hunter himself, and did not care to learn. It is true, that, when a mere child, he made a fortunate shot at a flock of wild turkeys, through a crack in the wall of the "half-faced cabin;"3 and that, when grown up, he went for coons occasionally with Richardson, or watched deer-licks with Turnham; but a true and hearty sportsman he never was. As practised on this wild border, it was a solitary, unsociable way of spending time, which did not suit his nature; and, besides, it required more exertion than he was willing to make without due compensation. It could not be said that Abe was indolent; for he was alert, brisk, active, about every thing that he made up his mind to do. His step was very quick; and, when he had a sufficient object in view, he strode out on his long, muscular legs, swinging his bony arms as he moved along, with an energy that put miles behind him before a lazy fellow like Dennis Hanks or John Johnston could make up his mind to start. But, when he felt that he had time to spare, he preferred to give it to reading or to "talk;" and, of the two, he would take the latter, provided he could find a person who had something new or racy to say. He liked excessively to hear his own voice, when it was promoting fun and good fellowship; but he was also a most rare and attentive listener. Hunting was entirely too "still" an occupation for him.
Everybody around Abe made hunting a part of their routine. Tom Lincoln and Dennis Hanks certainly entertained him endlessly with amazing stories of their luck and skills; however, he wasn't really into hunting himself and didn't want to learn. It's true that, as a kid, he got lucky with a shot at a flock of wild turkeys through a crack in the wall of the "half-faced cabin," and that as an adult, he occasionally went raccoon hunting with Richardson or watched for deer with Turnham; but he was never a true sportsman. The hunting style in that wild area was solitary and unsocial, which didn't match his personality, and it required more effort than he was willing to put in without proper reward. It wouldn’t be fair to call Abe lazy; he was alert, lively, and active about everything he decided to do. He walked quickly, and when he had a clear goal in mind, he'd stride out on his long, strong legs, swinging his bony arms with an energy that left lazy guys like Dennis Hanks or John Johnston lagging behind as they pondered getting started. But when he felt like he had time to spare, he preferred to spend it reading or talking, and of the two, he preferred talking as long as he could find someone interesting to chat with. He really enjoyed hearing his own voice when it was about having fun and enjoying good company, but he was also an exceptionally rare and attentive listener. Hunting was way too quiet of an activity for him.
1 "No Indians there when I first went to Indiana: I say, no, none. I say this: bear, deer, turkey, and coon, wild-cats, and other things, and frogs."—Dennis Hanks. 2 "You say, What were some of the customs? I suppose you mean take us all together. One thing I can tell you about: we had to work very hard cleaning ground for to keep body and soul together; and every spare time we had we picked up our rifle, and brought in a fine deer or turkey; and in the winter-time we went a coon-hunting, for coon-skins were at that time considered legal tender, and deer-skins' and hams. I tell you, Billy, I enjoyed myself better then than I ever have since."—Dennis Hanks. 3 "No doubt about the A. Lincoln's killing the turkey. He done it with his father's rifle, made by William Lutes, of Bullitt County, Kentucky. I have killed a hundred deer with her myself; turkeys too numerous to mention."—Dennis Hanks.
1 "There were no Native Americans when I first went to Indiana: I mean, none at all. I say this: we had bears, deer, turkeys, raccoons, wildcats, and other animals, and frogs." — Dennis Hanks. 2 "You might be curious about some of the customs? I guess you want to know about us overall. One thing I can tell you: we worked really hard to clear land just to survive; and during any free time we had, we grabbed our rifles and hunted some nice deer or turkeys; in the winter, we went raccoon hunting because raccoon skins were considered money back then, along with deer skins and hams. I tell you, Billy, I had more fun back then than I ever have since." — Dennis Hanks. 3 "There's no doubt about Abraham Lincoln shooting that turkey. He did it with his father's rifle, made by William Lutes in Bullitt County, Kentucky. I've killed a hundred deer with that rifle myself; the number of turkeys is too many to count." — Dennis Hanks.
All manner of rustic sports were in vogue among the Pigeon Creek boys. Abe was especially formidable as a wrestler; and, from about 1828 onward, there was no man, far or near, that would give him a match. "Cat," "throwing the mall," "hopping and half-hammon" (whatsoever that may mean), and "four-corner bull-pen" were likewise athletic games in high honor.1
All kinds of country sports were popular among the Pigeon Creek boys. Abe was particularly tough as a wrestler, and from around 1828 onward, there wasn’t anyone nearby who could match him. "Cat," "throwing the mall," "hopping and half-hammon" (whatever that means), and "four-corner bull-pen" were also highly regarded athletic games.1
1 "You ask, What sort of plays? What we called them at that time were 'bull-pen,' 'corner and cat,' 'hopping and half- hammon;' playing at night 'old Sister Feby.' This I know, for I took a hand myself; and, wrestling, we could throw down anybody."—Dennis Hanks.
1 "You’re asking, What kind of plays? Back then, we called them 'bull-pen,' 'corner and cat,' and 'hopping and half-hammon;' and at night we played 'old Sister Feby.' I know this because I played too; and when it came to wrestling, we could take down anyone."—Dennis Hanks.
All sorts of frolics and all kinds of popular gatherings, whether for work or amusement, possessed irresistible attractions for Abe. He loved to see and be seen, to make sport and to enjoy it. It was a most important part of his education that he got at the corn-shuckings, the log-rollings, the shooting-matches, and the gay and jolly weddings of those early border times. He was the only man or boy within a wide compass who had learning enough to furnish the literature for such occasions; and those who failed to employ his talents to grace or commemorate the festivities they set on foot were sure to be stung by some coarse but humorous lampoon from his pen. In the social way, he would not suffer himself to be slighted with impunity; and, if there were any who did not enjoy his wit, they might content themselves with being the subjects of it. Unless he received some very pointed intimation that his presence was not wanted, he was among the first and earliest at all the neighborhood routs; and when his tall, singular figure was seen towering amongst the hunting-shirts, it was considered due notice that the fun was about to commence. "Abe Linkhern," as he was generally called, made things lively wherever he went: and, if Crawford's blue nose happened to have been carried to the assembly, it quickly subsided, on his arrival, into some obscure corner; for the implacable "Linkhern" was apt to make it the subject of a jest that would set the company in a roar. But when a party was made up, and Abe left out, as sometimes happened through the influence of Crawford, he sulked, fumed, "got mad," nursed his anger into rage, and then broke out in songs or "chronicles," which were frequently very bitter, sometimes passably humorous, and invariably vulgar.
Abe was drawn to all kinds of fun and popular social events, whether for work or pleasure. He loved to see and be seen, to have a good time and enjoy himself. Important parts of his education came from attending corn-shuckings, log-rollings, shooting matches, and the lively weddings of those early frontier days. He was the only person around with enough knowledge to provide the right literature for such events; those who didn’t use his skills to enhance or celebrate their parties would definitely face some rough but funny mockery from him. Socially, he wouldn’t let anyone overlook him without consequences; if there were those who didn’t appreciate his humor, they would simply become the targets of it. Unless he got some clear message that he wasn’t welcome, he was usually among the first to show up at neighborhood gatherings; and when his tall, unique figure appeared among the hunting shirts, it signaled that the fun was about to start. "Abe Linkhern," as he was commonly known, brought energy wherever he went: and if Crawford’s blue nose happened to be at the event, it quickly retreated to a corner when Abe arrived, because the relentless "Linkhern" would likely turn it into a joke that had everyone laughing. However, if he was left out of a gathering, which occasionally happened due to Crawford’s influence, he would sulk, fume, "get mad," nurse his anger into rage, and then burst into songs or "chronicles" that were often very bitter, sometimes somewhat funny, and always crude.
At an early age he began to attend the "preachings" roundabout, but principally at the Pigeon Creek church, with a view to catching whatever might be ludicrous in the preacher's air or matter, and making it the subject of mimicry as soon as he could collect an audience of idle boys and men to hear him. A pious stranger, passing that way on a Sunday morning, was invited to preach for the Pigeon Creek congregation; but he banged the boards of the old pulpit, and bellowed and groaned so wonderfully, that Abe could hardly contain his mirth. This memorable sermon was a great favorite with him; and he frequently reproduced it with nasal tones, rolling eyes, and all manner of droll aggravations, to the great delight of Nat Grigsby and the wild fellows whom Nat was able to assemble. None that heard him, not even Nat himself (who was any thing but dull), was ever able to show wherein Abe's absurd version really departed from the original.
At a young age, he started going to "preachings" nearby, especially at the Pigeon Creek church, looking to catch anything funny in the preacher's tone or content, so he could mimic it as soon as he gathered an audience of bored boys and men. One Sunday morning, a pious stranger passing through was invited to preach for the Pigeon Creek congregation; he slammed the pulpit and shouted and groaned so dramatically that Abe could barely hold back his laughter. This memorable sermon became a favorite of his, and he often recreated it with nasal voices, rolling eyes, and all kinds of humorous exaggerations, much to the delight of Nat Grigsby and the rowdy boys Nat managed to gather. No one who heard him, not even Nat himself (who was far from dull), could ever pinpoint how Abe's ridiculous version actually strayed from the original.
The importance of Gentryville, as a "centre of business," soon began to possess the imaginations of the dwellers between the two Pigeon Creeks. Why might it not be a great place of trade? Mr. Gentry was a most generous patron; it was advantageously situated where two roads crossed; it already had a blacksmith's shop, a grocery, and a store. Jones, it is true, had once moved away in a sulk, but Mr. Gentry's fine diplomacy had quickly brought him back, with all his goods and talents unreservedly devoted to the "improvement of the town;" and now, since there was literally nothing left to cloud the prospects of the "point," brisk times were expected in the near future.
The significance of Gentryville, as a "business hub," soon started to capture the imaginations of the people living between the two Pigeon Creeks. Why couldn't it become a major trading spot? Mr. Gentry was a very generous supporter; it was conveniently located at the crossroads of two roads; it already had a blacksmith's shop, a grocery store, and a general store. It's true that Jones had once left in a bad mood, but Mr. Gentry's excellent negotiation skills quickly brought him back, fully committed to the "betterment of the town;" and now, with absolutely nothing left to jeopardize the prospects of the "point," people were expecting an upsurge in activity soon.
Dennis Hanks, John Johnston, Abe, and the other boys in the neighborhood, loitered much about the store, the grocery, and the blacksmith's shop, at Gentryville. Dennis ingenuously remarks, "Sometimes we spent a little time at grog, pushing weights, wrestling, telling stories." The time that Abe "spent at grog" was, in truth, a "little time." He never liked ardent spirits at any period of his life; but "he did take his dram as others did."1 He was a natural politician, intensely ambitious, and anxious to be popular. For this reason, and this alone, he drank with his friends, although very temperately. If he could have avoided it without giving offence, he would gladly have done so. But he coveted the applause of his pot companions, and, because he could not get it otherwise, made a faint pretence of enjoying his liquor as they did. The "people" drank, and Abe was always for doing whatever the "people" did. All his life he held that whatsoever was popular—the habit or the sentiment of the masses—could not be essentially wrong. But, although a whiskey-jug was kept in every ordinarily respectable household, Abe never tasted it at home. His step-mother thought he carried his temperance to extremes.
Dennis Hanks, John Johnston, Abe, and the other neighborhood boys hung around the store, the grocery, and the blacksmith's shop in Gentryville. Dennis honestly said, "Sometimes we spent a little time at the tavern, lifting weights, wrestling, and telling stories." The time Abe "spent at the tavern" was, in reality, just a "little time." He never liked hard liquor at any point in his life, but "he did take his drink like everyone else."1 He was a natural politician, super ambitious, and wanted to be popular. For this reason, and this reason alone, he drank with his friends, though very moderately. If he could have avoided it without upsetting anyone, he would have happily done so. But he craved the approval of his drinking buddies, and since he couldn't get it any other way, he pretended to enjoy his drinks like they did. The "people" drank, and Abe always wanted to do whatever the "people" did. Throughout his life, he believed that whatever was popular—the habits or feelings of the masses—could not be fundamentally wrong. However, even though a whiskey jug was kept in every generally respectable household, Abe never drank it at home. His stepmother thought he took his temperance too far.
1 The fact is proved by his most intimate acquaintances, both at Gentryville and New Salem.
1 This fact is confirmed by his closest friends, both in Gentryville and New Salem.
Jones, the great Jones, without whom it was generally agreed that Gentryville must have gone into eclipse, but with whom, and through whom, it was somehow to become a sort of metropolitan cross-roads,—Jones was Abe's friend and mentor from the moment of their acquaintance. Abe is even said to have "clerked for him;" that is, he packed and unpacked boxes, ranged goods on the shelves, drew the liquids in the cellar, or exhibited the stone and earthen ware to purchasers; but in his service he was never promoted to keeping accounts, or even to selling the finer goods across the counter.1 But Mr. Jones was very fond of his "clerk,"—enjoyed his company, appreciated his humor, and predicted something great for him. As he did not doubt that Abe would one day be a man of considerable influence, he took pains to give him correct views of the nature of American institutions. An ardent Jackson man himself, he imparted to Abe the true faith, as delivered by that great democratic apostle; and the traces of this teaching were never wholly effaced from Mr. Lincoln's mind. Whilst he remained at Gentryville, his politics accorded with Mr. Jones's; and, even after he had turned Whig in Illinois, John Hanks tells us that he wanted to whip a man for traducing Jackson. He was an eager reader of newspapers whenever he could get them, and Mr. Jones carefully put into his hands the kind he thought a raw youth should have. But Abe's appetite was not to be satisfied by what Mr. Jones supplied; and he frequently borrowed others from "Uncle Wood," who lived about a mile from the Lincoln cabin, and for whom he sometimes worked.
Jones, the remarkable Jones, without whom it was generally agreed that Gentryville would have faded away, but with whom, and through whom, it was somehow set to become a kind of metropolitan crossroads—Jones was Abe's friend and mentor from the moment they met. It's said that Abe even "clerked for him," meaning he packed and unpacked boxes, arranged goods on shelves, drew liquids from the cellar, or showed stone and earthenware to customers; however, during his time there, he was never promoted to keeping accounts or even selling the better items at the counter. But Mr. Jones was very fond of his "clerk"—he enjoyed his company, appreciated his humor, and predicted great things for him. Believing that Abe would one day be a person of significant influence, he made an effort to give him a proper understanding of American institutions. A dedicated supporter of Jackson himself, he instilled in Abe the true belief as taught by that great democratic leader; and the effects of this teaching were never completely erased from Mr. Lincoln's mind. While he was in Gentryville, his political views aligned with Mr. Jones's; and even after he became a Whig in Illinois, John Hanks tells us that he wanted to fight a man for speaking ill of Jackson. He was an eager newspaper reader whenever he could get his hands on one, and Mr. Jones thoughtfully provided him with the kinds of papers he thought a young man should read. But Abe's hunger for reading wasn’t satisfied by what Mr. Jones offered; he often borrowed others from "Uncle Wood," who lived about a mile from the Lincoln cabin and for whom he sometimes worked.
1 "Lincoln drove a team, cut up pork, and sold goods for Jones. Jones told me that Lincoln read all his books, and I remember History of United States as one. Jones often said to me, that Lincoln would make a great man one of these days,—had said so long before, and to other people,—said so as far back as 1828-9.'"—Dougherty.
1 "Lincoln led a team, handled pork processing, and sold goods for Jones. Jones told me that Lincoln read all of his books, and I remember History of the United States being one of them. Jones frequently noted that Lincoln would become a great man someday—he mentioned it long before, to others as well—dating back to 1828-9.'"—Dougherty.
What manner of man kept the Gentryville grocery, we are not informed. Abe was often at his place, however, and would stay so long at nights, "telling stories" and "cracking jokes," that Dennis Hanks, who was ambitious in the same line, and probably jealous of Abe's overshadowing success, "got mad at him," and "cussed him." When Dennis found himself thrown in the shade, he immediately became virtuous, and wished to retire early.
What type of guy ran the Gentryville grocery, we don't know. However, Abe was often at his place and would stay so late at night, "telling stories" and "cracking jokes," that Dennis Hanks, who was also trying to make a name for himself in the same way and probably jealous of Abe's success, "got mad at him" and "cursed him." When Dennis realized he was being overshadowed, he quickly acted virtuous and wanted to leave early.
John Baldwin, the blacksmith, was one of Abe's special friends from his boyhood onward. Baldwin was a story-teller and a joker of rare accomplishments; and Abe, when a very little fellow, would slip off to his shop and sit and listen to him by the hour. As he grew up, the practice continued as of old, except that Abe soon began to exchange anecdotes with his clever friend at the anvil. Dennis Hanks says Baldwin was his "particular friend," and that "Abe spent a great deal of his leisure time with him." Statesmen, plenipotentiaries, famous commanders, have many times made the White House at Washington ring with their laughter over the quaint tales of John Baldwin, the blacksmith, delivered second-hand by his inimitable friend Lincoln.
John Baldwin, the blacksmith, was one of Abe's close friends since childhood. Baldwin was an exceptional storyteller and comedian, and young Abe would often sneak off to his shop to listen to him for hours. As he grew older, this tradition continued, though Abe soon started sharing stories of his own with his witty friend at the anvil. Dennis Hanks mentioned that Baldwin was his "particular friend" and that "Abe spent a lot of his free time with him." Statesmen, diplomats, and famous generals have often filled the White House in Washington with laughter from the unique tales of John Baldwin, as relayed by his unforgettable friend Lincoln.
Abe and Dave Turnham had one day been threshing wheat,—probably for Turnham's father,—and concluded to spend the evening at Gentryville. They lingered there until late in the night, when, wending their way along the road toward Lincoln's cabin, they espied something resembling a man lying dead or insensible by the side of a mud-puddle. They rolled the sleeper over, and found in him an old and quite respectable acquaintance, hopelessly drunk. All efforts failed to rouse him to any exertion on his own behalf. Abe's companions were disposed to let him lie in the bed he had made for himself; but, as the night was cold and dreary, he must have frozen to death had this inhuman proposition been equally agreeable to everybody present. To Abe it seemed utterly monstrous; and, seeing he was to have no help, he bent his mighty frame, and, taking the big man in his long arms, carried him a great distance to Dennis Hanks's cabin. There he built a fire, warmed, rubbed, and nursed him through the entire night,—his companions of the road having left him alone in his merciful task. The man often told John Hanks, that it was mighty "clever in Abe to tote him to a warm fire that cold night," and was very sure that Abe's strength and benevolence had saved his life.
Abe and Dave Turnham had one day been threshing wheat—probably for Turnham's father—and decided to spend the evening in Gentryville. They lingered there until late at night, when, making their way along the road toward Lincoln's cabin, they spotted something that looked like a man lying dead or passed out next to a mud puddle. They rolled the guy over and discovered an old acquaintance, hopelessly drunk. All attempts to wake him up were unsuccessful. Abe's friends wanted to leave him lying in the mess he had made for himself, but since the night was cold and dreary, he would have frozen to death if everyone had agreed with that inhumane idea. To Abe, it seemed completely outrageous, and realizing he wouldn’t get any help, he bent his strong frame and, taking the big man in his arms, carried him a long way to Dennis Hanks's cabin. There, he built a fire, warmed him up, rubbed him down, and took care of him all night—his road companions had left him alone in his kind effort. The man often told John Hanks that it was really "nice of Abe to carry him to a warm fire that cold night,” and he was sure that Abe's strength and kindness had saved his life.
Abe was fond of music, but was himself wholly unable to produce three harmonious notes together. He made various vain attempts to sing a few lines of "Poor old Ned," but they were all equally ludicrous and ineffectual. "Religious songs did not appear to suit him at all," says Dennis Hanks; but of profane ballads and amorous ditties he knew the words of a vast number. When Dennis got happy at the grocery, or passed the bounds of propriety at a frolic, he was in the habit of raising a charming carol in praise of the joys which enter into the Mussulman's estate on earth,—of which he has vouchsafed us only three lines,—
Abe loved music but couldn't sing more than three notes in harmony. He tried to sing a few lines of "Poor old Ned," but all his attempts were just laughable and ineffective. "Religious songs just didn’t seem to work for him at all," says Dennis Hanks; but he knew a ton of profane ballads and love songs by heart. When Dennis got cheerful at the grocery store or let loose at a party, he would often break into a delightful tune celebrating the joys of life on earth that the Muslim experience brings—of which he shared just three lines—
"The turbaned Turk that scorns the world, And struts about with his whiskers curled, For no other man but himself to see."
"The turbaned Turk who shuts himself off from the world, and walks around with his curled mustache, just for his own admiration."
It was a prime favorite of Abe's; and Dennis sang it with such appropriate zest and feeling, that Abe never forgot a single word of it while he lived.
It was one of Abe's all-time favorites, and Dennis sang it with such perfect enthusiasm and emotion that Abe remembered every single word for the rest of his life.
Another was,—
Another was,—
"Hail Columbia, happy land! If you ain't drunk, I'll be damned,"—
"Hail Columbia, joyful land! If you aren't drunk, I’ll be shocked,"—
a song which Dennis thinks should be warbled only in the "fields;" and tells us that they knew and enjoyed "all such [songs] as this." Dave Turnham was also a musical genius, and had a "piece" beginning,—
a song that Dennis thinks should only be sung in the "fields;" and tells us that they knew and enjoyed "all such [songs] as this." Dave Turnham was also a musical genius, and had a "piece" starting,—
"There was a Romish lady Brought up in popery,"
"There was a Catholic woman raised in the Catholic faith,"
which Abe thought one of the best he ever heard, and insisted upon Dave's singing it for the delectation of old Tom Lincoln, who relished it quite as much as Abe did.1
which Abe thought was one of the best he had ever heard, and insisted that Dave sing it for the enjoyment of old Tom Lincoln, who appreciated it just as much as Abe did.1
1 "I recollect some more:— 'Come, thou Fount of every blessing, Tune my heart to sing thy praise.' 'When I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies!' 'How tedious and tasteless the hours.' 'Oh! to grace how great a debtor!' Other little songs I won't say any thing about: they would not look well in print; but I could give them."—Dennis Hanks.
1 "I remember more:— 'Come, you Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing your praise.' 'When I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies!' 'How tedious and tasteless the hours.' 'Oh! to grace, how great a debtor!' There are other little songs I won’t mention; they wouldn’t look good in print, but I could share them."—Dennis Hanks.
Mrs. Crawford says, that Abe did not attempt to sing much about the house: he was probably afraid to indulge in such offensive gayeties in the very habitation of the morose Crawford. According to Dennis Hanks, his melody was not of the sort that hath power to charm the savage; and he was naturally timid about trying it upon Crawford. But, when he was freed from those chilling restraints, he put forth his best endeavors to render "one [song] that was called 'William Riley,' and one that was called 'John Anderson's Lamentations,' and one that was made about Gen. Jackson and John Adams, at the time they were nominated for the presidency."
Mrs. Crawford says that Abe didn’t really try to sing much at home: he was probably too scared to indulge in such cheerful activities in the gloomy Crawford household. According to Dennis Hanks, his singing wasn’t the kind that could enchant anyone; he was naturally hesitant to try it out on Crawford. But once he was free from those stifling restrictions, he did his best to perform "one song called 'William Riley,' another called 'John Anderson's Lamentations,' and one about Gen. Jackson and John Adams when they were nominated for president."
The Jackson song indicated clearly enough Abe's steadiness in the political views inculcated by Jones. Mrs. Crawford could recollect but a single stanza of it:—
The Jackson song clearly showed Abe's consistent political beliefs taught by Jones. Mrs. Crawford could remember only one verse of it:—
"Let auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind, And Jackson be our President, And Adams left behind."
"Let old friendships fade away, And never be recalled, And Jackson be our President, And Adams be a thing of the past."
In the text of "John Anderson's Lamentations,"—a most distressful lyric to begin with,—Abe was popularly supposed to have interpolated some lines of his own, which conclusively attested his genius for poetic composition. At all events, he sang it as follows:—
In the text of "John Anderson's Lamentations,"—a very sorrowful lyric to start with,—Abe was widely believed to have added some lines of his own, which clearly showed off his talent for writing poetry. In any case, he sang it like this:—
"O sinners! poor sinners, take warning by me: The fruits of transgression behold now, and see; My soul is tormented, my body confined, My friends and dear children left weeping behind. "Much intoxication my ruin has been, And my dear companion hath barbarously slain: In yonder cold graveyard the body doth lie; Whilst I am condemned, and shortly must die. "Remember John Anderson's death, and reform Before death overtakes you, and vengeance comes on. My grief's overwhelming; in God I must trust: I am justly condemned; my sentence is just. "I am waiting the summons in eternity to be hurled; Whilst my poor little orphans are cast on the world. I hope my kind neighbors their guardeens will be, And Heaven, kind Heaven, protect them and me."
"Oh, sinners! Poor sinners, take a lesson from me: Look at the results of your wrong choices. My soul is in torment, my body feels trapped, and my friends and dear children are left crying behind. "My heavy drinking has caused my downfall, and my dear friend has been brutally killed: In that cold graveyard lies the body; while I am condemned and will soon die. "Remember John Anderson's death, and change your ways before death finds you and retribution comes. My grief is overwhelming; I must place my trust in God: I am justly condemned; my punishment is fair. "I am waiting for the call to be sent into eternity; while my poor little orphans are left in this world. I hope my kind neighbors will take care of them, and may Heaven, kind Heaven, protect them and me."
In 1826 Abe's sister Nancy (or Sarah) was married to Aaron Grigsby; and the festivities of the occasion were made memorable by a song entitled, "Adam and Eve's Wedding Song," which many believed Abe had himself composed. The conceits embodied in the doggerel were old before Abe was born; but there is some intrinsic as well as extraneous evidence to show that the doggerel itself was his. It was sung by the whole Lincoln family, before Nancy's marriage and since, but by nobody else in the neighborhood.
In 1826, Abe's sister Nancy (or Sarah) got married to Aaron Grigsby, and the celebrations were made memorable by a song called "Adam and Eve's Wedding Song," which many believed Abe had written himself. The ideas in the song were old before Abe was even born, but there is some solid and external evidence suggesting that the lyrics were indeed his. It was sung by the entire Lincoln family, both before and after Nancy's wedding, but no one else in the area ever sang it.
ADAM AND EVE'S WEDDING SONG. When Adam was created, he dwelt in Eden's shade, As Moses has recorded, and soon an Eve was made. Ten thousand times ten thousand Of creatures swarmed around Before a bride was formed, And yet no mate was found. The Lord then was not willing The man should be alone, But caused a sleep upon him, And took from him a bone, And closed the flesh in that place of; And then he took the same, And of it made a woman, And brought her to the man. Then Adam he rejoiced To see his loving bride, A part of his own body, The product of his side. This woman was not taken From Adam's feet, we see; So he must not abuse her, The meaning seems to be. This woman was not taken From Adam's head, we know; To show she must not rule him, 'Tis evidently so. This woman she was taken From under Adam's arm; So she must be protected From injuries and harm.
ADAM AND EVE'S WEDDING SONG. When Adam was created, he lived in the shade of Eden, as recorded by Moses, and soon a woman named Eve was made. Countless creatures surrounded him, but before a bride was formed, he had no companion. The Lord didn’t want man to be alone, so He made Adam fall asleep and took a rib from him, closing up the flesh in that area. Then He created a woman from that rib and brought her to Adam. Adam was filled with joy at the sight of his loving bride, a part of his own body, made from his side. This woman wasn’t taken from Adam's feet, which suggests he must not mistreat her, as the meaning indicates. She wasn’t taken from Adam's head, suggesting she shouldn’t dominate him; that’s clear. This woman was taken from under Adam's arm, meaning she should be protected from harm and injury.
"It was considered at that time," says Mr. Richardson, "that Abe was the best penman in the neighborhood. One day, while he was on a visit at my mother's, I asked him to write some copies for me. He very willingly consented. He wrote several of them, but one of them I have never forgotten, although a boy at the time. It was this:—
"It was believed back then," Mr. Richardson says, "that Abe was the best writer in the area. One day, while he was visiting my mother, I asked him to write some copies for me. He happily agreed. He wrote several of them, but one I have never forgotten, even though I was just a boy at the time. It was this:—
'Good boys who to their books apply Will all be great men by and by.'"
"Good boys who concentrate on their studies will all grow up to be great men eventually."
Here are two original lines from Abe's own copy-book, probably the first he ever had, and which must not be confounded with the famous scrap-book in which his step-mother, lost in admiration of its contents, declares he "entered all things:"—
Here are two original lines from Abe's own notebook, probably the first one he ever had, and which should not be confused with the famous scrapbook in which his stepmother, amazed by its contents, claims he "wrote down everything:"—
"Abraham Lincoln, his hand and pen: He will be good, but God knows when."
"Abraham Lincoln, with his hand and pen: He will do well, but only God knows when."
Again,—
Again,
"Abraham Lincoln is my name, And with my pen I write the same: I will be a good boy, but God knows when."
"My name is Abraham Lincoln, and I write it with my pen: I will be a good boy, but only God knows when."
The same book contains the following, written at a later day, and with nothing to indicate that any part of it was borrowed:—
The same book includes the following, written later on, with no indication that any part of it was taken from elsewhere:—
"Time! what an empty vapor'tis! And days how swift they are! Swift as an Indian arrow, Fly on like a shooting-star. The present moment just is here, Then slides away in haste, That we can never say they're ours, But only say they are past."
"Time! What a fleeting thing it is! And how quickly the days pass! Fast as an Indian arrow, they zoom by like a shooting star. The present moment is right here, then it quickly passes, so we can never say it’s ours, but can only declare it’s in the past."
Abe wrote many "satires" and "chronicles," which are only remembered in fragments by a few old persons in the neighborhood. Even if we had them in full, they were most of them too indecent for publication. Such, at least, was the character of "a piece" which is said to have been "exceedingly humorous and witty," touching a church trial, wherein Brother Harper and Sister Gordon were the parties seeking judgment. It was very coarse, but it served admirably to raise a laugh in the grocery at the expense of the church.
Abe wrote many "satires" and "chronicles," which are only remembered in fragments by a few old folks in the neighborhood. Even if we had them in full, most were too inappropriate for publication. Such was the nature of "a piece" that was said to be "incredibly funny and clever," involving a church trial, where Brother Harper and Sister Gordon were the ones seeking judgment. It was quite vulgar, but it managed to get a good laugh in the grocery at the church's expense.
His chronicles were many, and on a great variety of subjects. They were written, as his early admirers love to tell us, "in the scriptural style;" but those we have betray a very limited acquaintance with the model. In these "chapters" was celebrated every event of importance that took place in the neighborhood: weddings, fights, Crawford's nose, Sister Gordon's innocence, Brother Harper's wit, were all served up, fresh and gross, for the amusement of the groundlings.
His accounts were numerous and covered a wide range of topics. They were written, as his early fans like to say, "in the scriptural style;" but the ones we have show a pretty shallow understanding of that style. In these "chapters," every notable event in the area was highlighted: weddings, fights, Crawford's nose, Sister Gordon's innocence, Brother Harper's wit, all presented raw and unfiltered for the entertainment of the common people.
Charles and Reuben Grigsby were married about the same time, and, being brothers, returned to their father's house with their brides upon the same day. The infare, the feast, the dance, the ostentatious retirement of the brides and grooms, were conducted in the old-fashioned way of all new countries in the United States, but a way which was bad enough to shock Squire Western himself. On this occasion Abe was not invited, and was very "mad" in consequence. This indignation found vent in a highly-spiced piece of descriptive writing, entitled "The Chronicles of Reuben," which are still in existence.
Charles and Reuben Grigsby got married around the same time, and as brothers, they returned to their dad's house with their wives on the same day. The celebrations—the feast, the dancing, the flashy departure of the couples—were done in the traditional style common in new territories of the United States, but it was shocking enough to surprise Squire Western himself. On this occasion, Abe wasn’t invited and was really upset about it. His anger was expressed in a colorful piece of writing called "The Chronicles of Reuben," which still exists today.
But even "The Chronicles," venomous and highly successful as they were, were totally insufficient to sate Abe's desire for vengeance on the Grigsbys. They were important people about Gentryville, and the social slight they had given him stung him bitterly. He therefore began on "Billy" in rhyme, after disposing of Charles and Reuben "in scriptural style." Mrs. Crawford attempted to repeat these verses to Mr. Herndon; but the good old lady had not proceeded far, when she blushed very red, and, saying that they were hardly decent, proposed to tell them to her daughter, who would tell them to her husband, who would write them down and send them to Mr. Herndon. They are probably much curtailed by Mrs. Crawford's modesty, but still it is impossible to transcribe them. We give what we can to show how the first steps of Abe's fame as a great writer were won. It must be admitted that the literary taste of the community in which these rhymes were popular could not have been very high.
But even though "The Chronicles" were sharp and quite popular, they weren’t enough to satisfy Abe's desire for revenge on the Grigsbys. They were well-known in Gentryville, and the social insult they had dealt him hurt him deeply. So, he started working on "Billy" in rhyme after dealing with Charles and Reuben "in a scriptural way." Mrs. Crawford tried to share these verses with Mr. Herndon; however, the poor lady didn’t get very far before she flushed bright red and, saying that they were hardly proper, suggested telling them to her daughter, who would then pass them on to her husband, who would write them down and send them to Mr. Herndon. They are probably quite shortened by Mrs. Crawford's modesty, but it’s still impossible to write them out. We share what we can to show how Abe began to gain fame as a prominent writer. It has to be acknowledged that the literary taste of the community where these rhymes were popular couldn't have been very high.
"I will tell you about Joel and Mary: it is neither a joke or a story, for Reuben and Charles has married two girls, but Billy has married a boy." "The girls he had tried on every side, But none could he get to agree: All was in vain; he went home again, And, since that, he is married to Natty. "So Billy and Natty agreed very well, And mamma's well pleased at the match: The egg it is laid, but Natty's afraid The shell is so soft it never will hatch; But Betsey she said, 'You cursed bald head, My suitor you never can be; Besides'"——
"Let me tell you about Joel and Mary: it's neither a joke nor a story, because Reuben and Charles both married girls, but Billy married a guy." "He tried to win over every girl, but none wanted him: It was all a waste; he went home empty-handed, and since then, he's married Natty." "Billy and Natty get along really well, and Mom is happy about the match: The egg is laid, but Natty's worried that the shell is so soft it might never hatch; But Betsey said, 'You bald head, you can never be my suitor; Besides'"——
Abe dropped "The Chronicles" at a point on the road where he was sure one of the Grigsbys would find them. The stratagem succeeded, and that delicate "satire" produced the desired effect. The Grigsbys were infuriated,—wild with a rage which would be satisfied only when Abe's face should be pounded into a jelly, and a couple of his ribs cracked by some member of the injured family. Honor, according to the Pigeon Creek code, demanded that somebody should be "licked" in expiation of an outrage so grievous,—if not Abe, then some friend of Abe's, whom he would depute to stand the brunt in his stead. "Billy," the eldest of the brothers, was selected to challenge him. Abe accepted generally; that is, agreed that there should be a fight about the matter in question. It was accordingly so ordered: the ground was selected a mile and a half from Gentryville, a ring was marked out, and the bullies for twenty miles around attended. The friends of both parties were present in force, and excitement ran high. When the time arrived for the champions to step into the ring, Abe displayed his chivalry in a manner that must have struck the bystanders with admiration. He announced, that whereas Billy was confessedly his inferior in size, shape, and talents, unable to hit with pen or fist with any thing like his power, therefore he would forego the advantage which the challenge gave him, and "turn over" his stepbrother, John Johnston, to do battle in his behalf. If this near relative should be sacrificed, he would abide the issue: he was merely anxious to see a fair and honorable fight. This proposition was considered highly meritorious, and the battle commenced on those general terms. John started out with fine pluck and spirit; but in a little while Billy got in some clever hits, and Abe began to exhibit symptoms of great uneasiness. Another pass or two, and John flagged quite decidedly, and it became evident that Abe was anxiously casting about for some pretext to break the ring. At length, when John was fairly down, and Billy on top, and all the spectators cheering, swearing, and pressing up to the very edge of the ring, Abe cried out that "Bill Boland showed foul play," and, bursting out of the crowd, seized Grigsby by the heels, and flung him off. Having righted John, and cleared the battle-ground of all opponents, "he swung a whiskey-bottle over his head, and swore that he was the big buck of the lick." It seems that nobody of the Grigsby faction, not one in that large assembly of bullies, cared to encounter the sweep of Abe's tremendously long and muscular arms; and so he remained master of the "lick." He was not content, however, with a naked triumph, but vaunted himself in the most offensive manner. He singled out the victorious but cheated Billy, and, making sundry hostile demonstrations, declared that he could whip him then and there. Billy meekly said "he did not doubt that," but that, if Abe would make things even between them by fighting with pistols, he would not be slow to grant him a meeting. But Abe replied that he was not going "to fool away his life on a single shot;" and so Billy was fain to put up with the poor satisfaction he had already received.
Abe dropped "The Chronicles" at a spot on the road where he was sure one of the Grigsbys would find it. The trick worked, and that delicate "satire" had the desired effect. The Grigsbys were furious, filled with a rage that would only be satisfied when Abe's face was smashed to a pulp, and a couple of his ribs were cracked by a member of the injured family. Honor, according to the Pigeon Creek code, demanded that someone should be "punished" for such a severe offense — if not Abe, then one of his friends, whom he would send to take the beating in his place. "Billy," the eldest of the brothers, was chosen to challenge him. Abe generally accepted; that is, he agreed that there would be a fight over the matter at hand. It was settled: the location was decided a mile and a half from Gentryville, a ring was drawn, and bullies from twenty miles around showed up. Friends of both sides came in droves, and excitement was high. When the time came for the fighters to step into the ring, Abe showed his chivalry in a way that must have impressed the bystanders. He announced that since Billy was clearly his inferior in size, shape, and skills, unable to hit with pen or fist anywhere near his strength, he would give up the advantage that the challenge gave him and "turn over" his stepbrother, John Johnston, to fight on his behalf. If this close relative ended up getting hurt, he would accept the outcome: he just wanted to see a fair and honorable fight. This suggestion was seen as very honorable, and the battle started on those terms. John came out strong and spirited; but soon, Billy landed some good hits, and Abe started to look very uneasy. After another round or two, John clearly started to tire, and it became obvious that Abe was desperately looking for a reason to stop the fight. Eventually, when John was on the ground with Billy on top, and all the spectators were cheering, swearing, and crowding toward the ring, Abe shouted that "Bill Boland was cheating" and burst out of the crowd, grabbing Grigsby by the heels and throwing him off. Once he helped John back up and cleared the area of all opponents, "he swung a whiskey bottle over his head and declared that he was the king of the fight." It seemed that no one from the Grigsby side, not one person in that large group of bullies, wanted to face the sweep of Abe's incredibly long and strong arms; so he remained the master of the fight. However, he wasn’t satisfied with just a clear victory but boasted in the most obnoxious way. He singled out the victorious but cheated Billy, and, making several hostile gestures, claimed he could beat him right then and there. Billy calmly replied that he didn’t doubt that, but if Abe could make it even between them by fighting with pistols, he would gladly meet him. But Abe said he wasn’t going to waste his life on a single shot; so Billy had to settle for the meager satisfaction he had already gotten.
At Gentryville "they had exhibitions or speaking meetings." Some of the questions they spoke on were, The Bee and the Ant, Water and Fire: another was, Which had the most right to complain, the Negro or the Indian? Another, "Which was the strongest, Wind or Water?"1 The views which Abe then entertained on the Indian and the negro question would be intensely interesting now. But just fancy him discoursing on wind and water! What treasures of natural science, what sallies of humor, he must have wasted upon that audience of bumpkins! A little farther on, we shall see that Abe made pretensions to an acquaintance with the laws of nature which was considered marvellous in that day and generation.
At Gentryville, "they had exhibitions or speaking meetings." Some of the topics they discussed included The Bee and the Ant, Water and Fire; another was, Which had the most right to complain, the Black person or the Native American? Yet another was, "Which was stronger, Wind or Water?" The views that Abe had at that time on the questions concerning Native Americans and Black people would be fascinating to explore today. Just imagine him talking about wind and water! What insights into natural science, along with moments of humor, he must have shared with that audience of country folk! A little further along, we’ll see that Abe claimed a knowledge of the laws of nature that was considered remarkable for that time.
1 "Lincoln did write what is called 'The Book of Chronicles,'—a satire on the Grigs-bys and Josiah Crawford,—not the schoolmaster, but the man who loaned Lincoln 'The Life of Washington.' The satire was good, sharp, cutting: it hurt us then, but it is all over now. There is no family in the land who, after this, loved Lincoln so well, and who now look upon him as so great a man. We all voted for him,—all that could,—children and grandchildren, first, last, and always."—Nat Grigsby.
1 "Lincoln wrote what’s known as 'The Book of Chronicles,'—a satire about the Grigsbys and Josiah Crawford,—not the schoolmaster, but the guy who lent Lincoln 'The Life of Washington.' The satire was sharp and pointed: it hurt us back then, but that's all in the past now. There isn’t a family in the country that loved Lincoln more after this, and who now sees him as such a great man. We all voted for him,—everyone who could,—children and grandchildren, first, last, and always."—Nat Grigsby.
Dennis Hanks insists that Abe and he became learned men and expert disputants, not by a course of judicious reading, but by attending "speech-makings, gatherings," &c.
Dennis Hanks insists that Abe and he became educated and skilled debaters, not by careful reading, but by attending "speech events, gatherings," etc.
"How did Lincoln and yourself learn so much in Indiana under such disadvantages?" said Mr. Herndon to Dennis, on one of his two oral examinations. The question was artfully put; for it touched the jaunty Dennis on the side of his vanity, and elicited a characteristic reply. "We learned," said he, "by sight, scent, and hearing. We heard all that was said, and talked over and over the questions heard; wore them slick, greasy, and threadbare. Went to political and other speeches and gatherings, as you do now: we would hear all sides and opinions, talk them over, discuss them, agreeing or disagreeing. Abe, as I said before, was originally a Democrat after the order of Jackson, so was his father, so we all were.... He preached, made speeches, read for us, explained to us, &c.... Abe was a cheerful boy, a witty boy, was humorous always; sometimes would get sad, not very often.... Lincoln would frequently make political and other speeches to the boys: he was calm, logical, and clear always. He attended trials, went to court always, read the Revised Statute of Indiana, dated 1824, heard law speeches, and listened to law trials, &c. Lincoln was lazy, a very lazy man. He was always reading, scribbling, writing, ciphering, writing poetry, and the like.... In Gentryville, about one mile west of Thomas Lincoln's farm, Lincoln would go and tell his jokes and stories, &c., and was so odd, original, and humorous and witty, that all the people in town would gather around him. He would keep them there till midnight. I would get tired, want to go home, cuss Abe most heartily. Abe was a good talker, a good reader, and was a kind of newsboy."
"How did you and Lincoln learn so much in Indiana despite the challenges?" Mr. Herndon asked Dennis during one of his two oral exams. The question was cleverly phrased; it tapped into Dennis's pride and prompted a telling response. "We learned," he said, "through our senses. We listened to everything that was said and discussed the questions repeatedly; we worked them over until they felt worn and familiar. We went to political speeches and events, just like you do now: we heard different viewpoints and debated them, whether we agreed or disagreed. Abe, as I mentioned before, was originally a Democrat in the tradition of Jackson, and so was his father, and so were we all... He preached, gave speeches, read to us, and explained things... Abe was a cheerful and witty kid, always humorous; he would sometimes get a bit sad, but not often... Lincoln often delivered political speeches to us boys; he was always calm, logical, and clear. He attended trials and court, read the Revised Statute of Indiana from 1824, listened to legal speeches, and sat in on trials, among other things. Lincoln was lazy, really lazy. He was always reading, scribbling, writing, doing math, and composing poetry, among other activities... In Gentryville, about a mile west of Thomas Lincoln's farm, Lincoln would go and share his jokes and stories, and he was so quirky, original, and funny that everyone in town would gather around him. He would keep them entertained until midnight. I would get tired and want to go home, cursing Abe under my breath. Abe was a great speaker, a good reader, and a bit of a newsboy."
Boonville was the court-house town of Warrick County, and was situated about fifteen miles from Gentryville. Thither Abe walked whenever he had time to be present at the sittings of the court, where he could learn something of public business, amuse himself profitably, and withal pick up items of news and gossip, which made him an interesting personage when he returned home. During one of these visits he watched, with profound attention, the progress of a murder trial, in which a Mr. John Breckenridge was counsel for the defence. At the conclusion of the latter's speech, Abe, who had listened, literally entranced, accosted the man of eloquence, and ventured to compliment him on the success of his effort. "Breckenridge looked at the shabby boy" in amazement, and passed on his way. But many years afterwards, in 1862, when Abe was President, and Breckenridge a resident of Texas, probably needing executive clemency, they met a second time; when Abe said, "It was the best speech that I up to that time had ever heard. If I could, as I then thought, make as good a speech as that, my soul would be satisfied."
Boonville was the county seat of Warrick County and was located about fifteen miles from Gentryville. Abe would walk there whenever he had time to attend court sessions, where he could learn about public affairs, have some productive fun, and pick up news and gossip that made him interesting when he returned home. During one of these visits, he watched intently as a murder trial unfolded, with Mr. John Breckenridge serving as the defense attorney. At the end of Breckenridge's speech, Abe, who had listened in fascination, approached the eloquent man to compliment him on his success. "Breckenridge looked at the ragged boy" in surprise and continued on his way. But many years later, in 1862, when Abe was President and Breckenridge was living in Texas, likely seeking a pardon, they met again. Abe said, "That was the best speech I had ever heard up to that point. If I could, as I thought back then, give a speech as good as that, my soul would be satisfied."
It is a curious fact, that through all Abe's childhood and boyhood, when he seemed to have as little prospect of the Presidency as any boy that ever was born, he was in the habit of saying, and perhaps sincerely believing, that that great prize would one day be his. When Mrs. Crawford reproved him for "fooling," and bedevilling the girls in her kitchen, and asked him "what he supposed would ever become of him," he answered that "he was going to be President of the United States."1
It’s an interesting fact that throughout Abe's childhood and adolescence, when he appeared to have as little chance of becoming President as any boy ever born, he often said, and perhaps genuinely believed, that one day that great prize would be his. When Mrs. Crawford scolded him for "messing around" and annoying the girls in her kitchen, and asked him "what he thought would ever become of him," he replied that "he was going to be President of the United States."1
1 He frequently made use of similar expressions to several others.
1 He often used phrases that were similar to many others.
Abe usually did the milling for the family, and had the neighbor boy, Dave Turnham, for his companion. At first they had to go a long distance, at least twelve or thirteen miles, to Hoffman's, on Anderson's Creek; but after a while a Mr. Gordon (the husband of Sister Gordon, about whom the "witty piece" was written) built a horse-mill within a few miles of the Lincolns. Here Abe had come one day with a grist, and Dave probably with him. He had duly hitched his "old mare," and started her with great impatience; when, just as he was sounding another "cluck," to stir up her imperturbable and lazy spirit, she let out with her heels, and laid Abe sprawling and insensible on the ground. He was taken up in that condition, and did not recover for many minutes; but the first use made of returning sense was to finish the interrupted "cluck." He and Mr. Herndon had many learned discussions in their quiet little office, at Springfield, respecting this remarkable phenomenon, involving so nice a question in "psychology."
Abe usually did the milling for his family, and he took the neighbor boy, Dave Turnham, along with him. At first, they had to travel quite a distance, about twelve or thirteen miles, to Hoffman's at Anderson's Creek; but after a while, a Mr. Gordon (the husband of Sister Gordon, who was the subject of the "witty piece") built a horse-mill just a few miles from the Lincolns. One day, Abe came to the mill with a load, and Dave was probably with him. He had tied up his "old mare" and, feeling quite impatient, tried to get her moving; but just as he was making another "cluck" to motivate her lazy spirit, she kicked out her back legs, sending Abe sprawling and unconscious on the ground. He was taken up in that state and didn't come to for several minutes; but when he finally regained consciousness, the first thing he did was finish the interrupted "cluck." He and Mr. Herndon had many deep discussions in their quiet little office in Springfield about this remarkable incident, which raised some interesting questions in "psychology."
Mr. William Wood, already referred to as "Uncle Wood," was a genuine friend and even a patron of Abe's. He lived only about a mile and a half from the Lincolns, and frequently had both old Tom and Abe to work for him,—the one as a rough carpenter, and the other as a common laborer. He says that Abe was in the habit of carrying "his pieces" to him for criticism and encouragement. Mr. Wood took at least two newspapers,—one of them devoted to politics, and one of them to temperance. Abe borrowed them both, and, reading them faithfully over and over again, was inspired with an ardent desire to write something on the subjects of which they treated. He accordingly composed an article on temperance, which Mr. Wood thought "excelled, for sound sense, any thing that the paper contained." It was forwarded, through the agency of a Baptist preacher, to an editor in Ohio, by whom it was published, to the infinite gratification of Mr. Wood and his protégé. Abe then tried his hand on "national politics," saying that "the American Government was the best form of government for an intelligent people; that it ought to be kept sound, and preserved forever; that general education should be fostered and carried all over the country; that the Constitution should be saved, the Union perpetuated, and the laws revered, respected, and enforced." This article was consigned, like the other, to Mr. Wood, to be ushered by him before the public. A lawyer named Pritchard chanced to pass that way, and, being favored with a perusal of Abe's "piece," pithily and enthusiastically declared, "The world can't beat it." "He begged for it," and it was published in some obscure paper; this new success causing the author a most extraordinary access of pride and happiness.
Mr. William Wood, also known as "Uncle Wood," was a true friend and even a supporter of Abe. He lived about a mile and a half away from the Lincolns and often hired both old Tom and Abe to work for him—one as a carpenter and the other as a laborer. He mentioned that Abe would bring his writings to him for feedback and encouragement. Mr. Wood subscribed to at least two newspapers—one focused on politics and the other on temperance. Abe borrowed both and read them repeatedly, which inspired him to write about those topics. He wrote an article on temperance that Mr. Wood believed "was better, in terms of common sense, than anything else in the paper." With the help of a Baptist preacher, it was sent to an editor in Ohio, who published it, much to the delight of Mr. Wood and his protégé. Abe then tackled "national politics," arguing that "the American Government is the best system for an educated population; it should be maintained and preserved forever; general education should be promoted nationwide; the Constitution should be upheld, the Union maintained, and the laws respected and enforced." This piece was also given to Mr. Wood to present to the public. A lawyer named Pritchard happened by, read Abe's "piece," and enthusiastically exclaimed, "The world can't beat it." He requested to publish it, and it appeared in some lesser-known paper; this new achievement filled the author with an extraordinary sense of pride and happiness.
But in 1828 Abe had become very tired of his home. He was now nineteen years of age, and becoming daily more restive under the restraints of servitude which bound him. He was anxious to try the world for himself, and make his way according to his own notions. "Abe came to my house one day," says Mr. Wood, "and stood round about, timid and shy. I knew he wanted something, and said to him, 'Abe, what's your case?' He replied, 'Uncle, I want you to go to the river, and give me some recommendation to some boat.' I remarked, 'Abe, your age is against you: you are not twenty yet.' 'I know that, but I want a start,' said Abe. I concluded not to go for the boy's good." Poor Abe! old Tom still had a claim upon him, which even Uncle Wood would not help him to evade. He must wait a few weary months more before he would be of age, and could say he was his own man, and go his own way. Old Tom was a hard taskmaster to him, and, no doubt, consumed the greater part, if not all, of his wages.
But in 1828, Abe was really tired of his home. He was now nineteen years old and becoming increasingly restless under the constraints of servitude that held him back. He was eager to explore the world on his own and pursue his own path. "Abe came to my house one day," says Mr. Wood, "and hung around, looking timid and shy. I could tell he wanted something, so I asked him, 'Abe, what's going on?' He replied, 'Uncle, I want you to go to the river and give me a recommendation to some boat.' I said, 'Abe, your age is against you: you aren't even twenty yet.' 'I know that, but I want a chance,' said Abe. I decided it would be best not to help the boy." Poor Abe! Old Tom still had a claim on him that even Uncle Wood wouldn't help him escape. He would have to wait a few more exhausting months before he turned of age, could declare himself his own man, and follow his own path. Old Tom was a tough taskmaster, and no doubt took most, if not all, of his wages.
In the beginning of March, 1828, Abe went to work for old Mr. Gentry, the proprietor of Gentryville. Early in the next month, the old gentleman furnished his son Allen with a boat, and a cargo of bacon and other produce, with which he was to go on a trading expedition to New Orleans, unless the stock was sooner exhausted. Abe, having been found faithful and efficient, was employed to accompany the young man as a "bow-hand," to work the "front oars." He was paid eight dollars per month, and ate and slept on board. Returning, Gentry paid his passage on the deck of a steamboat.
In early March 1828, Abe started working for Mr. Gentry, the owner of Gentryville. By early April, the old man provided his son Allen with a boat and a load of bacon and other goods for a trading trip to New Orleans, unless the supplies ran out first. Since Abe had proven to be reliable and hardworking, he was hired to go along as a "bow-hand" to handle the "front oars." He was paid eight dollars a month and lived on the boat. On the way back, Gentry covered his fare on a steamboat.
While this boat was loading at Gentry's Landing, near Rockport, on the Ohio, Abe saw a great deal of the pretty Miss Roby, whom he had saved from the wrath of Crawford the schoolmaster, when she failed to spell "defied." She says, "Abe was then a long, thin, leggy, gawky boy, dried up and shrivelled." This young lady subsequently became the wife of Allen Gentry, Abe's companion in the projected voyage. She probably felt a deep interest in the enterprise in hand, for the very boat itself seems to have had attractions for her. "One evening," says she, "Abe and I were sitting on the banks of the Ohio, or rather on the boat spoken of: I said to Abe that the sun was going down. He said to me, 'That's not so: it don't really go down; it seems so. The earth turns from west to east, and the revolution of the earth carries us under as it were: we do the sinking as you call it. The sun, as to us, is comparatively still; the sun's sinking is only an appearance.' I replied, 'Abe, what a fool you are!' I know now that I was the fool, not Lincoln. I am now thoroughly satisfied that Abe knew the general laws of astronomy and the movements of the heavenly bodies. He was better read then than the world knows, or is likely to know exactly. No man could talk to me that night as he did, unless he had known something of geography as well as astronomy. He often and often commented or talked to me about what he had read,—seemed to read it out of the book as he went along,—did so to others. He was the learned boy among us unlearned folks. He took great pains to explain; could do it so simply. He was diffident then too." 1
While this boat was loading at Gentry's Landing, near Rockport on the Ohio, Abe spent a lot of time with the lovely Miss Roby, whom he saved from the wrath of Mr. Crawford, the schoolmaster, when she got "defied" wrong. She says, "Abe was just a tall, skinny, awkward boy, all dried up and wrinkly." This young lady later married Allen Gentry, who was Abe's companion on the upcoming voyage. She probably had a strong interest in the venture, as the very boat seemed to have caught her attention. "One evening," she recalls, "Abe and I were sitting on the banks of the Ohio, or rather on that same boat. I pointed out to Abe that the sun was setting. He replied, 'That's not true: it doesn't really go down; it just appears that way. The earth turns from west to east, and as the earth rotates, it kind of carries us under: we’re the ones sinking, as you say. To us, the sun is relatively stationary; its sinking is merely an illusion.' I shot back, 'Abe, what an idiot you are!' Now I realize that I was the fool, not Lincoln. I'm completely convinced that Abe understood the general laws of astronomy and the movements of celestial bodies. He was much better read than the world knows, or is ever likely to know. No one could talk to me that night the way he did unless they had some knowledge of geography in addition to astronomy. He frequently shared insights or discussions about what he had read—seemed to quote from books as he went along—and did the same with others. He was the educated one among us uneducated folks. He made a real effort to explain things; he could do it so clearly. He was also quite humble back then."
The trip of Gentry and Lincoln was a very profitable one, and Mr. Gentry, senior, was highly gratified by the result. Abe displayed his genius for mercantile affairs by handsomely putting off on the innocent folks along the river some counterfeit money which a shrewd fellow had imposed upon Allen. Allen thought his father would be angry with him for suffering himself to be cheated; but Abe consoled him with the reflection that the "old man" wouldn't care how much bad money they took in the course of business if they only brought the proper amount of good money home.2
The trip that Gentry and Lincoln took was really successful, and Mr. Gentry, senior, was very pleased with the outcome. Abe showed his talent for business by cleverly passing off some counterfeit money to the unsuspecting people along the river, which a clever guy had tricked Allen into accepting. Allen worried that his father would be mad at him for getting cheated; but Abe reassured him by saying that the "old man" wouldn’t mind how much fake money they dealt with as long as they brought back the right amount of real money.2
1 "When he appeared in company, the boys would gather and cluster around him to hear him talk.... Mr. Lincoln was figurative in his speeches, talks, and conversations. He argued much from analogy, and explained things hard for us to understand by stories, maxims, tales, and figures. He would almost always point his lesson or idea by some story that was plain and near us, that we might instantly see the force and bearing of what he said."—Nat Grigsby. 2 "Gentry (Allen) was a great personal friend of Mr. Lincoln. He was a Democrat, but voted for Lincoln, sacrificing his party politics to his friendship. He says that on that trip they sold some of their produce at a certain landing, and by accident or fraud the bill was paid in counterfeit money. Gentry was grieving about it; but Lincoln said, 'Never mind, Allen: it will accidentally slip out of our fingers before we get to New Orleans, and then old Jim can't quarrel at us.' Sure enough, it all went off like hot cakes. I was told this in Indiana by many people about Rockport."—Herndon. It must be remembered that counterfeit money was the principal currency along the river at this period.
1 "Whenever he joined a group, the boys would gather around him to listen. Mr. Lincoln often used vivid imagery in his speeches, discussions, and conversations. He frequently made his arguments using analogies and simplified complex ideas with stories, sayings, and illustrations. He usually backed up his lesson or idea with a straightforward and relatable story, so we could immediately grasp the impact of what he was saying."—Nat Grigsby. 2 "Gentry (Allen) was a close friend of Mr. Lincoln. He was a Democrat but decided to vote for Lincoln, prioritizing their friendship over his political beliefs. He mentioned that during a trip, they sold some produce at a certain landing, and due to a mistake or dishonesty, they were paid with counterfeit money. Gentry was upset about it, but Lincoln said, 'Don't worry, Allen: it will probably slip out of our hands before we reach New Orleans, and then old Jim can't hold it against us.' Sure enough, it all went like hotcakes. I heard this from many people in Indiana around Rockport."—Herndon. It's important to note that counterfeit money was the primary currency along the river during this time.
At Madame Bushane's plantation, six miles below Baton Rouge, they had an adventure, which reads strangely enough in the life of the great emancipator. The boat was tied up to the shore, in the dead hours of the night, and Abe and Allen were fast asleep in the "cabin," in the stern, when they were startled by footsteps on board. They knew instantly that it was a gang of negroes come to rob, and perhaps to murder them. Allen, thinking to frighten the intruders, cried out, "Bring the guns, Lincoln; shoot them!" Abe came without a gun, but he fell among the negroes with a huge bludgeon, and belabored them most cruelly. Not content with beating them off the boat, he and Gentry followed them far back into the country, and then, running back to their craft, hastily cut loose and made rapid time down the river, fearing lest they should return in greater numbers to take revenge. The victory was complete; but, in winning it, Abe received a scar which he carried with him to his grave.
At Madame Bushane's plantation, six miles south of Baton Rouge, they had an adventure that seems pretty strange in the life of the great emancipator. The boat was tied up to the shore in the dead of night, and Abe and Allen were fast asleep in the "cabin" at the stern when they were startled by footsteps on board. They immediately recognized it was a group of black men come to rob them, and maybe even to kill them. Allen, trying to scare off the intruders, shouted, "Get the guns, Lincoln; shoot them!" Abe came out without a gun but jumped into the fray with a big bludgeon and fought them off fiercely. Not satisfied with just driving them off the boat, he and Gentry chased them deep into the countryside, and then, running back to their boat, quickly cut loose and sped down the river, worried they might come back with more people for revenge. The victory was total; however, in the process, Abe got a scar that he carried with him to the grave.
"When he was eighteen years old, he conceived the project of building a little boat, and taking the produce of the Lincoln farm down the river to market. He had learned the use of tools, and possessed considerable mechanical talent, as will appear in some other acts of his life. Of the voyage and its results, we have no knowledge; but an incident occurred before starting which he related in later life to his Secretary of State, Mr. Seward, that made a very marked and pleasant impression upon his memory. As he stood at the landing, a steamer approached, coming down the river. At the same time two passengers came to the river's bank who wished to be taken out to the packet with their luggage. Looking among the boats at the landing, they singled out Abraham's, and asked him to scull them to the steamer. This he did; and, after seeing them and their trunks on board, he had the pleasure of receiving upon the bottom of his boat, before he shoved off, a silver half-dollar from each of his passengers. 'I could scarcely believe my eyes,' said Mr. Lincoln, in telling the story. 'You may think it was a very little thing,' continued he, 'but it was a most important incident in my life. I could scarcely believe that I, a poor boy, had earned a dollar in less than a day. The world seemed wider and fairer to me. I was a more hopeful and confident being from that time.'"1 If Mr. Lincoln ever made the statement for which Mr. Seward is given as authority, he drew upon his imagination for the facts. He may have sculled passengers to a steamer when he was ferryman for Taylor, but he never made a trip like the one described; never built a boat until he went to Illinois; nor did he ever sell produce on his father's account, for the good reason that his father had none to sell.
"When he was eighteen, he came up with the idea to build a small boat and take the produce from the Lincoln farm down the river to sell at market. He had learned how to use tools and had a good amount of mechanical skill, as will be shown in other parts of his life. We don’t know how the voyage turned out, but an incident happened before he set off that he later shared with his Secretary of State, Mr. Seward, which left a strong and positive mark on his memory. As he stood at the dock, a steamer came down the river. At the same time, two passengers arrived at the riverbank and wanted to be taken out to the packet with their luggage. Scanning the boats at the dock, they picked Abraham's boat and asked him to row them to the steamer. He did that, and after helping them and their bags on board, he had the joy of receiving a silver half-dollar from each of his passengers before he pushed off. 'I could hardly believe my eyes,' Mr. Lincoln said while recounting the story. 'You might think it was just a little thing,' he continued, 'but it was a significant moment in my life. I could hardly believe that I, a poor boy, had made a dollar in less than a day. The world seemed bigger and better to me. From that moment on, I felt more hopeful and confident.' If Mr. Lincoln ever made the statement attributed to Mr. Seward, he must have relied on his imagination for the details. He may have rowed passengers to a steamer when he was a ferryman for Taylor, but he never took a trip like the one described; he didn't build a boat until he moved to Illinois; and he never sold produce on his father's behalf, simply because his father had none to sell."
1 Holland's Life of Lincoln, p. 33.
1 Holland's Life of Lincoln, p. 33.
CHAPTER III.
ABE and Gentry returned from New Orleans some time in June, 1828, having been gone not quite three months. How much longer he remained in the service of Gentry, or whether he remained at all, we are unable to say; but he soon took up his old habits, and began to work around among his neighbors, or for his father, precisely as he had done before he got his partial glimpse of the great world down the river.
ABE and Gentry came back from New Orleans sometime in June 1828, after being away for almost three months. We can't say how much longer he stayed with Gentry, or if he stayed at all; but he quickly fell back into his old routines and started working with his neighbors or for his father, just like he did before he got a glimpse of the wider world down the river.
In the fall of 1829, Mr. Wood saw him cutting down a large tree in the woods, and whip-sawing it into planks. Abe said the lumber was for a new house his father was about to build; but Tom Lincoln changed his mind before the house was half done, and Abe sold his plank to Josiah Crawford, "the book man," who worked them into the south-east room of his house, where relic-seekers have since cut pieces from them to make canes.
In the fall of 1829, Mr. Wood saw him cutting down a large tree in the woods and sawing it into planks. Abe said the lumber was for a new house his father was about to build; but Tom Lincoln changed his mind before the house was half finished, and Abe sold his planks to Josiah Crawford, "the book man," who incorporated them into the southeast room of his house, where treasure hunters have since cut pieces from them to make canes.
In truth, the continued prevalence of that dreadful disease, the milk-sickness, with which Nancy Hanks and the Sparrows and the Halls had all died, was more than a sufficient reason for a new removal, now in contemplation by Thomas Lincoln. Every member of his family, from the first settlement in Indiana, except perhaps Abe and himself, had suffered with it. The cattle, which, it is true, were of little pecuniary value, and raised with great ease and little cost, were swept away by it in great numbers throughout the whole neighborhood. It was an awful scourge, and common prudence suggested flight. It is wonderful that it took a constitutional mover thirteen years to make up his mind to escape from it.1
Honestly, the ongoing presence of that awful disease, milk sickness, which had caused the deaths of Nancy Hanks and the Sparrows and the Halls, was more than enough reason for Thomas Lincoln to consider moving again. Everyone in his family, from the time they first settled in Indiana, had been affected by it, except maybe Abe and himself. The cattle, which didn’t have much monetary value and were easy and inexpensive to raise, were wiped out in huge numbers all over the neighborhood. It was a terrible epidemic, and common sense pointed towards leaving. It’s amazing it took a decisive person thirteen years to decide to get away from it.1
1 "What made Thomas Lincoln leave? The reason is this: we were perplexed by a disease called milk-sick. I myself being the oldest, I was determined to leave, and hunt a country where the milk-sick was not. I married his eldest daughter. I sold out, and they concluded to go with me. Billy, I was tolerably popular at that time, for I had some money. My wife's mother could not think of parting with her, and we ripped up stakes, and started to Illinois, and landed at Decatur. This is the reason for leaving Indiana. I am to blame for it, if any. As for getting more land, this was not the case, for we could have entered ten thousand acres of the best land. When we left, it was on account of the milk. Billy, I had four good milch cows, too, with it in one week, and eleven young calves. This was enough to run me. Besides, liked to have lossed my own life with it. This reason was enough (ain't it?) for leaving."—Dennis Hanks.
1 "What made Thomas Lincoln leave? The reason is simple: we were dealing with a disease called milk-sick. Since I was the oldest, I decided to leave and find a place where milk-sick wasn’t an issue. I married his oldest daughter. I sold my things, and they chose to come with me. Billy, I was somewhat popular at that time because I had some money. My wife's mother couldn’t bear to part with her, so we packed up and moved to Illinois, ending up in Decatur. This is why we left Indiana. I'm the one to blame for it, if anyone is. As for wanting more land, that wasn't the problem because we could have claimed ten thousand acres of prime land. The reason we left was because of the milk. Billy, I had four good milking cows, and in one week, I lost them and eleven young calves. That was enough to drive me away. Plus, I nearly lost my own life to it. This was a good enough reason, right?"—Dennis Hanks.
In the spring of 1830, before the winter had fairly broken up, he and Abe, and Dennis Hanks and Levi Hall, with their respective families, thirteen in all, took the road for Illinois. Dennis and Levi, as already stated, were married to the daughters of Mrs. Lincoln. Hall had one son, and Dennis a considerable family of sons and daughters. Sarah (or Nancy) Lincoln, who had married Aaron Grigsby, was now dead.
In the spring of 1830, before winter had completely ended, he, Abe, Dennis Hanks, and Levi Hall, along with their families—thirteen people in total—hit the road for Illinois. As mentioned earlier, Dennis and Levi were married to Mrs. Lincoln's daughters. Hall had one son, and Dennis had a sizable family of sons and daughters. Sarah (or Nancy) Lincoln, who was married to Aaron Grigsby, had passed away.
John Hanks had gone to the new country from Kentucky in the fall of 1828, and settled near Decatur, whence he wrote Thomas Lincoln all about it, and advised him to come there. Dennis, whether because of the persuasions of John, or some observations made in a flying trip on his own account, was very full of the move, and would hear to no delay. Lincoln sold his farm to Gentry, senior, if, indeed, he had not done so before, and his corn and hogs to Dave Turnham. The corn brought only ten cents a bushel, and, according to the pricelist furnished by Dennis Hanks, the stock must have gone at figures equally mean.
John Hanks had moved to the new state from Kentucky in the fall of 1828 and settled near Decatur. He wrote to Thomas Lincoln about it, encouraging him to come there. Dennis, whether swayed by John or based on his own quick trip, was really eager about the move and wouldn’t accept any delays. Lincoln sold his farm to Gentry, senior, if he hadn’t already done so, and sold his corn and hogs to Dave Turnham. The corn only sold for ten cents a bushel, and according to the pricing list from Dennis Hanks, the stock had to have sold for similarly low prices.
Lincoln took with him to Illinois "some stock-cattle, one horse, one bureau, one table, one clothes-chest, one set of chairs, cooking utensils, clothing," &c. The goods of the three families—Hanks, Hall, and Lincoln—were loaded on a wagon belonging to Lincoln. This wagon was "ironed," a noticeable fact in those primitive days, and "was positively the first one that he (Lincoln) ever owned." It was drawn by four yoke of oxen,—two of them Lincoln's, and two of them Hanks's.
Lincoln took with him to Illinois "some cattle, one horse, one bureau, one table, one clothes chest, one set of chairs, cooking utensils, clothing," etc. The belongings of the three families—Hanks, Hall, and Lincoln—were packed onto a wagon owned by Lincoln. This wagon was "ironed," which was a big deal back in those early days, and "was definitely the first one that he (Lincoln) ever owned." It was pulled by four yokes of oxen—two owned by Lincoln and two by Hanks.
We have no particulars of the journey, except that Abe held the "gad," and drove the team; that the mud was very deep, that the spring freshets were abroad, and that in crossing the swollen and tumultuous Kaskaskia, the wagon and oxen were nearly swept away. On the first day of March, 1830, after fifteen days' tedious and heavy travel, they arrived at John Hanks's house, four miles north-west of Decatur. Lincoln settled (if any thing he did may be called settling) at a point ten miles west of Decatur. Here John Hanks had cut some logs in 1829, which he now gave to Lincoln to build a house with. With the aid of John, Dennis, Abe, and Hall, a house was erected on a small bluff, on the north bank of the north fork of the Sangamon. Abe and John took the four yoke of oxen and "broke up" fifteen acres of land, and then split rails enough to fence it in.
We don’t have many details about the journey, except that Abe drove the team and held the "gad." The mud was very deep, the spring floods were everywhere, and while crossing the swollen and turbulent Kaskaskia, the wagon and oxen almost got swept away. On March 1, 1830, after a long and exhausting fifteen days of travel, they reached John Hanks’s house, which was four miles northwest of Decatur. Lincoln settled (if anything he did can be called settling) about ten miles west of Decatur. Here, John Hanks had cut some logs in 1829, which he gave to Lincoln to build a house. With the help of John, Dennis, Abe, and Hall, they built a house on a small bluff on the north bank of the north fork of the Sangamon. Abe and John took the four yoke of oxen and plowed fifteen acres of land, then split enough rails to fence it in.
Abe was now over twenty-one. There was no "Uncle Wood to tell him that his age was against him:" he had done something more than his duty by his father; and, as that worthy was now again placed in a situation where he might do well if he chose, Abe came to the conclusion that it was time for him to begin life on his own account. It must have cost him some pain to leave his good step-mother; but, beyond that, all the old ties were probably broken without a single regret. From the moment he was a free man, foot-loose, able to go where, and to do what, he pleased, his success in those things which lay nearest his heart—that is, public and social preferment—was astonishing to himself, as well as to others.
Abe was now over twenty-one. There was no "Uncle Wood" to tell him that his age was against him; he had done more than his duty by his father. With his father now in a position where he could do well if he chose, Abe decided it was time for him to start living his own life. Leaving his good stepmother must have been difficult for him, but beyond that, he likely had no regrets about leaving the old ties behind. The moment he became a free man, able to go where he wanted and do what he wished, his success in the things he cared about most—such as public and social recognition—was surprising to both himself and others.
It is with great pleasure that we dismiss Tom Lincoln, with his family and fortunes, from further consideration in these pages. After Abraham left him, he moved at least three times in search of a "healthy" location, and finally got himself fixed near Goose Nest Prairie, in Coles County, where he died of a disease of the kidneys, in 1851, at the ripe old age of seventy-three. The little farm (forty acres) upon which his days were ended, he had, with his usual improvidence, mortgaged to the School Commissioners for two hundred dollars,—its full value. Induced by love for his step-mother, Abraham had paid the debt, and taken a deed for the land, "with a reservation of a life-estate therein, to them, or the survivor of them." At the same time (1841), he gave a helping hand to John Johnston, binding himself to convey the land to him, or his heirs, after the death of "Thomas Lincoln and his wife," upon payment of the two hundred dollars, which was really advanced to save John's mother from utter penury. No matter how much the land might appreciate in value, John was to have it upon these terms, and no interest was to be paid by him, "except after the death of the survivor, as aforesaid." This, to be sure, was a great bargain for John, but he made haste to assign his bond to another person for "fifty dollars paid in hand."
It is with great pleasure that we move on from Tom Lincoln, along with his family and fortunes, in these pages. After Abraham left him, he moved at least three times searching for a "healthy" place to live, and ultimately settled near Goose Nest Prairie in Coles County, where he died of kidney disease in 1851 at the age of seventy-three. The little farm (forty acres) where he spent his last days was mortgaged, in his typical careless manner, to the School Commissioners for two hundred dollars, which was its full value. Out of love for his stepmother, Abraham paid off the debt and took a deed for the land, "with a reservation of a life-estate therein, to them, or the survivor of them." At the same time (1841), he also helped John Johnston, agreeing to transfer the land to him or his heirs after the death of "Thomas Lincoln and his wife," in exchange for the two hundred dollars, which was really advanced to prevent John's mother from being completely destitute. Regardless of how much the land might increase in value, John was to receive it under these terms, with no interest due from him, "except after the death of the survivor, as aforesaid." This was certainly a fantastic deal for John, but he quickly assigned his bond to someone else for "fifty dollars paid in hand."
As soon as Abraham got a little up in the world, he began to send his step-mother money, and continued to do so until his own death; but it is said to have "done her no good," for it only served to tempt certain persons about her, and with whom she shared it, to continue in a life of idleness. At the close of the Black Hawk War, Mr. Lincoln went to see them for a few days, and afterwards, when a lawyer, making the circuits with the courts, he visited them whenever the necessities of his practice brought him to their neighborhood. He did his best to serve Mrs. Lincoln and her son John, but took little notice of his father, although he wrote him an exhortation to believe in God when he thought he was on his death-bed.
As soon as Abraham started to do better financially, he began sending his stepmother money, and he kept it up until he died; but it’s said that it “did her no good,” as it only encouraged certain people around her, with whom she shared it, to stay idle. After the Black Hawk War, Mr. Lincoln visited them for a few days, and later, when he became a lawyer traveling with the courts, he stopped by to see them whenever his work brought him nearby. He tried his best to help Mrs. Lincoln and her son John, but he paid little attention to his father, even though he wrote him a note urging him to believe in God when he thought he was on his deathbed.
But in regard to the relations between the family and Abe, after the latter began to achieve fame and power, nobody can tell the truth more clearly, or tell it in a more interesting and suggestive style, than our friend Dennis, with whom we are now about to part forever. It will be seen, that, when information reached the "Goose Nest Prairie" that Abe was actually chosen President of the United States, a general itching for public employment broke out among the Hankses, and that an equally general disappointment was the result. Doubtless all of them had expectations somewhat like Sancho Panza's, when he went to take the government of his island, and John Hanks, at least, would not have been disappointed but for the little disability which Dennis mentions in the following extract:—
But when it comes to the relationship between the family and Abe, after he started gaining fame and power, no one can express the truth more clearly or in a more interesting and insightful way than our friend Dennis, with whom we are now about to part for good. It will become clear that when news reached "Goose Nest Prairie" that Abe had actually been elected President of the United States, a widespread desire for public positions emerged among the Hankses, leading to a corresponding sense of disappointment. Surely, they all had hopes similar to Sancho Panza's when he went to govern his island, and John Hanks, at least, would not have been disappointed if it weren't for the small limitation that Dennis mentions in the following extract:—
"Did Abraham Lincoln treat John D. Johnston well?" "I will say this much about it. I think Abe done more for John than he deserved. John thought that Abe did not do enough for the old people. They became enemies a while on this ground. I don't want to tell all the things that I know: it would not look well in history. I say this: Abe treated John well."
"Did Abraham Lincoln treat John D. Johnston well?" "I’ll say this much about it. I think Abe did more for John than he deserved. John believed that Abe didn’t do enough for the older folks. They were enemies for a while over this issue. I don't want to share everything I know; it wouldn't look great in history. What I will say is this: Abe treated John well."
"What kind of a man was Johnston?"—"I say this much: A kinder-hearted man never was in Coles County, Illinois, nor an honester man. I don't say this because he was my brother-in-law: I say it, knowing it. John did not love to work any the best. I flogged him for not working."
"What kind of man was Johnston?"—"I'll tell you this much: There was never a kinder-hearted man in Coles County, Illinois, nor a more honest one. I’m not saying this because he was my brother-in-law; I say it because I truly believe it. John wasn’t the biggest fan of working. I even scolded him for his lack of effort."
"Did Thomas Lincoln treat Abe cruelly?"—"He loved him. I never could tell whether Abe loved his father very well or not. I don't think he did, for Abe was one of those forward boys. I have seen his father knock him down off the fence when a stranger would, ask the way to a neighbor's house. Abe always would have the first word. The old man loved his children."
"Did Thomas Lincoln treat Abe badly?"—"He cared for him. I could never figure out if Abe really loved his dad or not. I don’t think he did, because Abe was one of those outspoken kids. I've seen his dad knock him down off the fence when a stranger would ask for directions to a neighbor's house. Abe always wanted to be the first to speak. The old man loved his kids."
"Did any of the Johnston family ask for office?"—"No! Thomas Johnston went to Abe: he got this permit to take daguerrotypes in the army; this is all, for they are all dead except John's boys. They did not ask for any."
"Did any of the Johnston family request an office?"—"No! Thomas Johnston went to Abe: he got this permit to take daguerreotypes in the army; that's all, because they are all dead except for John's sons. They didn't ask for anything."
"Did you or John Hanks ask Lincoln for any office?"—"I say this: that John Hanks, of Decatur, did solicit him for an Indian Agency; and John told me that Abe as good as told him he should have one. But John could not read or write. I think this was the reason that Abe did not give John the place.
"Did you or John Hanks ask Lincoln for any job?"—"Let me say this: John Hanks from Decatur did ask him for an Indian Agency position; and John told me that Abe practically said he would get one. But John couldn't read or write. I think that was why Abe didn’t give John the position."
"As for myself, I did not ask Abe right out for an office, only this: I would like to have the post-office in Charleston; this was my wife that asked him. He told her that much was understood,—as much as to say that I would get it. I did not care much about it."
"As for me, I didn’t directly ask Abe for a job; I just wanted the post office in Charleston. My wife asked him for me. He told her that it was pretty much understood—that’s basically saying I would get it. I didn’t really care that much about it."
"Do you think Lincoln cared much for his relations?"—"I will say this much: when he was with us, he seemed to think a great deal of us; but I thought sometimes it was hypocritical, but I am not sure."
"Do you think Lincoln really cared about his relationships?"—"I’ll say this: when he was with us, he seemed to value us a lot; but I sometimes thought it was insincere, though I'm not certain."
Abe left the Lincoln family late in March, or early in April. He did not go far away, but took jobs wherever he could get them, showing that he had separated himself from the family, not merely to rove, but to labor, and be an independent man. He made no engagement of a permanent character during this summer: his work was all done "by the job." If he ever split rails for Kirkpatrick, over whom he was subsequently elected captain of a volunteer company about to enter the Black Hawk War, it must have been at this time; but the story of his work for Kirkpatrick, like that of his making "a crap of corn" for Mr. Brown, is probably apocryphal.1 All this while he clung close to John Hanks, and either worked where he did, or not far away. In the winter following, he was employed by a Major Warrick to make rails, and walked daily three miles to his work, and three miles back again.
Abe left the Lincoln family in late March or early April. He didn’t go very far, but took on various jobs wherever he could find them, showing that he had distanced himself from the family not just to wander, but to work and be independent. He didn’t commit to any permanent jobs that summer; all his work was done “by the job.” If he ever split rails for Kirkpatrick, for whom he was later elected captain of a volunteer company heading into the Black Hawk War, it must have been during this time; however, stories about his work for Kirkpatrick, like the one about making “a crap of corn” for Mr. Brown, are likely just legends.1 Throughout this time, he stayed close to John Hanks, either working with him or nearby. In the following winter, he was hired by a Major Warrick to make rails, commuting three miles to work each day and then back again.
1 See Holland's Life of Lincoln, p. 40.
1 Refer to Holland's Life of Lincoln, page 40.
"After Abe got to Decatur," says John Hanks, "or rather to Macon (my country), a man by the name of Posey came into our neighborhood, and made a speech: it was a bad one, and I said Abe could beat it. I turned down a box, or keg, and Abe made his speech. The other man was a candidate. Abe wasn't. Abe beat him to death, his subject being the navigation of the Sangamon River. The man, after the speech was through, took Abe aside, and asked him where he had learned so much, and how he did so well. Abe replied, stating his manner and method of reading, and what he had read. The man encouraged Lincoln to persevere."
"After Abe arrived in Decatur," John Hanks says, "or actually in Macon (my area), a guy named Posey came into our neighborhood and gave a speech: it was a terrible one, and I thought Abe could do better. I set up a box, or a keg, and Abe delivered his speech. The other guy was a candidate. Abe wasn't. Abe totally crushed him, focusing on the navigation of the Sangamon River. After the speech, the man pulled Abe aside and asked him where he had learned so much and how he managed to do so well. Abe explained his approach and what he had read. The man encouraged Lincoln to keep it up."
In February, 1831, a Mr. Denton Offutt wanted to engage John Hanks to take a flatboat to New Orleans. John was not well disposed to the business; but Offutt came to the house, and would take no denial; made much of John's fame as a river-man, and at length persuaded him to present the matter to Abe and John Johnston. He did so. The three friends discussed the question with great earnestness: it was no slight affair to them, for they were all young and poor. At length they agreed to Offutt's proposition, and that agreement was the turning-point in Abe's career. They were each to receive fifty cents a day, and the round sum of sixty dollars divided amongst them for making the trip. These were wages such as Abe had never received before, and might have tempted him to a much more difficult enterprise. When he went with Gentry, the pay was only eight dollars a month, and no such company and assistance as he was to have now. But Offutt was lavish with his money, and generous bargains like this ruined him a little while after.
In February 1831, Mr. Denton Offutt wanted to hire John Hanks to take a flatboat to New Orleans. John wasn’t really interested in the job, but Offutt came to the house and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He praised John’s reputation as a river man and eventually convinced him to bring the idea to Abe and John Johnston. He did so, and the three friends discussed the matter seriously; it was a big deal for them since they were all young and struggling financially. Eventually, they agreed to Offutt’s proposal, which became a turning point in Abe’s life. They were each to get fifty cents a day and a total of sixty dollars split between them for the trip. This was a wage Abe had never seen before and might have tempted him to take on an even tougher challenge. When he worked with Gentry, he was only paid eight dollars a month, with none of the company and support he would have now. But Offutt was generous with his money, and deals like this eventually led to his downfall a little while later.
In March, Hanks, Johnston, and Lincoln went down the Sangamon in a canoe to Jamestown (then Judy's Ferry), five miles east of Springfield. Thence they walked to Springfield, and found Mr. Offutt comforting himself at "Elliott's tavern in Old Town." He had contracted to have a boat ready at the mouth of Spring Creek, but, not looking after it himself, was, of course, "disappointed." There was only one way out of the trouble: the three hands must build a boat. They went to the mouth of Spring Creek, five miles north of Springfield, and there consumed two weeks cutting the timber from "Congress land." In the mean time, Abe walked back to Judy's Ferry, by way of Springfield, and brought down the canoe which they had left at the former place. The timber was hewed and scored, and then "rafted down to Saugamon-town." At the mouth of Spring Creek they had been compelled to walk a full mile for their meals; but at Sangamon-town they built a shanty, and boarded themselves. "Abe was elected cook," and performed the duties of the office much to the satisfaction of the party. The lumber was sawed at Kirkpatrick's mill, a mile and a half from the shanty. Laboring under many disadvantages like this, they managed to complete and launch the boat in about four weeks from the time of beginning.
In March, Hanks, Johnston, and Lincoln paddled down the Sangamon River in a canoe to Jamestown (which was then called Judy's Ferry), five miles east of Springfield. From there, they walked to Springfield and found Mr. Offutt relaxing at "Elliott's tavern in Old Town." He had arranged to have a boat ready at the mouth of Spring Creek, but since he didn’t take care of it himself, he was understandably "disappointed." The only solution was for the three of them to build a boat. They went to the mouth of Spring Creek, five miles north of Springfield, and spent two weeks cutting timber from "Congress land." Meanwhile, Abe walked back to Judy's Ferry, going through Springfield, to retrieve the canoe they had left there. They shaped and marked the timber, then "rafted it down to Saugamon-town." At the mouth of Spring Creek, they had to walk a full mile for their meals; however, at Sangamon-town, they built a shanty and cooked for themselves. "Abe was elected cook," and he fulfilled his duties to the satisfaction of the group. The lumber was sawed at Kirkpatrick's mill, which was a mile and a half from the shanty. Despite facing many challenges, they managed to finish and launch the boat in about four weeks from when they started.
Offutt was with the party at this point. He "was a Whig, and so was Abe; but he (Abe) could not hear Jackson wrongfully abused, especially where a lie and malice did the abuse." Out of this difference arose some disputes, which served to enliven the camp, as well as to arouse Abe's ire, and keep him in practice in the way of debate.
Offutt was with the group at this time. He was a Whig, and so was Abe; but Abe couldn’t stand it when Jackson was unfairly attacked, especially when it involved lies and malice. This disagreement led to some arguments, which added some excitement to the camp, as well as getting Abe worked up and helping him sharpen his debating skills.
In those days Abe, as usual, is described as being "funny, jokey, full of yarns, stories, and rigs;" as being "long, tall, and green," "frequently quoting poetry," and "reciting proselike orations." They had their own amusements. Abe extracted a good deal of fun out of the cooking; took his "dram" when asked to, and played "seven up" at night, at which he made "a good game."
In those days, Abe was often described as "funny, jokey, full of stories and jokes;" as "tall, lanky, and quick-witted," "often quoting poetry," and "giving prosy speeches." They had their own entertainment. Abe got a lot of enjoyment out of cooking; he took his "drink" when asked, and played "seven up" at night, where he was "pretty good at the game."
A juggler gave an exhibition at Sangamontown, in the upper room of Jacob Carman's house. Abe went to it, dressed in a suit of rough blue jeans. He had on shoes, but the trousers did not reach them by about twelve inches; and the naked shin, which had excited John Romine's laughter years ago in Indiana, was still exposed. Between the roundabout and the waist of the trousers, there was another wide space uncovered; and, considering these defects, Mr. Lincoln's attire was thought to be somewhat inelegant, even in those times. His hat, however, was a great improvement on coon-skins and opossum. It was woollen, broad-brimmed, and low-crowned. In this hat the "showman cooked eggs." Whilst Abe was handing it up to him, after the man had long solicited a similar favor from the rest of the audience, he remarked, "Mister, the reason I didn't give you my hat before was out of respect to your eggs, not care for my hat."
A juggler performed at Sangamontown, in the upstairs room of Jacob Carman's house. Abe attended, wearing a rough pair of blue jeans. He had on shoes, but the pants didn’t reach them by about twelve inches; the bare shin, which had made John Romine laugh years ago in Indiana, was still visible. There was also a large gap between the waistband and the bottoms of the pants, so considering these issues, Mr. Lincoln's outfit was seen as somewhat awkward, even back then. However, his hat was a big step up from coon-skin and opossum. It was wool, broad-brimmed, and low-crowned. While Abe was handing it to the juggler after he had been asking the rest of the audience for a similar favor, he said, "Mister, the reason I didn’t give you my hat before was out of respect for your eggs, not because I didn't care about my hat."
Loaded with barrel-pork, hogs, and corn, the boat set out from Sangamontown as soon as finished. Mr. Offutt was on board to act as his own merchant, intending to pick up additions to his cargo along the banks of the two Illinois rivers down which he was about to pass. On the 19th of April they arrived at New Salem, a little village destined to be the scene of the seven eventful years of Mr. Lincoln's life, which immediately followed the conclusion of the present trip. Just below New Salem the boat "stuck," for one night and the better part of a day on Rutledge's mill-dam,—one end of it hanging over the dam, and the other sunk deep in the water behind. Here was a case for Abe's ingenuity, and he exercised it with effect. Quantities of water were being taken in at the stern, the lading was sliding backwards, and every thing indicated that the rude craft was in momentary danger of breaking in two, or sinking outright. But Abe suggested some unheard-of expedient for keeping it in place while the cargo was shifted to a borrowed boat, and then, boring a hole in that part of the bottom extending over the dam, he "rigged up" an equally strange piece of machinery for tilting and holding it while the water ran out. All New Salem was assembled on shore, watching the progress of this singular experiment,—and with one voice affirm that Abe saved the boat; although nobody is able to tell us precisely how.1 The adventure turned Abe's thoughts to the class of difficulties, one of which he had just surmounted; and the result of his reflections was "an improved method for lifting vessels over shoals."2 Offutt declared that when he got back from New Orleans, he would build a steamboat for the navigation of the Sangamon, and make Abe the captain; he would build it with runners for ice, and rollers for shoals and dams, for with "Abe in command, by thunder, she'd have to go."
Loaded with pork, hogs, and corn, the boat set off from Sangamontown as soon as it was ready. Mr. Offutt was on board to operate as his own merchant, planning to pick up more cargo along the banks of the two Illinois rivers they were about to travel down. On April 19th, they arrived at New Salem, a small village that was about to become the setting for seven significant years in Mr. Lincoln's life, following the end of this trip. Just below New Salem, the boat "stuck" for a night and most of the day on Rutledge's mill-dam — one end hanging over the dam and the other deeply submerged. This was a situation for Abe's ingenuity, and he put it to good use. A lot of water was coming in at the back, the cargo was sliding back, and everything suggested that the rough vessel was in immediate danger of breaking apart or sinking completely. But Abe suggested a novel solution to keep it in place while the cargo was moved to a borrowed boat, and then, by boring a hole in the part of the bottom that was hanging over the dam, he "rigged up" an equally unusual device for tilting and holding it while the water drained out. The entire town of New Salem gathered on the shore, watching this strange experiment unfold, and everyone agreed that Abe saved the boat; although no one could explain exactly how. The adventure got Abe thinking about the types of challenges he had just overcome, and as a result of his reflections, he came up with "an improved method for lifting boats over shallow areas." Offutt declared that when he returned from New Orleans, he would build a steamboat for navigating the Sangamon and make Abe the captain; he would design it with runners for ice and rollers for shallow spots and dams, because with "Abe in charge, by thunder, it would have to work."
1 Many persons at New Salem describe in full Abe's conduct on this occasion. 2 "Occupying an ordinary and commonplace position in one of the show-cases in the targe hall of the Patent Office, is one little model which, in ages to come, will be prized as at once one of the most curious and one of the most sacred relics in that vast museum of unique and priceless things. This is a plain and simple model of a steamboat, roughly fashioned in wood, by the hand of Abraham Lincoln. It bears date in 1849, when the inventor was known simply as a successful lawyer and rising politician of Central Illinois. Neither his practice nor his politics took up so much of his time as to prevent him from giving much attention to contrivances which he hoped might be of benefit to the world, and of profit to himself. "The design of this invention is suggestive of one phase of Abraham Lincoln's early life, when he went up and down the Mississippi as a flat-boatman, and became familiar with some of the dangers and inconveniences attending the navigation of the Western rivers. It is an attempt to make it an easy matter to transport vessels over shoals and snags, and sawyers. The main idea is that of an apparatus resembling a noiseless bellows, placed on each side of the hull of the craft, just below the water-line, and worked by an odd but not complicated system of ropes, valves, and pulleys. When the keel of the vessel grates against the sand or obstruction, these bellows are to be filled with air; and, thus buoyed up, the ship is expected to float lightly and gayly over the shoal, which would otherwise have proved a serious interruption to her voyage. "The model, which is about eighteen or twenty inches long, and has the air of having been whittled with a knife out of a shingle and a cigar-box, is built without any elaboration or ornament, or any extra apparatus beyond that necessary to show the operation of buoying the steamer over the obstructions. Herein it differs from very many of the models which share with it the shelter of the immense halls of the Patent Office, and which are fashioned with wonderful nicety and exquisite finish, as if much of the labor and thought and affection of a lifetime had been devoted to their construction. This is a model of a different kind; carved as one might imagine a retired rail-splitter would whittle, strongly, but not smoothly, and evidently made with a view solely to convey, by the simplest possible means, to the minds of the patent authorities, an idea of the purpose and plan of the simple invention. The label on the steamer's deck informs us that the patent was obtained; but we do not learn that the navigation of the Western rivers was revolutionized by this quaint conception. The modest little model has reposed here sixteen years; and, since it found its resting-place here on the shelf, the shrewd inventor has found it his task to guide the Ship of State over shoals more perilous, and obstructions more obstinate, than any prophet dreamed of when Abraham Lincoln wrote his bold autograph on the prow of this miniature steamer."— Correspondent Boston Advertiser.
1 Many people in New Salem remember Abe's actions during this event. 2 "In one of the display cases in the main hall of the Patent Office, there's a small model that, in the future, will be considered one of the most fascinating and valued artifacts in that vast museum full of unique and priceless items. It’s a simple model of a steamboat, roughly made from wood by Abraham Lincoln himself. It dates back to 1849, when he was merely known as a successful lawyer and an up-and-coming politician from Central Illinois. Neither his legal work nor his political career took up so much of his time that he couldn't explore ideas that could benefit the world and be profitable for him. "The design of this invention reflects a part of Abraham Lincoln's early life when he traveled the Mississippi as a flat-boatman and learned about the dangers and challenges of navigating the Western rivers. It's an effort to make transporting vessels over shallow areas and obstacles easier. The main idea is a device that resembles a silent bellows, placed on either side of the hull just below the waterline, operated by an unusual yet simple system of ropes, valves, and pulleys. When the vessel's keel rubs against the sand or an obstruction, these bellows fill with air; this buoyancy allows the ship to lightly float over the shoal, which would otherwise block its path. "The model, which is about eighteen or twenty inches long and looks like it was carved from a shingle and a cigar box, is made without any embellishments or extra parts apart from those necessary to show how to buoy the steamer over obstacles. This sets it apart from many other models in the expansive halls of the Patent Office, which are created with incredible precision and fine detail, as if a lifetime's worth of effort and care were put into their making. This model is different; it’s carved in a way you might expect from a retired rail-splitter—strongly, but not smoothly—clearly meant to convey, in the simplest way possible, the idea behind the invention to the patent authorities. The label on the steamer's deck indicates that the patent was granted; however, it doesn't reveal that this quirky idea changed the navigation of the Western rivers. The humble little model has been here for sixteen years; and since it took its place on the shelf, the clever inventor has had to guide the Ship of State through more dangerous hazards and stubborn obstacles than anyone could have imagined when Abraham Lincoln signed his bold name on the front of this miniature steamer."— Correspondent Boston Advertiser.
Over the dam, and in the deep pool beyond, they reloaded, and floated down to Blue Bank, a mile above the mouth of Salt Creek, where Offutt bought some more hogs. But the hogs were wild, and refused to be driven. Abe again came to the rescue; and, by his advice, their eyes were sewed up with a needle and thread, so that, if the animals fought any more, they should do it in the dark. Abe held their heads, and John Hanks their tails, while Offutt did the surgery. They were then thrown into a cart, whence Abe took them, one by one, in his great arms, and deposited them on board.
Over the dam, and into the deep pool beyond, they reloaded and drifted down to Blue Bank, a mile above the mouth of Salt Creek, where Offutt bought some more pigs. But the pigs were wild and wouldn’t be rounded up. Abe came to the rescue again; following his advice, they sewed up the pigs' eyes with a needle and thread, so that if the animals fought again, they would do it blind. Abe held their heads, and John Hanks held their tails, while Offutt performed the surgery. They were then tossed into a cart, from which Abe picked them up one by one in his strong arms and placed them on board.
From this point they sped very rapidly down the Sangamon and the Illinois. Having constructed curious-looking sails of plank, "and sometimes cloth," they were a "sight to see," as they "rushed through Beardstown," where "the people came out and laughed at them." They swept by Alton and Cairo, and other considerable places, without tying up, but stopped at Memphis, Vicksburg, and Natchez.
From this point, they quickly traveled down the Sangamon and the Illinois. They made strange-looking sails from wood and sometimes fabric, and they were quite a sight as they rushed through Beardstown, where people came out to laugh at them. They passed by Alton, Cairo, and other notable places without stopping, but they made stops at Memphis, Vicksburg, and Natchez.
In due time they arrived at New Orleans. "There it was," says John Hanks, "we saw negroes chained, maltreated, whipped, and scourged. Lincoln saw it; his heart bled, said nothing much, was silent from feeling, was sad, looked bad, felt bad, was thoughtful and abstracted. I can say, knowing it, that it was on this trip that he formed his opinions of slavery. It run its iron in him then and there,—May, 1831. I have heard him say so often and often."
In time, they arrived in New Orleans. "There it was," John Hanks says, "we saw Black people chained, mistreated, whipped, and beaten. Lincoln witnessed it; his heart ached, he didn't say much, remained silent because he felt deeply, was sad, looked troubled, felt troubled, and was lost in thought. I can say, knowing this, that it was during this trip that he formed his views on slavery. It left a lasting impression on him right then and there—in May 1831. I've heard him say it over and over."
Some time in June the party took passage on a steamboat going up the river, and remained together until they reached St. Louis, where Offutt left them, and Abe, Hanks, and Johnston started on foot for the interior of Illinois. At Edwardsville, twenty-five miles out, Hanks took the road to Springfield, and Abe and Johnston took that to Coles County, where Tom Lincoln had moved since Abraham's departure from home.
Some time in June, the group boarded a steamboat traveling up the river and stayed together until they reached St. Louis, where Offutt left them. Abe, Hanks, and Johnston then set out on foot toward the heart of Illinois. In Edwardsville, twenty-five miles away, Hanks took the road to Springfield, while Abe and Johnston headed toward Coles County, where Tom Lincoln had moved since Abraham left home.
Abe never worked again in company with his friend and relative, good old John Hanks. Here their paths separated: Abe's began to ascend the heights, while John's continued along the common level. They were in the Black Hawk War during the same campaign, but not in the same division. But they corresponded, and, from 1833, met at least once a year, until Abe was elected President. Then Abe, delighting to honor those of his relatives who were worthy of it, invited John to go with him to see his step-mother. John also went to the inauguration at Washington, and tells, with pardonable pride, how he "was in his [Abe's] rooms several times." He then retired to his old home in Macon County, until the assassination and the great funeral, when he came to Springfield to look in the blackened face of his old friend, and witness the last ceremonies of his splendid burial.
Abe never worked again alongside his friend and relative, good old John Hanks. That's where their paths parted: Abe's started to rise, while John's stayed on the same level. They both served in the Black Hawk War during the same campaign, but they weren't in the same division. However, they kept in touch and met at least once a year from 1833 until Abe was elected President. After that, Abe, thrilled to honor his deserving relatives, invited John to visit his stepmother with him. John also attended the inauguration in Washington and proudly recounts how he "was in his [Abe's] rooms several times." He then returned to his old home in Macon County until the assassination and the grand funeral, when he came to Springfield to see the darkened face of his old friend and to witness the final ceremonies of his remarkable burial.
Scarcely had Abe reached Coles County, and begun to think what next to turn his hand to, when he received a visit from a famous wrestler, one Daniel Needham, who regarded him as a growing rival, and had a fancy to try him a fall or two. He considered himself "the best man" in the country, and the report of Abe's achievements filled his big breast with envious pains. His greeting was friendly and hearty, but his challenge was rough and peremptory. Abe valued his popularity among "the boys" too highly to decline it, and met him by public appointment in the "greenwood," at Wabash Point, where he threw him twice with so much ease that Needham's pride was more hurt than his body. "Lincoln," said he, "you have thrown me twice, but you can't whip me."—"Needham," replied Abe, "are you satisfied that I can throw you? If you are not, and must be convinced through a threshing, I will do that, too, for your sake." Needham had hoped that the youngster would shrink from the extremity of a fight with the acknowledged "bully of the patch;" but finding him willing, and at the same time magnanimously inclined to whip him solely for his own good, he concluded that a bloody nose and a black eye would be the reverse of soothing to his feelings, and therefore surrendered the field with such grace as he could command.
As soon as Abe arrived in Coles County and started thinking about what to do next, he got a visit from a well-known wrestler, Daniel Needham, who saw him as a growing rival and wanted to challenge him to a match. Needham considered himself "the best man" in the country, and hearing about Abe's accomplishments made him enviously uneasy. He greeted Abe warmly, but his challenge was blunt and demanding. Abe valued his popularity with "the boys" too much to turn him down, so he agreed to meet him publicly in the woods at Wabash Point, where he easily threw Needham twice, injuring his pride more than his body. "Lincoln," he said, "you've thrown me twice, but you can't beat me." "Needham," Abe replied, "are you convinced that I can throw you? If you're still uncertain and need a clear victory, I'm happy to oblige for your own good." Needham had hoped that Abe would hesitate to fight the recognized "bully of the patch," but seeing him ready and willing, and wanting to beat him just for his own benefit, Needham realized that a bloody nose and a black eye wouldn’t help his pride, so he backed down as gracefully as he could.
CHAPTER IV.
ON the west bank of the Sangamon River, twenty miles north-west of Springfield, a traveller on his way to Havana will ascend a bluff one hundred feet higher than the low-water mark of the stream. On the summit he Will find a solitary log-hut. The back-bone of the ridge is about two hundred and fifty feet broad where it overlooks the river; but it widens gradually as it extends westerly toward the remains of an old forest, until it terminates in a broad expanse of meadow. On either side of this hill, and skirting its feet north and south, run streams of water in very deep channels, and tumble into the Sangamon almost within hearing. The hill, or more properly the bluff, rises from the river in an almost perpendicular ascent. "There is an old mill at the foot of the bluff, driven by water-power. The river washes the base of the bluff for about four hundred yards, the hill breaking off almost abruptly at the north. The river along this line runs about due north: it strikes the bluff coming around a sudden bend from the south-east, the river being checked and turned by the rocky hill. The mill-dam running across the Sangamon River just at the mill checks the rapidity of the water. It was here, and on this dam, that Mr. Lincoln's flatboat 'stuck on the 19th of April, 1831.' The dam is about eight feet high, and two hundred and twenty feet long, and, as the old Sangamon rolls her turbid waters over the dam, plunging them into the whirl and eddy beneath, the roar and hiss of waters, like the low, continuous, distant thunder, can be distinctly heard through the whole village, day and night, week-day and Sunday, spring and fall, or other high-water time. The river, at the base of the bluff, is about two hundred and fifty feet wide, the mill using up thirty feet, leaving the dam only about two hundred and twenty feet long."
ON the west bank of the Sangamon River, twenty miles northwest of Springfield, a traveler heading to Havana will climb a bluff that’s one hundred feet above the low-water mark of the stream. At the top, he will find a solitary log cabin. The backbone of the ridge is about two hundred and fifty feet wide where it overlooks the river, but it gradually widens as it stretches west toward the remnants of an old forest, eventually opening into a large meadow. On both sides of this hill, running along its base to the north and south, are deep streams that flow into the Sangamon almost within earshot. The hill, or more accurately the bluff, rises steeply from the river. There's an old mill at the base of the bluff, powered by water. The river washes the bottom of the bluff for about four hundred yards, with the hill nearly dropping off at the north. The river along this stretch runs straight north; it hits the bluff after making a sudden turn from the southeast, being diverted and slowed by the rocky hill. The mill dam across the Sangamon River right by the mill slows down the flow of the water. It was here, at this dam, that Mr. Lincoln's flatboat "stuck on the 19th of April, 1831." The dam stands about eight feet high and two hundred and twenty feet long, and as the old Sangamon flows over the dam, plunging into the whirlpools below, the roar and hiss of the water can be clearly heard throughout the village, day and night, on weekdays and Sundays, during spring and fall, or any time of high water. At the base of the bluff, the river is about two hundred and fifty feet wide, with the mill taking up thirty feet, leaving the dam about two hundred and twenty feet long.
In every direction but the West, the country is broken into hills or bluffs, like the one we are attempting to describe, which are washed by the river, and the several streams that empty into it in the immediate vicinity. Looking across the river from bluff to bluff, the distance is about a thousand yards; while here and there, on both banks, are patches of rich alluvial bottom-lands, eight or nine hundred yards in width, enclosed on one side by the hills, and on the other by the river. The uplands of the eastern bank are covered with original forests of immemorial age; and, viewed from "Salem Hill," the eye ranges over a vast expanse of green foliage, the monotony of which is relieved by the alternating swells and depressions of the landscape.
In every direction except the West, the land is made up of hills or bluffs, like the one we're trying to describe, shaped by the river and the various streams that flow into it nearby. Looking across the river from one bluff to another, the distance is about a thousand yards. Here and there, on both banks, are patches of rich alluvial bottom lands, eight or nine hundred yards wide, bordered on one side by the hills and on the other by the river. The uplands on the eastern bank are covered with ancient forests, and from "Salem Hill," the view stretches over a wide area of green foliage, with the monotony broken up by the rolling hills and valleys of the landscape.
On the ridge of that hill, where the solitary cabin now stands, there was a few years ago a pleasant village. How it vanished like a mist of the morning, to what distant places its inhabitants dispersed, and what became of the dwellings they left behind, shall be questions for the local antiquarian. We have no concern with any part of the history, except that part which began in the summer of 1831 and ended in 1837,—the period during which it had the honor of sheltering a man whose enduring fame contrasts strangely with the evanescence of the village itself.
On the ridge of that hill, where the lonely cabin now stands, there was a few years ago a nice little village. How it disappeared like morning fog, where its people went, and what happened to the homes they left behind, will be questions for the local historian. We’re only interested in the part of the story that started in the summer of 1831 and ended in 1837—the time when it had the honor of sheltering a man whose lasting fame is in sharp contrast to the fleeting nature of the village itself.
In 1829 James Rutledge and John Cameron built the mill on the Sangamon, and laid off the town on the hill. The place was then called Cameron's Mill; but in process of time, as cabins, stores, and groceries were added, it was dignified by the name of New Salem. "I claim," says one of the gentlemen who established the first store, "to be the explorer and discoverer of New Salem as a business point. Mr. Hill (now dead) and myself purchased some goods at Cincinnati, and shipped them to St. Louis, whence I set out on a voyage of discovery on the prairies of Illinois.... I, however, soon came across a noted character who lives in this vicinity, by the name of Thomas Wadkins, who set forth the beauties and other advantages of Cameron's Mill, as it was then called. I accordingly came home with him, visited the locality, contracted for the erection of a magnificent storehouse for the sum of fifteen dollars; and, after passing a night in the prairie, reached St. Louis in safety. Others soon followed."
In 1829, James Rutledge and John Cameron built the mill on the Sangamon and laid out the town on the hill. The place was initially called Cameron's Mill, but as cabins, stores, and groceries were added, it was later named New Salem. "I claim," said one of the gentlemen who opened the first store, "to be the first to explore and discover New Salem as a business location. Mr.
In 1836 New Salem contained about twenty houses, inhabited by nearly a hundred people; but in 1831 there could not have been more than two-thirds or three-fourths that number. Many of the houses cost not more than ten dollars, and none of them more than one hundred dollars.
In 1836, New Salem had around twenty houses, home to nearly a hundred people; however, in 1831, the population likely didn’t exceed two-thirds or three-fourths of that number. Many of the houses were priced at no more than ten dollars, and none cost more than one hundred dollars.
When the news flew through the country that the mill-dam was broken, the people assembled from far and near, and made a grand frolic of mending it. In like manner, when a new settler arrived, and the word passed around that he wanted to put up a house, everybody came in to the "raising;" and, after behaving like the best of good Samaritans to the new neighbor, they drank whiskey, ran foot-races, wrestled, fought, and went home.
When the news spread across the country that the mill-dam was broken, people gathered from near and far and turned it into a big celebration to fix it. Similarly, when a new settler came in and word got out that he wanted to build a house, everyone showed up for the "raising;" and after acting like the best of good neighbors to the new guy, they drank whiskey, raced each other, wrestled, fought, and then went home.
"I first knew this hill, or bluff," says Mr. Herndon, in his remarkable lecture on Ann Rutledge, "as early as 1829. I have seen it in spring-time and winter, in summer-time and fall. I have seen it in daylight and night-time; have seen it when the sward was green, living, and vital; and I have seen it wrapped in snow, frost, and sleet. I have closely studied it for more than five long years....
"I first knew this hill, or bluff," says Mr. Herndon in his remarkable lecture on Ann Rutledge, "as early as 1829. I've seen it in spring and winter, in summer and fall. I've seen it in daylight and at night; I've seen it when the grass was green, alive, and vibrant; and I've seen it covered in snow, frost, and sleet. I've studied it closely for more than five long years....
"As I sat on the verge of the town, in presence of its ruins, I called to mind the street running east and west through the village, the river eastward; Green's Rocky Branch, with its hills, southward; Clary's Grove, westerly about three miles; Petersburg northward, and Springfield south-east; and now I cannot exclude from my memory or imagination the forms, faces, voices, and features of those I once knew so well. In my imagination the village perched on the hill is astir with the hum of busy men, and the sharp, quick buzz of women; and from the country come men and women on foot or on horseback, to see and be seen, to hear and to be heard, to barter and exchange what they have with the merchant and the laborer. There are Jack Armstrong and William Green, Kelso and Jason Duncan, Alley and Carman, Hill and McNamar, Herndon and Rutledge, Warburton and Sincho, Bale and Ellis, Abraham and Ann. Oh, what a history!"
"As I sat on the edge of town, surrounded by its ruins, I thought about the street that runs east and west through the village, the river to the east, Green's Rocky Branch with its hills to the south, Clary's Grove about three miles to the west, Petersburg to the north, and Springfield to the southeast. Now, I can't shake from my memory or imagination the shapes, faces, voices, and characteristics of those I once knew so well. In my mind, the village on the hill is buzzing with the sounds of hardworking men and the quick chatter of women; people are coming from the countryside on foot or horseback to see and be seen, to listen and be heard, to trade and exchange goods with the merchants and laborers. There are Jack Armstrong and William Green, Kelso and Jason Duncan, Alley and Carman, Hill and McNamar, Herndon and Rutledge, Warburton and Sincho, Bale and Ellis, Abraham and Ann. Oh, what a history!"
In those days, which in the progressive West would be called ancient days, New Salem was in Sangamon County, with Springfield as the county-seat. Springfield itself was still a mere village, having a population of one thousand, or perhaps eleven hundred. The capital of the State was yet at Vandalia, and waited for the parliamentary tact of Abraham Lincoln and the "long nine" to bring it to Springfield. The same influence, which, after long struggles, succeeded in removing the capital, caused the new County of Menard to be erected out of Sangamon in 1839, of which Petersburg was made the county-seat, and within which is included the barren site of New Salem.
In those days, which the progressive West would refer to as ancient times, New Salem was located in Sangamon County, with Springfield serving as the county seat. Springfield itself was still just a small village, with a population of around one thousand or maybe eleven hundred. The state capital was still in Vandalia, waiting for the political skills of Abraham Lincoln and the "long nine" to move it to Springfield. The same influence that eventually managed to relocate the capital also led to the creation of the new County of Menard from Sangamon in 1839, with Petersburg designated as the county seat, which also included the barren site of New Salem.
In July or August, 1831, Mr. Lincoln made his second appearance at New Salem. He was again in company with Denton Offutt, who had collected some goods at Beardstown, and now proposed to bring them to this place. Mr. Lincoln undoubtedly came there in the service of Offutt, but whilst the goods were being transported from Beardstown he seemed to be idling about without any special object in view. Many persons who saw him then for the first time speak of him as "doing nothing." He has given some encouragement to this idea himself by the manner in which he habitually spoke of his advent there,—describing himself as coming down the river after the winter of the deep snow, like a piece of "floating driftwood" borne along by the freshet, and accidentally lodged at New Salem.
In July or August of 1831, Mr. Lincoln returned to New Salem. He was once again with Denton Offutt, who had gathered some goods in Beardstown and planned to bring them to this location. Mr. Lincoln likely came there to assist Offutt, but while the goods were being moved from Beardstown, he appeared to be just hanging around without any specific purpose in mind. Many people who saw him for the first time remarked that he was "doing nothing." He supported this impression himself by the way he often described his arrival there—saying he came down the river after a winter of heavy snow, like a piece of "floating driftwood" carried along by the flood and accidentally deposited at New Salem.
On the day of the election, in the month of August, as Minter Graham, the school-teacher, tells us, Abe was seen loitering about the polling-place. It must have been but a few days after his arrival in the town, for nobody knew that he could write. They were "short of a clerk" at the polls; and, after casting about in vain for some one competent to fill the office, it occurred to one of the judges that perhaps the tall stranger possessed the needful qualifications. He thereupon accosted him, and asked if he could write. He replied, "Yes, a little."—"Will you act as clerk of the election today?" said the judge. "I will try," returned Abe, "and do the best I can, if you so request." He did try accordingly, and, in the language of the schoolmaster, "performed the duties with great facility, much fairness and honesty and impartiality. This was the first public official act of his life. I clerked with him," says Mr. Graham, swelling with his theme, "on the same day and at the same polls. The election-books are now in the city of Springfield, Ill., where they can be seen and inspected any day."
On election day in August, as Minter Graham, the school teacher, recounts, Abe was spotted hanging around the polling place. It must have been just a few days after he arrived in town since no one knew he could write. They were "short of a clerk" at the polls, and after searching in vain for someone qualified for the job, one of the judges thought maybe the tall stranger had the skills they needed. He approached him and asked if he could write. Abe answered, "Yes, a little."—"Will you be the clerk of the election today?" asked the judge. "I'll give it a try," Abe replied, "and do my best if you request it." He indeed tried and, in the schoolmaster's words, "performed the duties with great ease, fairness, honesty, and impartiality. This was the first public official act of his life. I clerked with him," says Mr. Graham, proudly expanding on his story, "on the same day and at the same polls. The election books are now in the city of Springfield, Ill., where they can be seen and inspected any day."
Whilst Abe was "doing nothing," or, in other words, waiting for Offutt's goods, one Dr. Nelson, a resident of New Salem, built a flatboat, and, placing his family and effects upon it, started for Texas. But as the Sangamon was a turbulent and treacherous stream at best, and its banks were now full to overflowing, Nelson needed a pilot, at least as far as Beardstown.
While Abe was "doing nothing," or in other words, waiting for Offutt's goods, a doctor named Nelson, who lived in New Salem, built a flatboat. He loaded his family and belongings onto it and set off for Texas. But since the Sangamon River was already a rough and unpredictable stream, and its banks were currently overflowing, Nelson needed a pilot, at least as far as Beardstown.
His choice fell upon Abe, who took him to the mouth of the doubtful river in safety, although Abe often declared that he occasionally ran out into the prairie at least three miles from the channel. Arriving at Beardstown, Nelson pushed on down the Illinois, and Abe walked back to New Salem.
His choice was Abe, who safely took him to the mouth of the questionable river, even though Abe often said he sometimes wandered out into the prairie at least three miles from the riverbank. When they reached Beardstown, Nelson continued down the Illinois, and Abe made his way back to New Salem.
The second storekeeper at New Salem was a Mr. George Warburton; but, "the country not having improved his morals in the estimation of his friends," George thought it advisable to transfer his storeroom and the remnant of his stock to Offutt. In the mean time, Offutt's long-expected goods were received from Beardstown. Abe unpacked them, ranged them on the shelves, rolled the barrels and kegs into their places, and, being provided with a brand-new book, pen, and ink, found himself duly installed as "first clerk" of the principal mercantile house in New Salem. A country store is an indescribable collection of miscellanies,—groceries, drygoods, hardware, earthenware, and stoneware, cups and saucers, plates and dishes, coffee and tea, sugar and molasses, boots and shoes, whiskey and lead, butter and eggs, tobacco and gunpowder, with an endless list of things unimaginable except by a housewife or a "merchant." Such was the store to the charge of which Abe was now promoted,—promoted from the rank of a common laborer to be a sort of brevet clerk.
The second storekeeper at New Salem was a Mr. George Warburton; however, "the country didn’t improve his morals in the eyes of his friends," so George decided it was best to move his storeroom and the rest of his stock to Offutt. In the meantime, Offutt’s long-awaited goods arrived from Beardstown. Abe unpacked them, organized them on the shelves, rolled the barrels and kegs into their spots, and, with a brand-new book, pen, and ink, found himself officially installed as "first clerk" of the main mercantile store in New Salem. A country store is an incredible mix of everything—groceries, dry goods, hardware, earthenware, and stoneware; cups and saucers, plates and dishes; coffee and tea, sugar and molasses; boots and shoes; whiskey and lead; butter and eggs; tobacco and gunpowder, plus an endless list of items that only a housewife or a "merchant" could imagine. This was the store Abe was now in charge of—promoted from a common laborer to a kind of honorary clerk.
But Offutt's ideas of commerce were very comprehensive; and, as "his business was already considerably scattered about the country," he thought he would scatter a little more. He therefore rented the mill at the foot of the hill, from Cameron and Rutledge, and set Abe to overlooking that as well as the store. This increase of business, however, required another clerk, and in a few days Abe was given a companion in the person of W. G. Green. They slept together on the same cot in the store; and as Mr. Green observes, by way of indicating the great intimacy that subsisted between them, "when one turned over, the other had to do so likewise." To complete his domestic arrangements, Abe followed the example of Mr. Offutt, and took boarding at John Cameron's, one of the owners of the mill.
But Offutt's ideas about business were quite broad; and since "his operations were already pretty spread out across the country," he figured he might as well expand a bit more. So, he rented the mill at the base of the hill from Cameron and Rutledge and had Abe oversee that along with the store. This growth in business, however, meant they needed another clerk, and soon Abe was joined by W. G. Green. They shared a cot in the store, and as Mr. Green mentions to highlight their strong bond, "when one turned over, the other had to do so too." To wrap up his living arrangements, Abe followed Mr. Offutt's lead and started boarding at John Cameron's, one of the mill’s owners.
Mr. Offutt is variously, though not differently, described as a "wild, harum-scarum, reckless fellow;" a "gusty, windy, brain-rattling man;" a "noisy, unsteady, fussy, rattlebrained man, wild and improvident." If anybody can imagine the character indicated by these terms, he can imagine Mr. Offutt,—Abe's employer, friend, and patron. Since the trip on the flatboat, his admiration for Abe had grown to be boundless. He now declared that "Abe knew more than any man in the United States;" that "he would some day be President of the United States," and that he could, at that present moment, outrun, whip, or throw down any man in Sangamon County. These loud boasts were not wasted on the desert air: they were bad seed sown in a rank soil, and speedily raised up a crop of sharp thorns for both Abe and Offutt. At New Salem, honors such as Offutt accorded to Abe were to be won before they were worn.
Mr. Offutt is often described as a "wild, carefree, reckless guy," a "loud, boisterous, scatterbrained man," and a "noisy, erratic, fussy, scatterbrained man, wild and careless." If anyone can picture the character suggested by these descriptions, they can picture Mr. Offutt—Abe's boss, friend, and supporter. Since their trip on the flatboat, his admiration for Abe has grown tremendously. He now claims that "Abe knows more than anyone else in the United States," that "he's going to be President one day," and that he could, right now, outrun, beat up, or throw down any guy in Sangamon County. These loud claims weren't made in vain: they were bad seeds planted in poor soil, quickly growing into a thorny mess for both Abe and Offutt. In New Salem, the honors that Offutt gave to Abe had to be earned before they could be enjoyed.
Bill Clary made light of Offutt's opinion respecting Abe's prowess; and one day, when the dispute between them had been running high in the store, it ended by a bet of ten dollars on the part of Clary that Jack Armstrong was "a better man." Now, "Jack was a powerful twister," "square built, and strong as an ox." He had, besides, a great backing; for he was the chief of the "Clary's Grove boys," and the Clary's Grove boys were the terror of the countryside. Although there never was under the sun a more generous parcel of ruffians than those over whom Jack held sway, a stranger's introduction was likely to be the most unpleasant part of his acquaintance with them. In fact, one of the objects of their association was to "initiate or naturalize new-comers," as they termed the amiable proceedings which they took by way of welcoming any one ambitious of admittance to the society of New Salem. They first bantered the gentleman to run a foot-race, jump, pitch the mall, or wrestle; and, if none of these propositions seemed agreeable to him, they would request to know what he would do in case another gentleman should pull his nose, or squirt tobacco-juice in his face. If he did not seem entirely decided in his views as to what should properly be done in such a contingency, perhaps he would be nailed in a hogshead, and rolled down New-Salem hill; perhaps his ideas would be brightened by a brief ducking in the Sangamon; or perhaps he would be scoffed, kicked, and cuffed by a great number of persons in concert, until he reached the confines of the village, and then turned adrift as being unfit company for the people of that settlement. If, however, the stranger consented to engage in a tussle with one of his persecutors, it was usually arranged that there should be "foul play," with nameless impositions and insults, which would inevitably change the affair into a fight; and then, if the subject of all these practices proved indeed to be a man of mettle, he would be promptly received into "good society," and in all probability would never have better friends on earth than the roystering fellows who had contrived his torments.
Bill Clary made fun of Offutt's opinion about Abe's skills, and one day, when their argument had escalated in the store, Clary ended up betting ten dollars that Jack Armstrong was "a better man." Now, "Jack was a powerful guy," "well-built, and strong as an ox." Plus, he had significant support; he was the leader of the "Clary's Grove boys," who were known as the troublemakers of the area. Although they were probably the most generous group of ruffians you could find, any stranger's introduction to them was likely to be the most uncomfortable part of meeting them. In fact, one of their group's goals was to "initiate or naturalize newcomers," as they called their friendly rituals to welcome anyone eager to join the community of New Salem. They would first challenge the newcomer to a footrace, a jump, a game of pitching the mall, or a wrestling match; and if none of these sounded good to him, they would ask what he would do if another guy were to pull his nose or spit tobacco juice in his face. If he didn't seem completely sure about how to handle such situations, he might find himself stuffed in a barrel and rolled down New Salem hill, or maybe his outlook would improve after a quick dunk in the Sangamon river; or he could be laughed at, kicked, and hit by a large group of people until he reached the edge of the village and then be sent on his way as unfit for the community. However, if the stranger agreed to a scuffle with one of his tormentors, it was usually set up for there to be "foul play," with various unfair tactics and insults that would turn the whole thing into a real fight; and if he turned out to be a tough guy, he would quickly be accepted into "good company,” and he might never find better friends than the rowdy guys who had put him through that ordeal.
Thus far Abe had managed to escape "initiation" at the hands of Jack and his associates. They were disposed to like him, and to take him on faith, or at least to require no further evidence of his manhood than that which rumor had already brought them. Offutt, with his busy tongue, had spread wide the report of his wondrous doings on the river; and, better still, all New Salem, including many of the "Clary's Grove boys," had witnessed his extraordinary feats of strength and ingenuity at Rutledge's mill-dam. It was clear that no particular person was "spoiling" for a collision with him; and an exception to the rule might have been made in his favor, but for the offensive zeal and confidence of his employer.
So far, Abe had managed to avoid the "initiation" that Jack and his friends had planned for him. They seemed to like him and were willing to trust him, or at least required no more proof of his manliness than what gossip had already shared. Offutt, with his endless chatter, had widely circulated tales of Abe's amazing feats on the river. Even better, everyone in New Salem, including many of the "Clary's Grove boys," had seen his incredible displays of strength and cleverness at Rutledge's mill-dam. It was obvious that no one was particularly eager to challenge him; and he might have even been spared from trouble if it weren't for the overly enthusiastic and confident attitude of his employer.
The example of Offutt and Clary was followed by all the "boys;" and money, knives, whiskey, and all manner of things, were staked on the result of the wrestle. The little community was excited throughout, and Jack's partisans were present in great numbers; while Offutt and Bill Green were about the only persons upon whom Abe could rely if the contest should take the usual turn, and end in a fight. For these, and many other reasons, he longed to be safely and honorably out of the scrape; but Offutt's folly had made it impossible for him to evade the conflict without incurring the imputation, and suffering the penalties, of cowardice. He said, "I never tussle and scuffle, and I will not: I don't like this wooling and pulling." But these scruples only served to aggravate his case; and he was at last forced to take hold of Jack, which he did with a will and power that amazed the fellows who had at last baited him to the point of indignation. They took "side holds," and stood struggling, each with tremendous but equal strength, for several minutes, without any perceptible advantage to either. New trips or unexpected twists were of no avail between two such experienced wrestlers as these. Presently Abe profited by his height and the length of his arms to lift Jack clear off the ground, and, swinging him about, thought to land him on his back; but this feat was as futile as the rest, and left Jack standing as square and as firm as ever. "Now, Jack," said Abe, "let's quit: you can't throw me, and I can't throw you." But Jack's partisans, regarding this overture as a signal of the enemy's distress, and being covetous of jack-knives, whiskey, and "smooth quarters," cheered him on to greater exertions. Rendered desperate by these expectations of his friends, and now enraged at meeting more than his match, Jack resolved on "a foul," and, breaking holds, he essayed the unfair and disreputable expedient of "legging." But at this Abe's prudence deserted him, and righteous wrath rose to the ascendent. The astonished spectators saw him take their great bully by the throat, and, holding him out at arm's-length, shake him like a child. Then a score or two of the boys cried "Fight!" Bill Clary claimed the stakes, and Offutt, in the fright and confusion, was about to yield them; but "Lincoln said they had not won the money, and they should not have it; and, although he was opposed to fighting, if nothing else would do them, he would fight Armstrong, Clary, or any of the set." Just at this juncture James Rutledge, the original proprietor of New Salem, and a man of some authority, "rushed into the crowd," and exerted himself to maintain the peace. He succeeded; but for a few moments a general fight was impending, and Abe was seen with his back against Offutt's store "undismayed" and "resolute," although surrounded by enemies.1
The example of Offutt and Clary was followed by all the "guys," and money, knives, whiskey, and all kinds of things were bet on the outcome of the wrestling match. The little community was excited, and Jack's supporters showed up in large numbers; while Offutt and Bill Green were pretty much the only people Abe could count on if the match went as usual and turned into a fight. For these and many other reasons, he really wanted to get out of this situation safely and honorably; but Offutt’s foolishness had made it impossible for him to dodge the conflict without being seen as a coward and facing the consequences. He said, "I never tussle or scuffle, and I won’t: I don’t like this wrestling and pulling." But these concerns only made his situation worse; and in the end, he had to grab hold of Jack, doing so with a determination and strength that surprised the guys who had finally pushed him to the point of anger. They took "side holds" and struggled, each matching the other's strength for several minutes, with no clear advantage to either. New trips or unexpected twists didn’t matter between two wrestlers as skilled as these. Soon, Abe used his height and long arms to lift Jack off the ground and, swinging him around, tried to throw him on his back; but this move was just as pointless as the others and left Jack standing as solid and firm as he had been. "Now, Jack," said Abe, "let's stop: you can't throw me, and I can't throw you." But Jack's supporters saw this suggestion as a sign that their guy was in trouble and, eager for knives, whiskey, and "smooth quarters," cheered him on to try harder. Driven mad by his friends' expectations and now angry to find someone stronger than himself, Jack decided to cheat and, breaking their hold, tried the unfair move of "legging." But at that, Abe’s sense kicked in and righteous anger took over. The amazed spectators watched as he grabbed the big bully by the throat and, holding him out at arm's length, shook him like a kid. Then a bunch of the guys shouted "Fight!" Bill Clary claimed the bets, and Offutt, in the confusion and panic, was about to give them up; but "Lincoln said they hadn’t won the money, and they weren’t getting it; and even though he was against fighting, if that’s what it took, he’d fight Armstrong, Clary, or anyone else." Just then, James Rutledge, the original owner of New Salem and a man with some authority, "rushed into the crowd," and worked to keep the peace. He succeeded; but for a few moments, a full-on brawl seemed likely, and Abe was seen with his back against Offutt's store "undaunted" and "determined," even though surrounded by enemies.
1 Of the fight and what followed, we have the particulars from many persons who were witnesses.
1 We have information about the fight and what happened after from many witnesses.
Jack Armstrong was no bad fellow, after all. A sort of Western John Browdie, stout and rough, but great-hearted, honest, and true: his big hand, his cabin, his table, and his purse were all at the disposal of a friend in need. He possessed a rude sense of justice, and felt an incredible respect for a man who would stand single-handed, stanch, and defiant, in the midst of persecutors and foes. He had never disliked Abe, and had, in fact, looked for very clever things from him, even before his title to respectability had been made so incontestably clear; but his exhibition of pluck and muscle on this occasion excited Jack to a degree of admiration far beyond his power to conceal it. Abe's hand was hardly removed from his throat, when he was ready to grasp it in friendship, and swear brotherhood and peace between them. He declared him, on the spot, "the best fellow that ever broke into their settlement;" and henceforth the empire was divided, and Jack and Abe reigned like two friendly Cæsars over the roughs and bullies of New Salem. If there were ever any dissensions between them, it was because Jack, in the abundance of his animal spirits, was sometimes inclined to be an oppressor, whilst Abe was ever merciful and kind; because Jack would occasionally incite the "boys" to handle a stranger, a witless braggart, or a poor drunkard with a harshness that shocked the just and humane temper of his friend, who was always found on the side of the weak and the unfortunate. On the whole, however, the harmony that subsisted between them was wonderful. Wherever Lincoln worked, Jack "did his loafing;" and, when Lincoln was out of work, he spent days and weeks together at Jack's cabin, where Jack's jolly wife, "old Hannah," stuffed him with bread and honey, laughed at his ugliness, and loved him for his goodness.
Jack Armstrong wasn't a bad guy, after all. He was like a rugged Western version of John Browdie—solid and tough but really warm-hearted, honest, and true. His big hands, his cabin, his dinner table, and his wallet were all open to a friend in need. He had a rough sense of justice and held great respect for someone who could stand strong and defiant against enemies. He never disliked Abe and actually expected great things from him, even before Abe proved himself worthy of respect; but his display of courage and strength in that moment made Jack admire him even more. As soon as Abe released his grip from his throat, Jack was ready to shake hands in friendship, swearing to be brothers in peace. He declared him right then and there "the best guy to ever come into their settlement," and from then on, Jack and Abe ruled like two friendly Cæsars over the roughnecks and bullies of New Salem. If they ever had any disagreements, it was because Jack, full of energy, sometimes acted like a bully, while Abe was always compassionate and kind. Jack would occasionally egg the "boys" on to deal harshly with a stranger, a foolish braggart, or a poor drunkard, which shocked Abe’s sense of fairness, as he always stood up for the weak and the unfortunate. Overall, though, their friendship was impressive. Wherever Lincoln worked, Jack was there hanging out; and when Lincoln was out of work, he’d spend days and weeks at Jack's cabin, where Jack’s cheerful wife, "old Hannah," filled him up with bread and honey, laughed at his looks, and loved him for his kind heart.
Abe rapidly grew in favor with the people in and around New Salem, until nearly everybody thought quite as much of him as Mr. Offutt did. He was decidedly the most popular man that ever lived there. He could do more to quell a riot, compromise a feud; and keep peace among the neighbors generally, than any one else; and these were of the class of duties which it appears to have been the most agreeable for him to perform. One day a strange man came into the settlement, and was straightway beset by the same fellows who had meditated a drubbing for Abe himself. Jack Armstrong, of course, "had a difficulty with him;" "called him a liar, coward," and various other names not proper for print; but the man, finding himself taken at a disadvantage, "backed up to a woodpile," got a stick, and "struck Jack a blow that brought him to the ground." Being "as strong as two men, Jack wanted to whip the man badly," but Abe interfered, and, managing to have himself made "arbitrator," compromised the difficulty by a practical application of the golden rule. "Well, Jack," said he, "what did you say to the man?" Whereupon Jack repeated his words. "Well, Jack," replied Abe, "if you were a stranger in a strange place, as this man is, and you were called a d—d liar, &c., what would you do?"—"Whip him, by God!"—"Then this man has done no more to you than you would have done to him."—"Well, Abe," said the honest bruiser, "it's all right," and, taking his opponent by the hand, forgave him heartily, and "treated." Jack always treated his victim when he thought he had been too hard upon him.
Abe quickly became popular with the people in and around New Salem, until nearly everyone thought as highly of him as Mr. Offutt did. He was definitely the most popular man to ever live there. He could do more to calm a riot, resolve a feud, and keep the peace among neighbors than anyone else, and these were the types of duties he seemed to enjoy the most. One day, a stranger came into the settlement and was immediately confronted by the same guys who had planned to rough up Abe himself. Jack Armstrong naturally "had a run-in with him"; he "called him a liar, coward," and a bunch of other names that aren't appropriate to print; but the man, realizing he was at a disadvantage, "backed up to a woodpile," grabbed a stick, and "hit Jack with a blow that knocked him down." Being "as strong as two men, Jack really wanted to beat the guy up," but Abe stepped in, having himself made "the mediator," and resolved the situation by applying the golden rule. "Well, Jack," he said, "what did you say to the guy?" Jack then repeated his insults. "Well, Jack," Abe replied, "if you were a stranger in an unfamiliar place, like this man is, and someone called you a d—d liar, what would you do?"—"I'd whip him, for sure!"—"Then this man has done no more to you than you would have done to him."—"Well, Abe," said the honest fighter, "that's fair," and, shaking hands with his opponent, forgave him wholeheartedly and "bought him a drink." Jack always treated his opponent when he felt he had been too rough on him.
Abe's duties in Offutt's store were not of a character to monopolize the whole of his time,1 and he soon began to think that here was a fine opportunity to remedy some of the defects in his education.
Abe's responsibilities at Offutt's store didn’t take up all his time, and he quickly started to see this as a great chance to fix some of the gaps in his education.
1 "During the time he was working for Offutt, and hands being scarce, Lincoln turned In and cut down trees, and split enough rails for Offutt to make a pen sufficiently large to contain a thousand hogs. The pen was built under New Salem hill, close to the mill.... I know where those rails are now; are sound to-day."—Minter Graham
1 "While he was working for Offutt, and with a shortage of labor, Lincoln went in and cut down trees, splitting enough rails for Offutt to build a pen large enough to hold a thousand hogs. The pen was built under New Salem hill, near the mill.... I know where those rails are now; they’re still strong today."—Minter Graham
He could read, write, and cipher as well as most men; but as his popularity was growing daily, and his ambition keeping pace, he feared that he might shortly be called to act in some public capacity which would require him to speak his own language with some regard to the rules of the grammar,—of which, according to his own confession, he knew nothing at all. He carried his troubles to the schoolmaster, saying, "I have a notion to study English grammar."—"If you expect to go before the public in any capacity," replied Mr. Graham, "I think it the best thing you can do."—"If I had a grammar," replied Abe, "I would commence now." There was no grammar to be had about New Salem; but the schoolmaster, having kept the run of that species of property, gladdened Abe's heart by telling him that he knew where there was one. Abe rose from the breakfast at which he was sitting, and learning that the book was at Vaner's, only six miles distant, set off after it as hard as he could tramp. It seemed to Mr. Graham a very little while until he returned and announced, with great pleasure, that he had it. "He then turned his immediate and most undivided attention" to the study of it. Sometimes, when business was not particularly brisk, he would lie under a shade-tree in front of the store, and pore over the book; at other times a customer would find him stretched on the counter intently engaged in the same way. But the store was a bad place for study; and he was often seen quietly slipping out of the village, as if he wished to avoid observation, when, if successful in getting off alone, he would spend hours in the woods, "mastering a book," or in a state of profound abstraction. He kept up his old habit of sitting up late at night; but, as lights were as necessary to his purpose as they were expensive, the village cooper permitted him to sit in his shop, where he burnt the shavings, and kept a blazing fire to read by, when every one else was in bed. The Greens lent him books; the schoolmaster gave him instructions in the store, on the road, or in the meadows: every visitor to New Salem who made the least pretension to scholarship was waylaid by Abe, and required to explain something which he could not understand. The result of it all was, that the village and the surrounding country wondered at his growth in knowledge, and he soon became as famous for the goodness of his understanding as for the muscular power of his body, and the unfailing humor of his talk.
He could read, write, and do math like most people; but as his popularity grew each day and his ambition kept up with it, he worried that he might soon be called to serve in some public role that would require him to speak his own language with some knowledge of grammar rules—of which, by his own admission, he knew nothing at all. He took his concerns to the schoolmaster, saying, "I want to study English grammar." "If you expect to step out in public in any role," replied Mr. Graham, "I think that's the best thing you can do." "If I had a grammar book," Abe said, "I would start right now." There wasn’t any grammar book available in New Salem, but the schoolmaster, who was aware of such resources, happily informed Abe that he knew where one was. Abe got up from breakfast and, learning that the book was at Vaner's just six miles away, hurried off to get it. It didn’t seem to Mr. Graham like much time passed before Abe returned, excitedly announcing that he had it. "He then devoted his full attention" to studying it. Sometimes, when business was slow, he would lie under a shade tree in front of the store, absorbed in the book; at other times, a customer would find him stretched out on the counter, equally focused. But the store was not the best place for studying; he was often seen quietly sneaking out of town, as if trying to avoid being noticed. If he managed to get away alone, he would spend hours in the woods, "immersed in a book," or lost in deep thought. He maintained his old habit of staying up late; however, since lights were as essential to his studying as they were costly, the village cooper allowed him to sit in his workshop, where he burned shavings and kept a bright fire to read by while everyone else was asleep. The Greens lent him books; the schoolmaster gave him lessons in the store, on the road, or in the fields: every visitor to New Salem who showed even a hint of education was approached by Abe and asked to explain something he didn’t understand. As a result, the village and the surrounding area marveled at his rapid growth in knowledge, and he soon became well-known for both his intelligence and the strength of his body, as well as his ever-present humor.
Early in the spring of 1832, some enterprising gentlemen at Springfield determined to try whether the Sangamon was a navigable stream or not. It was a momentous question to the dwellers along the banks; and, when the steamboat "Talisman" was chartered to make the experiment, the popular excitement was intense, and her passage up and down was witnessed by great concourses of people on either bank. It was thought that Abe's experience on this particular river would render his assistance very valuable; and, in company with some others, he was sent down to Beardstown, to meet the "Talisman," and pilot her up. With Abe at the helm, she ran with comparative ease and safety as far as the New-Salem dam, a part of which they were compelled to tear away in order to let the steamer through. Thence she went on as high as Bogue's mill; but, having reached that point, the rapidly-falling water admonished her captain and pilots, that, unless they wished her to be left there for the season, they must promptly turn her prow down stream. For some time, on the return trip, she made not more than three or four miles a day, "on account of the high wind from the prairie." "I was sent for, being an old boatman," says J. R. Herndon, "and I met her some twelve or thirteen miles above New Salem.... We got to Salem the second day after I went on board. When we struck the dam, she hung. We then backed off, and threw the anchor over the dam, and tore away a part of the dam, and, raising steam, ran her over the first trial. As soon as she was over, the company that chartered her was done with her. I think the captain gave Mr. Lincoln forty dollars to run her down to Beardstown. I am sure I got forty dollars to continue on her until we landed at Beardstown. We that went down with her walked back to New Salem."
Early in the spring of 1832, some enterprising gentlemen in Springfield decided to find out if the Sangamon was a navigable river. This was a significant question for the people living along its banks, and when the steamboat "Talisman" was hired to test it, there was a lot of excitement; crowds gathered on both sides to witness her journey. It was believed that Abe's experience on this particular river would be very helpful, so he and a few others were sent down to Beardstown to meet the "Talisman" and guide her upstream. With Abe at the helm, she traveled with relative ease and safety up to the New-Salem dam, part of which they had to remove to allow the steamer to pass through. From there, she continued as far as Bogue's mill, but upon reaching that point, the quickly dropping water levels warned her captain and crew that if they didn't turn her around, she would be stuck there for the season. On the way back, she barely made three or four miles a day "because of the strong wind from the prairie." "I was called because I was an experienced boatman," J. R. Herndon recalls, "and I met her about twelve or thirteen miles above New Salem.... We arrived in Salem the second day after I boarded her. When we hit the dam, she got stuck. We then backed off, dropped the anchor over the dam, tore away part of the dam, and, after raising steam, got her over the first trial. Once she was past the dam, the company that chartered her was finished with her. I think the captain gave Mr. Lincoln forty dollars to take her down to Beardstown. I'm sure I received forty dollars to stay on until we reached Beardstown. Those of us who went down with her walked back to New Salem."
CHAPTER V.
IN the spring of 1832, Mr. Offutt's business had gone to ruin: the store was sold out, the mill was handed over to its owners, Mr. Offutt himself departed for parts unknown, and his "head clerk" was again out of work. Just about that time a governor's proclamation arrived, calling for volunteers to meet the famous chief Black Hawk and his warriors, who were preparing for a grand, and, in all likelihood, a bloody foray, into their old hunting-grounds in the Rock-river country.
In the spring of 1832, Mr. Offutt's business had collapsed: the store was empty, the mill was returned to its owners, Mr. Offutt himself disappeared to parts unknown, and his "head clerk" was once again unemployed. Around that time, a governor's proclamation came in, asking for volunteers to face the famous chief Black Hawk and his warriors, who were gearing up for a major, and probably bloody, raid into their old hunting grounds in the Rock River area.
Black Hawk was a large Indian, of powerful frame and commanding presence. He was a soldier and a statesman. The history of his diplomacy with the tribes he sought to confederate shows that he expected to realize on a smaller scale the splendid plans of Pontiac and Tecumseh. In his own tongue he was eloquent, and dreamed dreams which, amongst the Indians, passed for prophecy. The prophet is an indispensable personage in any comprehensive scheme of Indian politics, and no chief has ever effected a combination of formidable strength without his aid. In the person of Black Hawk, the chief and the prophet were one. His power in both capacities was bent toward a single end,—the great purpose of his life,—the recovery of his birthplace and the ancient home of his people from the possession of the stranger.
Black Hawk was a tall Indian, with a strong build and a commanding presence. He was both a soldier and a leader. His history of negotiating with the tribes he aimed to unite shows that he hoped to achieve, on a smaller scale, the ambitious goals of Pontiac and Tecumseh. He spoke eloquently in his native language and had visions that, among the Indians, were seen as prophetic. A prophet is a crucial figure in any comprehensive plan of Indian politics, and no chief has ever formed a powerful alliance without his support. In Black Hawk, the roles of chief and prophet were combined. His power in both roles was focused on a single goal—the great mission of his life—to reclaim his birthplace and the ancestral home of his people from the hands of outsiders.
Black Hawk was born on the Rock River in Wisconsin, in the year 1767. His grandfather lived near Montreal, whence his father Pyesa had emigrated, but not until he had become thoroughly British in his views and feelings. All his life long he made annual journeys to the councils of the tribes at Malden, where the gifts and persuasions of British agents confirmed him in his inclination to the British interests. When Pyesa was gathered to his fathers, his son took his place as the chief of the Sacs, hated the Americans, loved the friendly English, and went yearly to Malden, precisely as he thought Pyesa would have had him do. But Black Hawk's mind was infinitely superior to Pyesa's: his sentiments were loftier, his heart more susceptible; he had the gift of the seer, the power of the orator, with the high courage and the profound policy of a born warrior and a natural ruler. He "had brooded over the early history of his tribe; and to his views, as he looked down the vista of years, the former times seemed so much better than the present, that the vision wrought upon his susceptible imagination, which pictured it to be the Indian golden age. He had some remembrance of a treaty made by Gen. Harrison in 1804, to which his people had given their assent; and his feelings were with difficulty controlled, when he was required to leave the Rock-river Valley, in compliance with a treaty made with Gen. Scott. That valley, however, he peacefully abandoned with his tribe, on being notified, and went to the west of the Mississippi; but he had spent his youth in that locality, and the more he thought of it, the more determined he was to return thither. He readily enlisted the sympathies of the Indians, who are ever prone to ponder on their real or imaginary wrongs; and it may be readily conjectured that what Indian counsel could not accomplish, Indian prophecy would."1 He had moved when summoned to move, because he was then unprepared to fight; but he utterly denied that the chiefs who seemed to have ceded the lands long years before had any right to cede them, or that the tribe had ever willingly given up the country to the stranger and the aggressor. It was a fraud upon the simple Indians: the old treaty was a great lie, and the signatures it purported to have, made with marks and primitive devices, were not attached in good faith, and were not the names of honest Sacs. No: he would go over the river, he would have his own; the voice of the Great Spirit was in the air wherever he went; it was in his lodge through all the night-time, and it said "Go;" and Black Hawk must needs rise up and tell the people what the voice said.
Black Hawk was born on the Rock River in Wisconsin in 1767. His grandfather lived near Montreal, from where his father Pyesa had moved. However, by the time he left, he had fully embraced British views and sentiments. Throughout his life, he made yearly trips to tribal councils in Malden, where the gifts and persuasion of British agents reinforced his inclination towards British interests. When Pyesa passed away, his son took over as the chief of the Sacs, despised the Americans, cherished the friendly English, and continued to visit Malden, just as he thought Pyesa would have wanted. But Black Hawk was much more insightful than Pyesa; he had higher ideals, a more sensitive heart, the vision of a seer, the skill of an orator, and the bravery and strategic mind of a natural leader and warrior. He "had contemplated the early history of his tribe, and as he looked back over the years, the past appeared so much better than the present that it painted a picture in his imaginative mind of an Indian golden age." He remembered a treaty made by General Harrison in 1804, which his people had agreed to, and he struggled to control his emotions when he was told to leave the Rock River Valley in line with a treaty made with General Scott. However, he left the valley peacefully with his tribe upon notification and moved west of the Mississippi; yet, having spent his youth there, the more he reflected on it, the more resolved he became to return. He easily gained the support of the other Indians, who often dwell on their real or perceived injustices; it's easy to guess that what Indian counsel could not achieve, Indian prophecy would. He had moved when he was told to because he wasn't ready to fight at that time; however, he firmly denied that the chiefs who seemed to have surrendered the lands many years earlier had any right to do so, or that the tribe had ever willingly given up their land to strangers and aggressors. It was a deception against the simple Indians: the old treaty was a massive lie, and the signatures it claimed to have, made with marks and basic symbols, were not genuinely attached and did not represent the names of honest Sacs. No: he would cross the river, he would claim what was his; the voice of the Great Spirit was in the air wherever he went; it filled his lodge throughout the night, urging him to "Go;" and Black Hawk had to rise and tell the people what the voice said.
1 Schoolcraft's History of the Indian Tribes.
1 Schoolcraft's History of the Indian Tribes.
It was by such arguments as these that Black Hawk easily persuaded the Sacs. But hostilities by the Sacs alone would be a hopeless adventure. He must find allies. He looked first to their kindred, the Foxes, who had precisely the same cause of war with the Sacs, and after them to the Winnebagoes, Sioux, Kickapoos, and many others. That Black Hawk was a wise and valiant leader, all the Indians conceded; and his proposals were heard by some of the tribes with eagerness, and by all of them with respect. At one time his confederacy embraced nine tribes,—the most formidable in the North-west, if we exclude the Sioux and the Chippewas, who were themselves inclined to accede. Early in 1831, the first chief of the Chippewas exhibited a miniature tomahawk, red with vermilion, which, having been accepted from Black Hawk, signified an alliance between them; and away up at Leech. Lake, an obscure but numerous band showed some whites a few British medals painted in imitation of blood, which meant that they were to follow the war-paths of Black Hawk.
Black Hawk easily convinced the Sacs with arguments like these. But if the Sacs acted alone, it would be a lost cause. He needed allies. He first turned to their relatives, the Foxes, who had the same reason for fighting as the Sacs, and then to the Winnebagoes, Sioux, Kickapoos, and many others. Everyone recognized that Black Hawk was a smart and brave leader; his proposals were listened to eagerly by some tribes and respected by all. At one point, his coalition included nine tribes—the most powerful in the Northwest, not counting the Sioux and Chippewas, who were also leaning toward joining. In early 1831, the top chief of the Chippewas showed a small tomahawk, painted red with vermilion, which he accepted from Black Hawk, signifying an alliance between them. And far away at Leech Lake, a less-known but large group showed some white people a few British medals painted to look like blood, indicating that they were ready to join Black Hawk in war.
In 1831 Black Hawk had crossed the river in small force, but had retired before the advance of Gen. Gaines, commanding the United States post at Rock Island. He then promised to remain on the other side, and to keep quiet for the future. But early in the spring of 1832 he re-appeared with greater numbers, pushed straight into the Rock-river Valley, and said he had "come to plant corn." He was now sixty-seven years of age: he thought his great plots were all ripe, and his allies fast and true. They would fight a few bloody battles, and then he would sit down in his old age and see the corn grow where he had seen it in his youth. But the old chief reckoned too much upon Indian fidelity: he committed the fatal error of trusting to their patriotism instead of their interests. Gen. Atkinson, now in command at Rock Island, set the troops in motion: the governor issued his call for volunteers; and, as the Indians by this time had committed some frightful barbarities, the blood of the settlers was boiling, and the regiments were almost instantly filled with the best possible material. So soon as these facts became known, the allies of Black Hawk, both the secret and the open, fell away from him, and left him, with the Sacs and the Foxes, to meet his fate.
In 1831, Black Hawk crossed the river with a small group but retreated before the advance of Gen. Gaines, who was in charge of the U.S. post at Rock Island. He then promised to stay on the other side and keep the peace. However, early in the spring of 1832, he returned with more people, moving straight into the Rock River Valley, claiming he had "come to plant corn." At sixty-seven years old, he believed his extensive plans were all set, and his allies would remain loyal and dependable. He anticipated fighting a few fierce battles and then settling down in his old age to watch the corn grow as it had in his youth. But the old chief overestimated the reliability of the Indians; he made the critical mistake of relying on their patriotism rather than their self-interest. Gen. Atkinson, now in command at Rock Island, mobilized the troops. The governor called for volunteers, and since the Indians had by then committed some horrifying acts, the settlers were furious, leading to the regiments being quickly filled with eager recruits. Once this news spread, Black Hawk's allies, both secret and open, abandoned him, leaving him, along with the Sacs and the Foxes, to face his fate.
In the mean time Lincoln had enlisted in a company from Sangamon. He had not been out in the campaign of the previous year, but told his friend Row Herndon, that, if he had not been down the river with Offutt, he would certainly have been with the boys in the field. But, notwithstanding his want of military experience, his popularity was so great, that he had been elected captain of a militia company on the occasion of a muster at Clary's Grove the fall before. He was absent at the time, but thankfully accepted and served. Very much to his surprise, his friends put him up for the captaincy of this company about to enter active service. They did not organize at home, however, but marched first to Beardstown, and then to Rushville in Schuyler County, where the election took place. Bill Kirkpatrick was a candidate against Lincoln, but made a very sorry showing. It has been said that Lincoln once worked for Kirkpatrick as a common laborer, and suffered some indignities at his hands; but the story as a whole is supported by no credible testimony. It is certain, however, that the planks for the boat built by Abe and his friends at the mouth of Spring Creek were sawed at the mill of a Mr. Kirkpatrick. It was then, likely enough, that Abe fell in the way of this man, and learned to dislike him. At all events, when he had distanced Kirkpatrick, and was chosen his captain by the suffrages of men who had been intimate with Kirkpatrick long before they had ever heard of Abe, he spoke of him spitefully, and referred in no gentle terms to some old dispute. "Damn him," said he to Green, "I've beat him: he used me badly in our settlement for my toil."
In the meantime, Lincoln had joined a company from Sangamon. He hadn't participated in the campaign the year before, but he told his friend Row Herndon that if he hadn't been down the river with Offutt, he definitely would have been with the guys in the field. Despite his lack of military experience, he was so popular that he had been elected captain of a militia company during a muster at Clary's Grove the fall before. He was away during that time but gratefully accepted the position and served. To his surprise, his friends nominated him for captain of this new company entering active service. They didn't organize at home, though; they first marched to Beardstown and then to Rushville in Schuyler County, where the election was held. Bill Kirkpatrick ran against Lincoln, but he didn't do very well. It's claimed that Lincoln once worked for Kirkpatrick as a common laborer and faced some mistreatment, but that story lacks credible evidence. One thing is certain, though: the planks for the boat built by Abe and his friends at the mouth of Spring Creek were sawed at Mr. Kirkpatrick's mill. It’s likely during this time that Abe crossed paths with Kirkpatrick and started to dislike him. In any case, after he outperformed Kirkpatrick and was elected captain by men who had known Kirkpatrick long before they knew Abe, he spoke about him disdainfully and referred to some old conflict harshly. "Damn him," he said to Green, "I've beaten him: he treated me poorly during our settlement for my work."
Capt. Lincoln now made a very modest speech to his comrades, reciting the exceeding gratification their partiality afforded him, how undeserved he thought it, and how wholly unexpected it was. In conclusion, "he promised very plainly that he would do the best he could to prove himself worthy of that confidence."
Capt. Lincoln then gave a brief and humble speech to his fellow soldiers, expressing his deep gratitude for their support, mentioning how he felt he didn’t deserve it, and how it caught him completely by surprise. In closing, "he clearly promised that he would do everything he could to prove himself worthy of that trust."
The troops rendezvoused at Beardstown and Rushville were formed into four regiments and a spy battalion. Capt. Lincoln's company was attached to the regiment of Col. Samuel Thompson. The whole force was placed under the command of Gen. Whiteside, who was accompanied throughout the campaign by the governor in person.
The troops gathered at Beardstown and Rushville were organized into four regiments and a spy battalion. Capt. Lincoln's company was assigned to the regiment led by Col. Samuel Thompson. The entire force was placed under the command of Gen. Whiteside, who was joined throughout the campaign by the governor himself.
On the 27th of April, the army marched toward the mouth of Rock River, by way of Oquaka on the Mississippi. The route was one of difficulty and danger, a great part of it lying through a country largely occupied by the enemy. The men were raw, and restive under discipline. In the beginning they had no more respect for the "rules and regulations" than for Solomon's Proverbs, or the Westminster Confession. Capt. Lincoln's company is said to have been a particularly "hard set of men," who recognized no power but his. They were fighting men, and but for his personal authority would have kept the camp in a perpetual uproar.
On April 27th, the army marched toward the mouth of Rock River, passing through Oquaka on the Mississippi. The journey was challenging and risky, much of it through areas mostly occupied by the enemy. The soldiers were inexperienced and restless under discipline. At first, they had no more respect for the "rules and regulations" than for Solomon's Proverbs or the Westminster Confession. Capt. Lincoln’s company was known to be a particularly tough group of men who recognized no authority but his. They were fighters, and without his personal leadership, they would have turned the camp into a constant uproar.
At the crossing of Henderson River,—a stream about fifty yards wide, and eight or ten feet deep, with very precipitous banks,—they were compelled to make a bridge or causeway with timbers cut by the troops, and a filling-in of bushes, earth, or any other available material. This was the work of a day and night. Upon its completion, the horses and oxen were taken from the wagons, and the latter taken over by hand. But, when the horses came to cross, many of them were killed in sliding down the steep banks. "While in camp here," says a private in Capt. Lincoln's company, "a general order was issued prohibiting the discharge of fire-arms within fifty steps of the camp. Capt. Lincoln disobeyed the order by firing his pistol within ten steps of the camp, and for this violation of orders was put under arrest for that day, and his sword taken from him; but the next day his sword was restored, and nothing more was done in the matter."
At the crossing of Henderson River—a stream about fifty yards wide and eight to ten feet deep, with very steep banks—they had to build a bridge or causeway using timber cut by the troops and filling it in with bushes, dirt, or any other available materials. This took them a day and a night. Once it was finished, the horses and oxen were removed from the wagons, which were carried over by hand. However, when the horses tried to cross, many of them were killed after sliding down the steep banks. "While we were camped here," a private in Capt. Lincoln's company says, "a general order was issued that prohibited firing guns within fifty steps of the camp. Capt. Lincoln broke this rule by firing his pistol within ten steps of the camp, and for this disobedience, he was put under arrest for that day and had his sword taken from him; but the next day, his sword was returned, and nothing else was done about it."
From Henderson River the troops marched to Yellow Banks, on the Mississippi. "While at this place," Mr. Ben F. Irwin says, "a considerable body of Indians of the Cherokee tribe came across the river from the Iowa side, with the white flag hoisted. These were the first Indians we saw. They were very friendly, and gave us a general war-dance. We, in return, gave them a Sucker ho-down. All enjoyed the sport, and it is safe to say no man enjoyed it more than Capt. Lincoln."
From Henderson River, the troops marched to Yellow Banks on the Mississippi. "While we were at this spot," Mr. Ben F. Irwin states, "a significant group of Cherokee Indians crossed the river from the Iowa side, waving a white flag. They were the first Native Americans we encountered. They were very friendly and performed a traditional war dance for us. In return, we showcased a Sucker hoedown. Everyone had a great time, and it's fair to say that no one enjoyed it more than Capt. Lincoln."
From Yellow Banks, a rapid and exhaustive march of a few days brought the volunteers to the mouth of Rock River, where "it was agreed between Gen. Whiteside and Gen. Atkinson of the regulars, that the volunteers should march up Rock River, about fifty miles, to the Prophet's Town, and there encamp, to feed and rest their horses, and await the arrival of the regular troops, in keel-boats, with provisions. Judge William Thomas, who again acted as quartermaster to the volunteers, made an estimate of the amount of provisions required until the boats could arrive, which was supplied; and then Gen. Whiteside took up his line of march." 1 But Capt. Lincoln's company did not march on the present occasion with the alacrity which distinguished their comrades of other corps. The orderly sergeant attempted to "form company," but the company declined to be formed; the men, oblivious of wars and rumors of wars, mocked at the word of command, and remained between their blankets in a state of serene repose. For an explanation of these signs of passive mutiny, we must resort again to the manuscript of the private who gave the story of Capt. Lincoln's first arrest. "About the—of April, we reached the mouth of Rock River. About three or four nights afterwards, a man named Rial P. Green, commonly called 'Pot Green,' belonging to a Green-county company, came to oar company, and waked up the men, and proposed to them, that, if they would furnish him with a tomahawk and four buckets, he would get into the officers' liquors, and supply the men with wines and brandies. The desired articles were furnished him; and, with the assistance of one of our company, he procured the liquors. All this was entirely unknown to Capt. Lincoln. In the morning. Capt. Lincoln ordered his orderly to form company for parade; but when the orderly called the men to 'parade,' they called 'parade,' too, but couldn't fall into line. The most of the men were unmistakably drunk. The rest of the forces marched off, and left Capt. Lincoln's company behind. The company didn't make a start until about ten o'clock, and then, after marching about two miles, the drunken ones lay down and slept their drunk off. They overtook the forces that night. Capt. Lincoln was again put under arrest, and was obliged to carry a wooden sword for two days, and this although Capt. Lincoln was entirely blameless in the matter."
From Yellow Banks, a quick and thorough march over a few days took the volunteers to the mouth of Rock River, where General Whiteside and General Atkinson of the regular army agreed that the volunteers would march up Rock River, about fifty miles, to Prophet's Town. There, they would set up camp to feed and rest their horses while waiting for the regular troops to arrive in keel-boats with supplies. Judge William Thomas, who once again served as quartermaster for the volunteers, estimated the amount of provisions needed until the boats arrived, which were provided; then General Whiteside continued the march. But Captain Lincoln's company didn’t move this time with the eagerness that their fellow corps showed. The orderly sergeant tried to “form company,” but the men refused to form up; forgetting about wars and rumors of wars, they laughed at the commands and stayed wrapped in their blankets, peacefully resting. To explain these signs of quiet rebellion, we turn once more to the notes from the private who recounted Captain Lincoln's initial arrest. “About the—of April, we arrived at the mouth of Rock River. Around three or four nights later, a guy named Rial P. Green, known as ‘Pot Green,’ from a Green County company, came to our company, woke the men up, and proposed that if they gave him a tomahawk and four buckets, he would sneak into the officers' liquor supply and hook the men up with wines and brandies. The requested items were given to him, and with some help from a member of our company, he got the liquor. Captain Lincoln had no idea about any of this. In the morning, Captain Lincoln asked his orderly to form the company for parade; but when the orderly called the men to ‘parade,’ they echoed ‘parade’ too but couldn't line up. Most of the men were obviously drunk. The rest of the troops marched off, leaving Captain Lincoln's company behind. They didn’t start moving until about ten o'clock, and then after marching about two miles, the drunk ones lay down and slept it off. They caught up with the troops that night. Captain Lincoln was arrested again and had to carry a wooden sword for two days, even though he was completely innocent in the situation.”
1 Ford's History of Illinois, chap. iv.
1 Ford's History of Illinois, chapter 4.
When Gen. Whiteside reached Prophetstown, where he was to rest until the arrival of the regulars and the supplies, he disregarded the plan of operations concerted between him and Atkinson, and, burning the village to the ground, pushed on towards Dixon's Ferry, forty miles farther up the river. Nearing that place, he left his baggage-wagons behind: the men threw away their allotments of provisions, or left them with the wagons; and in that condition a forced march was made to Dixon. There Whiteside found two battalions of mounted men under Majors Stillman and Bailey, who clamored to be thrown forward, where they might get up an independent but glorious "brush" with the enemy on comparatively private account. The general had it not in his heart to deny these adventurous spirits, and they were promptly advanced to feel and disclose the Indian force supposed to be near at hand. Stillman accordingly moved up the bank of "Old Man's Creek" (since called "Stillman's Run"), to a point about twenty miles from Dixon, where, just before nightfall, he went into camp, or was about to do so, when several Indians were seen hovering along some raised ground nearly a mile distant. Straightway Stillman's gallant fellows remounted, one by one, or two and two, and, without officers or orders, galloped away in pursuit. The Indians first shook a red flag, and then dashed off at the top of their speed. Three of them were overtaken and killed: but the rest performed with perfect skill the errand upon which they were sent; they led Stillman's command into an ambuscade, where lay Black Hawk himself with seven hundred of his warriors. The pursuers recoiled, and rode for their lives: Black Hawk bore down upon Stillman's camp; the fugitives, streaming back with fearful cries respecting the numbers and ferocity of the enemy, spread consternation through the entire force. Stillman gave a hasty order to fall back; and the men fell back much faster and farther than he intended, for they never faced about, or so much as stopped, until they reached Whiteside's camp at Dixon. The first of them reached Dixon about twelve o'clock; and others came straggling in all night long and part of the next day, each party announcing themselves as the sole survivors of that stricken field, escaped solely by the exercise of miraculous valor.1
When General Whiteside arrived at Prophetstown, where he was supposed to rest until the regular troops and supplies showed up, he ignored the planned operations he had discussed with Atkinson. Instead, he burned the village to the ground and pressed on towards Dixon's Ferry, which was forty miles further up the river. As he got closer, he left his baggage wagons behind; the men discarded their food supplies or left them with the wagons. In that state, they made a forced march to Dixon. There, Whiteside found two battalions of mounted men under Majors Stillman and Bailey, who were eager to be sent forward to engage the enemy in what they hoped would be a glorious independent fight. The general didn’t have the heart to deny these adventurous soldiers, so they were quickly sent ahead to scout for the Indian force that was believed to be nearby. Stillman moved up the bank of “Old Man’s Creek” (later known as “Stillman’s Run”) to a spot about twenty miles from Dixon, where just before nightfall, he was about to set up camp when several Indians were spotted on some raised ground nearly a mile away. Immediately, Stillman’s brave men remounted, either one by one or in pairs, and without officers or orders, charged off in pursuit. The Indians first waved a red flag and then fled at full speed. Three of them were caught and killed, but the others skillfully led Stillman’s troops into an ambush where Black Hawk and seven hundred of his warriors lay in wait. The pursuers quickly retreated, riding for their lives as Black Hawk charged towards Stillman’s camp. The fleeing soldiers, screaming about the numbers and ferocity of the enemy, spread panic throughout the entire force. Stillman hurriedly ordered a retreat, and the men fell back much faster and farther than he intended, never stopping or looking back until they reached Whiteside’s camp at Dixon. The first of them arrived around twelve o'clock, with others trickling in throughout the night and part of the next day, each claiming to be the sole survivors of that devastated battlefield, having escaped solely through miraculous bravery.
1 "It is said that a big, tall Kentuckian, with a very loud voice, who was a colonel of the militia, but a private with Stillman, upon his arrival in camp, gave to Gen. Whiteside and the wondering multitude the following glowing and bombastic account of the battle. 'Sirs,' said he, 'our detachment was encamped amongst some scattering timber on the north side of Old Man's Creek, with the prairie from the north gently sloping down to our encampment. It was just after twilight, in the gloaming of the evening, when we discovered Black Hawk's army coming down upon us in solid column: they displayed in the form of a crescent upon the brow of the prairie, and such accuracy and precision of military movements were never witnessed by man; they were equal to the best troops of Wellington in Spain. I have said that the Indians came down in solid column, and displayed in the form of a crescent; and, what was most wonderful, there were large squares of cavalry resting upon the points of the curve, which squares were supported again by other columns fifteen deep, extending back through the woods, and over a swamp three-quarters of a mile, which again rested upon the main body of Black Hawk's army bivouacked upon the banks of the Kishwakee. It was a terrible and a glorious sight to see the tawny warriors as they rode along our flanks attempting to outflank us with the glittering moonbeams glistening from their polished blades and burnished spears. It was a sight well calculated to strike consternation into the stoutest and boldest heart; and accordingly our men soon began to break in small squads for tall timber. In a very little time the rout became general. The Indians were on our flanks, and threatened the destruction of the entire detachment. About this time Major Stillman, Col. Stephenson, Major Perkins, Capt. Adams, Mr. Hackelton, and myself, with some others, threw ourselves into the rear to rally the fugitives and protect the retreat. But in A short time all my companions fell, bravely fighting hand to hand with the savage enemy, and I alone was left upon the field of battle. About this time I discovered not far to the left, a corps of horsemen which seemed to be in tolerable order. I immediately deployed to the left, when, leaning down and placing my body in a recumbent posture upon the mane of my horse, so as to bring the heads of the horsemen between my eye and the horizon, I discovered by the light of the moon that they were gentlemen who did not wear hats, by which token I knew they were no friends of mine. I therefore made a retrograde movement, and recovered my former position, where I remained some time, meditating what further I could do in the service of my country, when a random ball came whistling by my ear, and plainly whispered to me, "Stranger, you have no further business here." Upon hearing this, I followed the example of my companions in arms, and broke for tall timber, and the way I run was not a little, and quit.' "This colonel was a lawyer just returning from the circuit, with a slight wardrobe and 'Chitty's Pleadings' packed in his saddle-bags, all of which were captured by the Indians. He afterwards related, with much vexation, that Black Hawk had decked himself out in his finery, appearing in the woods amongst his savage companions dressed in one of the colonel's ruffled shirts drawn over his deer-skin leggings, with a volume of 'Chitty's Pleadings' under each arm."— Ford's History of Illinois.
1 "A tall guy from Kentucky, known for his loud voice, who was a militia colonel but just a private with Stillman, showed up at camp and delivered a dramatic and exaggerated story of the battle to General Whiteside and the astonished crowd. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'we were positioned among some scattered trees on the north side of Old Man's Creek, with the prairie gently sloping down to the north of us. It was right after twilight when we spotted Black Hawk's army approaching us in a tight formation: they appeared in a crescent shape at the edge of the prairie, and their military movements were impressive, rivaling Wellington's best troops in Spain. I mentioned the Indians came down in a solid column and formed a crescent; what was even more surprising was the large groups of cavalry at the tips of the curve, supported by other columns fifteen men deep, extending back through the woods and over a swamp for three-quarters of a mile, which then connected to the main body of Black Hawk's army camped along the banks of the Kishwakee. It was a terrifying and awe-inspiring sight, seeing the fierce warriors riding alongside us, trying to outmaneuver us with the moonlight reflecting off their shiny blades and bright spears. It was enough to shake even the bravest heart, and soon our men started to disperse into small groups toward the tall timber. Before long, chaos erupted. The Indians were on our flanks, threatening to wipe us out. At that moment, Major Stillman, Colonel Stephenson, Major Perkins, Captain Adams, Mr. Hackelton, and I, along with a few others, moved to the back to rally the retreating soldiers and cover their escape. But soon, all my comrades fell, fighting bravely hand to hand against the savage enemy, leaving me alone on the battlefield. About then, I noticed to my left a group of horsemen who seemed to be organized. I quickly shifted left and leaned down, resting on the mane of my horse to see past the horsemen, and in the moonlight, I realized they were gentlemen without hats, which made it clear they were definitely not allies. So I quickly backed away and returned to my previous position, pondering what else I could do for my country when a stray bullet zipped by my ear, clearly indicating, 'Stranger, you have no further business here.' Hearing this, I did what my fellow soldiers did and ran for the tall timber, and I have to say, I ran quite a bit to get out of there.' This colonel was a lawyer just back from the circuit with a few clothes and 'Chitty's Pleadings' in his saddle-bags, all of which the Indians captured. He later recounted, annoyed, how Black Hawk had dressed in his fancy gear, showing up in the woods among his savage companions wearing one of the colonel's ruffled shirts over his deer-skin leggings, with a copy of 'Chitty's Pleadings' under each arm." — Ford's History of Illinois.
The affair is known to history as "Stillman's Defeat." "Old John Hanks" was in it, and speaks of it with shame and indignation, attributing the disaster to "drunken men, cowardice, and folly," though in this case we should be slow to adopt his opinion. Of folly, there was, no doubt, enough, both on the part of Whiteside and Stillman; but of drunkenness no public account makes any mention, and individual cowardice is never to be imputed to American troops. These men were as brave as any that ever wore a uniform, and some of them performed good service afterwards; but when they went into this action, they were "raw militia,"—a mere mob; and no mob can stand against discipline, even though it be but the discipline of the savage.
The event is recorded in history as "Stillman's Defeat." "Old John Hanks" was a part of it and talks about it with shame and anger, blaming the disaster on "drunken men, cowardice, and foolishness," although we should be cautious about accepting his view. There's definitely foolishness involved, both from Whiteside and Stillman; however, no public account mentions drunkenness, and individual cowardice shouldn't be attributed to American troops. These men were as courageous as any who ever wore a uniform, and some of them performed well afterwards; but at the time of this battle, they were "raw militia,"—a mere mob; and no mob can withstand discipline, even if it comes from savages.
The next day Whiteside moved with all possible celerity to the field of Stillman's disaster, and, finding no enemy, was forced to content himself with the melancholy duty of burying the mutilated and unsightly remains of the dead. All of them were scalped; some had their heads cut off, others had their throats cut, and others still were mangled and dishonored in ways too shocking to be told.
The next day, Whiteside hurriedly went to the site of Stillman's disaster and, finding no enemy, had to settle for the sad task of burying the disfigured and gruesome remains of the dead. All of them had been scalped; some were decapitated, others had their throats slit, and still others were mutilated and dishonored in ways too horrifying to describe.
The army was now suffering for want of provisions. The folly of the commander in casting off his baggage-train for the forced march on Dixon, the extravagance and improvidence of the men with their scanty rations, had exhausted the resources of the quartermasters, and, "except in the messes of the most careful and experienced," the camp was nearly destitute of food. "The majority had been living on parched corn and coffee for two or three days;" but, on the morning of the last march from Dixon, Quartermaster Thomas had succeeded in getting a little fresh beef from the only white inhabitant of that country, and this the men were glad to eat without bread. "I can truly say I was often hungry," said Capt. Lincoln, reviewing the events of this campaign. He was, doubtless, as destitute and wretched as the rest, but he was patient, quiet, and resolute. Hunger brought with it a discontented and mutinous spirit. The men complained bitterly of all they had been made to endure, and clamored loudly for a general discharge. But Capt. Lincoln kept the "even tenor of his way;" and, when his regiment was disbanded, immediately enlisted as a private soldier in another company.
The army was now struggling due to a lack of supplies. The commander’s mistake in leaving behind his baggage for the quick march to Dixon, along with the men’s wastefulness with their limited rations, had drained the quartermasters' resources. Besides in the messes of the most careful and experienced, the camp was almost out of food. The majority had been living on parched corn and coffee for two or three days; however, on the morning of the final march from Dixon, Quartermaster Thomas managed to get a bit of fresh beef from the only white resident in that area, and the men were happy to eat it without bread. "I can honestly say I was often hungry," said Capt. Lincoln, reflecting on the events of this campaign. He was, no doubt, as deprived and miserable as the others, but he remained patient, calm, and determined. Hunger bred a restless and rebellious spirit. The men complained loudly about everything they had endured and demanded a general discharge. But Capt. Lincoln stayed on course; when his regiment was disbanded, he immediately enlisted as a private in another company.
From the battle-field Whiteside returned to his old camp at Dixon, but determined, before doing so, to make one more attempt to retrieve his ill-fortune. Black Hawk's pirogues were supposed to be lying a few miles distant, in a bend of the Rock River; and the capture of these would serve as some relief to the dreary series of errors and miscarriages which had hitherto marked the campaign. But Black Hawk had just been teaching him strategy in the most effective mode, and the present movement was undertaken with an excess of caution almost as ludicrous as Stillman's bravado. "To provide as well as might be against danger, one man was started at a time in the direction of the point. When he would get a certain distance, keeping in sight, a second would start, and so on, until a string of men extending five miles from the main army was made, each to look out for Indians, and give the sign to right, left, or front, by hanging a hat on a bayonet,—erect for the front, and right or left, as the case might be. To raise men to go ahead was with difficulty done, and some tried hard to drop back; but we got through safe, and found the place deserted, leaving plenty of Indian signs,—a dead dog and several scalps taken in Stillman's defeat, as we supposed them to have been taken." After this, the last of Gen. Whiteside's futile attempts, he returned to the battle-field, and thence to Dixon, where he was joined by Atkinson with the regulars and the long-coveted and much-needed supplies.
From the battlefield, Whiteside went back to his old camp at Dixon, but he was determined to make one last effort to turn around his bad luck. Black Hawk's boats were thought to be lying a few miles away, in a bend of the Rock River; capturing these would provide some relief from the series of mistakes and failures that had marked the campaign so far. However, Black Hawk had just shown him a lesson in strategy, and this current move was carried out with an excessive caution that was almost as ridiculous as Stillman's bravado. "To defend against danger as best as we could, we sent out one man at a time in the direction of the target. When he had moved a certain distance, keeping him in sight, a second would go, and so on, until we had a line of men stretched five miles from the main army. Each one was tasked with watching for any Indians and giving signals for right, left, or front by placing a hat on a bayonet—upright for the front and to the sides as needed. It was challenging to get men to go forward, and some were eager to fall back; but we managed to get through safely and found the area deserted, leaving behind plenty of signs of Indians—a dead dog and several scalps taken in Stillman's defeat, or so we believed." After this, the last of Gen. Whiteside's pointless attempts, he returned to the battlefield and then to Dixon, where he was joined by Atkinson with the regulars and the long-awaited, much-needed supplies.
One day, during these many marches and countermarches, an old Indian found his way into the camp, weary, hungry, and helpless. He professed to be a friend of the whites; and, although it was an exceedingly perilous experiment for one of his color, he ventured to throw himself upon the mercy of the soldiers. But the men first murmured, and then broke out into fierce cries for his blood. "We have come out to fight the Indians," said they, "and by God we intend to do it!" The poor Indian, now, in the extremity of his distress and peril, did what he ought to have done before: he threw down before his assailants a soiled and crumpled paper, which he implored them to read before his life was taken. It was a letter of character and safe-conduct from Gen. Cass, pronouncing him a faithful man, who had done good service in the cause for which this army was enlisted. But it was too late: the men refused to read it, or thought it a forgery, and were rushing with fury upon the defenceless old savage, when Capt. Lincoln bounded between them and their appointed victim. "Men," said he, and his voice for a moment stilled the agitation around him, "this must not be done: he must not be shot and killed by us."—"But," said some of them, "the Indian is a damned spy." Lincoln knew that his own life was now in only less danger than that of the poor creature that crouched behind him. During the whole of this scene Capt. Lincoln seemed to "rise to an unusual height" of stature. The towering form, the passion and resolution in his face, the physical power and terrible will exhibited in every motion of his body, every gesture of his arm, produced an effect upon the furious mob as unexpected perhaps to him as to any one else. They paused, listened, fell back, and then sullenly obeyed what seemed to be the voice of reason, as well as authority. But there were still some murmurs of disappointed rage, and half-suppressed exclamations, which looked towards vengeance of some kind. At length one of the men, a little bolder than the rest, but evidently feeling that he spoke for the whole, cried out, "This is cowardly on your part, Lincoln!" Whereupon the tall captain's figure stretched a few inches higher again. He looked down upon these varlets who would have murdered a defenceless old Indian, and now quailed before his single hand, with lofty contempt. The oldest of his acquaintances, even Bill Green, who saw him grapple Jack Armstrong and defy the bullies at his back, never saw him so much "aroused" before. "If any man thinks I am a coward, let him test it," said he. "Lincoln," responded a new voice, "you are larger and heavier than we are."—"This you can guard against: choose your weapons," returned the rigid captain. Whatever may be said of Mr. Lincoln's choice of means for the preservation of military discipline, it was certainly very effectual in this case. There was no more disaffection in his camp, and the word "coward" was never coupled with his name again. Mr. Lincoln understood his men better than those who would be disposed to criticise his conduct. He has often declared himself, that his life and character were both at stake, and would probably have been lost, had he not at that supremely critical moment forgotten the officer and asserted the man. To have ordered the offenders under arrest would have created a formidable mutiny; to have tried and punished them would have been impossible. They could scarcely be called soldiers: they were merely armed citizens, with a nominal military organization. They were but recently enlisted, and their term of service was just about to expire. Had he preferred charges against them, and offered to submit their differences to a court of any sort, it would have been regarded as an act of personal pusillanimity, and his efficiency would have been gone forever.
One day, during the many marches back and forth, an old Indian stumbled into the camp, tired, hungry, and helpless. He claimed to be a friend of the white soldiers, and even though it was a risky move for someone of his race, he decided to appeal to the soldiers for mercy. But the men first grumbled, then erupted into furious shouts for his blood. "We’re here to fight the Indians," they said, "and by God, that’s what we intend to do!" The poor Indian, in the depths of his distress and danger, did what he should have done earlier: he dropped a dirty, wrinkled paper before his attackers and begged them to read it before taking his life. It was a letter of endorsement and safe passage from Gen. Cass, stating that he was a loyal man who had served the cause for which the army was assembled. But it was too late: the soldiers refused to read it, or thought it was a fake, and rushed furiously toward the defenseless old man when Capt. Lincoln jumped between them and their intended victim. "Men," he said, and his voice briefly quieted the chaos around him, "this cannot happen: he must not be shot and killed by us."—"But," some protested, "the Indian is a damned spy." Lincoln knew that his own life was now almost as endangered as that of the old man huddled behind him. Throughout the entire scene, Capt. Lincoln seemed to "rise to an unusual height" in stature. His towering figure, the fire in his face, the physical strength and fierce determination shown in every move of his body, every gesture of his arm, had an effect on the furious mob that might have surprised him as much as anyone else. They paused, listened, stepped back, and then begrudgingly followed what appeared to be the rational voice of authority. But there were still some murmurs of frustrated rage and half-hidden cries for some sort of vengeance. Eventually, one of the men, a bit bolder than the others but clearly speaking for the group, shouted, "This is cowardly on your part, Lincoln!" At that, the tall captain seemed to rise a few inches higher. He looked down at these scoundrels who wanted to kill a defenseless old Indian and now trembled before him with disdainful contempt. Even his oldest acquaintances, including Bill Green, who had seen him confront Jack Armstrong and stand up to bullies, had never seen him so "fired up" before. "If anyone thinks I’m a coward, let him prove it," he declared. "Lincoln," a new voice countered, "you are bigger and heavier than we are."—"You can guard against that: choose your weapons," replied the steadfast captain. Whatever one might say about Mr. Lincoln's methods for maintaining military discipline, they certainly proved effective in this instance. There was no more dissent in his camp, and the term "coward" was never again linked with his name. Mr. Lincoln understood his men better than those who might criticize his actions. He often stated that his life and character were both on the line, and he likely would have been lost had he not at that crucial moment set aside his officer role and stood up as a man. To have arrested the offenders would have sparked a serious mutiny; trying and punishing them would have been impossible. They could barely be called soldiers: they were just armed citizens with a superficial military structure. They had only recently signed up, and their service term was almost over. Had he pressed charges against them and suggested submitting the disputes to any court, it would have been seen as a personal act of weakness, and his authority would have been lost forever.
Lincoln was believed to be the strongest man in his regiment, and no doubt was. He was certainly the best wrestler in it, and after they left Beardstown nobody ever disputed the fact. He is said to have "done the wrestling for the company;" and one man insists that he always had a handkerchief tied around his person, in readiness for the sport. For a while it was firmly believed that no man in the army could throw him down. His company confidently pitted him "against the field," and were willing to bet all they had on the result. At length, one Mr. Thompson came forward and accepted the challenge. He was, in fact, the most famous wrestler in the Western country. It is not certain that the report of his achievements had ever reached the ears of Mr. Lincoln or his friends; but at any rate they eagerly made a match with him as a champion not unworthy of their own. Thompson's power and skill, however, were as well known to certain persons in the army as Mr. Lincoln's were to others. Each side was absolutely certain of the victory, and bet according to their faith. Lincoln's company and their sympathizers put up all their portable property, and some perhaps not their own, including "knives, blankets, tomahawks," and all the most necessary articles of a soldier's outfit.
Lincoln was thought to be the strongest guy in his regiment, and he definitely was. He was also the best wrestler in it, and after they left Beardstown, nobody ever argued about that. It’s said he “did the wrestling for the company,” and one guy claims he always had a handkerchief tied around himself, ready for the sport. For a while, everyone believed no one in the army could take him down. His company confidently put him “against the field,” willing to bet everything they had on the outcome. Finally, a Mr. Thompson stepped up and accepted the challenge. He was actually the most famous wrestler in the Western states. It’s unclear if word of his achievements had ever gotten to Mr. Lincoln or his friends, but they eagerly set up a match with him, considering him a worthy opponent. However, Thompson's strength and skill were just as well known to some people in the army as Mr. Lincoln's were to others. Each side was completely confident of their win and placed their bets accordingly. Lincoln's company and their supporters wagered all their portable belongings, and maybe some things that weren’t theirs, including “knives, blankets, tomahawks,” and all the essential gear a soldier needed.
When the men first met, Lincoln was convinced that he could throw Thompson; but, after tussling with him a brief space in presence of the anxious assemblage, he turned to his friends and said, "This is the most powerful man I ever had hold of. He will throw me, and you will lose your all, unless I act on the defensive." He managed, nevertheless, "to hold him off for some time;" but at last Thompson got the "crotch hoist" on him, and, although Lincoln attempted with all his wonderful strength to break the hold by "sliding" away, a few moments decided his fate: he was fairly thrown. As it required two out of three falls to decide the bets, Thompson and he immediately came together again, and with very nearly the same result. Lincoln fell under, but the other man fell too. There was just enough of uncertainty about it to furnish a pretext for a hot dispute and a general fight. Accordingly, Lincoln's men instantly began the proper preliminaries to a fracas. "We were taken by surprise," says Mr. Green, "and, being unwilling to give up our property and lose our bets, got up an excuse as to the result. We declared the fall a kind of dog-fall; did so apparently angrily." The fight was coming on apace, and bade fair to be a big and bloody one, when Lincoln rose up and said, "Boys, the man actually threw me once fair, broadly so; and the second time, this very fall, he threw me fairly, though not so apparently so." He would countenance no disturbance, and his unexpected and somewhat astonishing magnanimity ended all attempts to raise one.
When the men first met, Lincoln was sure he could take Thompson down; but after a brief struggle in front of the anxious crowd, he turned to his friends and said, "This is the strongest guy I’ve ever faced. He’ll throw me, and you'll lose everything if I don’t play it safe." Still, he managed to "keep him at bay for a while," but eventually, Thompson got a grip on him, and even though Lincoln used all his incredible strength to break free by "sliding" away, a few moments sealed his fate: he was thrown down. Since it took two out of three falls to settle the bets, they quickly resumed wrestling, and it almost ended the same way. Lincoln went down, but so did Thompson. There was just enough doubt about the outcome to spark a heated argument and a big fight. Lincoln's men quickly started taking steps toward a brawl. "We were caught off guard," said Mr. Green, "and unwilling to give up our bets and property, we made up an excuse about the result. We claimed the fall was a kind of no-contest and did so seemingly in anger." The fight was heating up and looked like it would be big and bloody when Lincoln stood up and said, "Guys, the man actually threw me fair and square once, and the second time, this very fall, he threw me again, though not as obviously." He wouldn’t tolerate any trouble, and his surprising and somewhat amazing generosity put an end to any attempts at a fight.
Mr. Lincoln's good friend, Mr. Green, the principal, though not the sole authority for the present account of his adventure in behalf of the Indian and his wrestle with Thompson, mentions one important incident which is found in no other manuscript, and which gives us a glimpse of Mr. Lincoln in a scene of another sort. "One other word in reference to Mr. Lincoln's care for the health, welfare, and justice to his men. Some officers of the United States had claimed that the regular army had a preference in the rations and pay. Mr. Lincoln was ordered to do some act which he deemed unauthorized. He, however, obeyed, but went to the officer and said to him, 'Sir, you forget that we are not under the rules and regulations of the War Department at Washington; are only volunteers under the orders and regulations of Illinois. Keep in your own sphere, and there will be no difficulty; but resistance will hereafter be made to your unjust orders: and, further, my men must be equal in all particulars, in rations, arms, camps, &c., to the regular army. The man saw that Mr. Lincoln was right, and determined to have justice done. Always after this we were treated equally well, and just as the regular army was, in every particular. This brave, just, and humane act in behalf of the volunteers at once attached officers and rank to him, as with hooks of steel."
Mr. Lincoln's good friend, Mr. Green, the principal, though not the only source for the current account of his adventure for the Indian and his struggle with Thompson, mentions one important incident that isn’t found in any other manuscript, which gives us a glimpse of Mr. Lincoln in a different light. "One more thing regarding Mr. Lincoln's concern for the health, well-being, and fairness to his men. Some officers of the United States claimed that the regular army received priority in rations and pay. Mr. Lincoln was ordered to carry out an action that he felt was unauthorized. However, he complied but approached the officer and said to him, 'Sir, you forget that we are not under the rules and regulations of the War Department in Washington; we are only volunteers under the orders and regulations of Illinois. Stay in your own lane, and there won’t be any issues; but if you resist, we will contest your unfair orders from now on: and, additionally, my men must receive equal treatment in all respects, including rations, weapons, camps, etc., compared to the regular army.' The man saw that Mr. Lincoln was right and decided to make sure justice was served. From that point on, we were treated equally well and just like the regular army in every detail. This brave, fair, and compassionate act on behalf of the volunteers immediately earned him the respect and allegiance of the officers, as if bound by hooks of steel."
When the army reached Dixon, the almost universal discontent of the men had grown so manifest and so ominous, that it could no longer be safely disregarded. They longed "for the flesh-pots of Egypt," and fiercely demanded their discharge. Although their time had not expired, it was determined to march them by way of Paw-Paw Grove to Ottawa, and there concede what the governor feared he had no power to withhold.
When the army got to Dixon, the widespread unhappiness among the men had become so obvious and threatening that it couldn't be ignored any longer. They craved "the comforts of home" and angrily demanded to be released. Even though their service wasn't finished, it was decided to march them through Paw-Paw Grove to Ottawa, where they would give in to what the governor worried he had no authority to deny.
"While on our march from Dixon to Fox River," says Mr. Irwin, "one night while in camp, which was formed in a square enclosing about forty acres, our horses, outside grazing, got scared about nine o'clock; and a grand stampede took place. They ran right through our lines in spite of us, and ran over many of us. No man knows what noise a thousand horses make running, unless he had been there: it beats a young earthquake, especially among scared men, and certain they were scared then. We expected the Indians to be on us that night. Fire was thrown, drums beat, fifes played, which added additional fright to the horses. We saw no real enemy that night, but a line of battle was formed. There were no eyes for sleep that night: we stood to our posts in line; and what frightened the horses is yet unknown."
"While we were marching from Dixon to Fox River," Mr. Irwin recalls, "one night while we were camped in a square that covered about forty acres, our horses, grazing outside, got spooked around nine o'clock, and a massive stampede happened. They bolted right through our lines despite our attempts to control them and trampled over many of us. No one can truly understand the noise made by a thousand running horses unless they've experienced it: it’s louder than a minor earthquake, especially among frightened men, and they were definitely scared that night. We thought the Indians might attack us that night. Fires were lit, drums were beaten, and fifes were played, which only added to the horses' panic. We didn’t see any real enemies that night, but we formed a battle line. There was no sleeping that night: we stood at our posts in line, and what terrified the horses remains a mystery."
"During this short Indian campaign," continues the same gentleman, "we had some hard times,—often hungry; but we had a great deal of sport, especially of nights,—-foot-racing, some horse-racing, jumping, telling anecdotes, in which Lincoln beat all, keeping up a constant laughter and good-humor all the time; among the soldiers some card-playing, and wrestling, in which Lincoln took a prominent part. I think it safe to say he was never thrown in a wrestle. [Mr. Irwin, it seems, still regards the Thompson affair as "a dog-fall."] While in the army, he kept a handkerchief tied around him near all the time for wrestling purposes, and loved the sport as well as any one could. He was seldom ever beat jumping. During the campaign, Lincoln himself was always ready for an emergency. He endured hardships like a good soldier: he never complained, nor did he fear danger. When fighting was expected, or danger apprehended, Lincoln was the first to say, 'Let's go.' He had the confidence of every man of his company, and they strictly obeyed his orders at a word. His company was all young men, and full of sport.
"During this short Indian campaign," the same guy continues, "we had some tough times—often hungry; but we had a lot of fun, especially at night—foot races, some horse races, jumping, sharing stories, where Lincoln was the best, keeping everyone laughing and in good spirits all the time; among the soldiers, there was some card playing and wrestling, where Lincoln took a leading role. I think it's safe to say he was never taken down in a match. [Mr. Irwin still sees the Thompson incident as 'a dog-fall.'] While in the army, he kept a handkerchief tied around him most of the time for wrestling and loved the sport like anyone could. He was rarely beaten in jumping. Throughout the campaign, Lincoln was always ready for anything. He faced hardships like a good soldier: he never complained and wasn’t afraid of danger. When fight was expected or danger was sensed, Lincoln was the first to say, 'Let’s go.' He had the trust of every guy in his company, and they obeyed his orders immediately. His company was all young men, full of energy."
"One night in Warren County, a white hog—a young sow—came into our lines, which showed more good sense, to my mind, than any hog I ever saw. This hog swam creeks and rivers, and went with us clear through to, I think, the mouth of Fox River; and there the boys killed it, or it would doubtless have come home with us. If it got behind in daylight as we were marching, which it did sometimes, it would follow on the track, and come to us at night. It was naturally the cleverest, friendly-disposed hog any man ever saw, and its untimely death was by many of us greatly deplored, for we all liked the hog for its friendly disposition and good manners; for it never molested any thing, and kept in its proper place."
"One night in Warren County, a white hog—a young sow—made its way into our group, which seemed smarter to me than any hog I'd ever seen. This hog swam across creeks and rivers and followed us all the way to what I think was the mouth of Fox River; and there, the boys killed it, or it definitely would have come home with us. If it fell behind during the day as we marched, which it did sometimes, it would stick to our trail and catch up with us at night. It was naturally the smartest, friendliest hog anyone had ever seen, and many of us really mourned its premature death, as we all liked the hog for its friendly nature and good behavior; it never bothered anything and stayed in its proper place."
On the 28th of May the volunteers were discharged. The governor had already called for two thousand more men to take their places; but, in the mean time, he made the most strenuous efforts to organize a small force out of the recently discharged, to protect the frontiers until the new levies were ready for service. He succeeded in raising one regiment and a spy company. Many officers of distinction, among them Gen. Whiteside himself, enlisted as private soldiers, and served in that capacity to the end of the war. Capt. Lincoln became Private Lincoln of the "Independent Spy Company," Capt. Early commanding; and, although he was never in an engagement, he saw some hard service in scouting and trailing, as well as in carrying messages and reports.
On May 28th, the volunteers were released. The governor had already requested two thousand more men to replace them; in the meantime, he worked hard to organize a small force from the recently discharged troops to protect the frontiers until the new recruits were ready for duty. He managed to raise one regiment and a spy company. Many notable officers, including General Whiteside himself, signed up as private soldiers and served in that role until the end of the war. Captain Lincoln became Private Lincoln of the "Independent Spy Company," led by Captain Early; and although he never fought in a battle, he took on some tough duties in scouting and tracking, as well as delivering messages and reports.
About the middle of June the new troops were ready for the field, and soon after moved up to Rock River. Meanwhile the Indians had overrun the country. "They had scattered their war-parties all over the North from Chicago to Galena, and from the Illinois River into the Territory of Wisconsin; they occupied every grove, waylaid every road, hung around every settlement, and attacked every party of white men that attempted to penetrate the country." There had been some desultory fighting at various points. Capt. Snyder, in whose company Gen. Whiteside was a private, had met the Indians at Burr Oak. Grove, and had a sharp engagement; Mr. St. Vrain, an Indian agent, with a small party of assistants, had been treacherously murdered near Fort Armstrong; several men had been killed at the lead mines, and the Wisconsin volunteers under Dodge had signally punished the Indians that killed them; Galena had been threatened and Fort Apple, twelve miles from Galena, had sustained a bloody siege of fifteen hours; Capt. Stephenson of Galena had performed an act which "equalled any thing in modern warfare in daring and desperate courage," by driving a party of Indians larger than his own detachment into a dense thicket, and there charging them repeatedly until he was compelled to retire, wounded himself, and leaving three of his men dead on the ground.
Around the middle of June, the new troops were ready for deployment and soon moved up to Rock River. In the meantime, the Indians had taken over the area. "They had scattered their war parties all over the North from Chicago to Galena, and from the Illinois River into Wisconsin; they occupied every grove, ambushed every road, loitered around every settlement, and attacked every group of white men who tried to move into the region." There had been some scattered fighting at different locations. Capt. Snyder, in whose company Gen. Whiteside served as a private, had encountered the Indians at Burr Oak Grove and had a fierce engagement; Mr. St. Vrain, an Indian agent, along with a small group of assistants, had been treacherously murdered near Fort Armstrong; several men were killed at the lead mines, and the Wisconsin volunteers under Dodge severely punished the Indians responsible for the killings; Galena had been threatened, and Fort Apple, twelve miles from Galena, had endured a bloody siege for fifteen hours; Capt. Stephenson of Galena had performed an act that "matched anything in modern warfare in terms of daring and desperate courage," by driving a larger group of Indians into a dense thicket, charging them repeatedly until he was forced to retreat, wounded, leaving three of his men dead on the ground.
Thenceforward the tide was fairly turned against Black Hawk. Twenty-four hundred men, under experienced officers, were now in the field against him; and, although he succeeded in eluding his pursuers for a brief time, every retreat was equivalent to a reverse in battle, and all his manoeuvres were retreats. In the latter part of July he was finally overtaken by the volunteers under Henry, along the bluffs of the Wisconsin River, and defeated in a decisive battle. His ruin was complete: he abandoned all hope of conquest, and pressed in disorderly and disastrous retreat toward the Mississippi, in vain expectation of placing that barrier between him and his enemy.
From that point on, the tide turned against Black Hawk. There were now two thousand four hundred men, led by experienced officers, actively pursuing him. Although he managed to avoid capture for a short while, each time he retreated felt like a loss in battle, and all his strategies were just escapes. By late July, he was finally caught by the volunteers under Henry along the bluffs of the Wisconsin River and suffered a significant defeat. His situation was hopeless: he gave up any chance of victory and fled in disarray and despair toward the Mississippi, hoping in vain to use it as a barrier between himself and his enemies.
On the fourth day, after crossing the Wisconsin, Gen. Atkinson's advance reached the high grounds near the Mississippi. Henry and his brigade, having won the previous victory, were placed at the rear in the order of march, with the ungenerous purpose of preventing them from winning another. But Black Hawk here resorted to a stratagem which very nearly saved the remnant of his people, and in the end completely foiled the intentions of Atkinson regarding Henry and his men. The old chief, with the high heart which even such a succession of reverses could not subdue, took twenty warriors and deliberately posted himself, determined to hold the army in check or lead it away on a false trail, while his main body was being transferred to the other bank of the river. He accordingly made his attack in a place where he was favored by trees, logs, and tall grass, which prevented the discovery of his numbers. Finding his advance engaged, Atkinson formed a line of battle, and ordered a charge; but Black Hawk conducted his retreat with such consummate skill that Atkinson believed he was just at the heels of the whole Indian army, and under this impression continued the pursuit far up the river.
On the fourth day, after crossing the Wisconsin, Gen. Atkinson's advance reached the higher ground near the Mississippi. Henry and his brigade, having won the previous battle, were placed at the back of the march on purpose to prevent them from getting another victory. But Black Hawk came up with a plan that nearly saved the remaining members of his tribe and ultimately thwarted Atkinson's intentions regarding Henry and his men. The old chief, with a spirit that even a series of defeats couldn't break, took twenty warriors and positioned himself to hold the army in check or lead it off on a false trail while his main group crossed to the other side of the river. He launched his attack in a spot where he had the advantage of trees, logs, and tall grass, which hid his numbers. When he found his advance engaged, Atkinson formed a battle line and ordered a charge; however, Black Hawk executed his retreat with such skill that Atkinson thought he was right on the heels of the entire Indian army and, believing this, continued the pursuit far up the river.
When Henry came up to the spot where the fight had taken place, he readily detected the trick by various evidences about the ground. Finding the main trail in the immediate vicinity, he boldly fell upon it without orders, and followed it until he came up with the Indians in a swamp on the margin of the river, where he easily surprised and scattered them. Atkinson, hearing the firing in the swamp, turned back, and arrived just in time to assist in the completion of the massacre. A few of the Indians had already crossed the river: a few had taken refuge on a little willow island in the middle of the stream. The island was charged,—the men wading to it in water up to their arm-pits,—the Indians were dislodged and killed on the spot, or shot in the water while attempting to swim to the western shore. Fifty prisoners only were taken, and the greater part of these were squaws and children. This was the battle of the Bad Axe,—a terrific slaughter, considering the numbers engaged, and the final ruin of Black Hawk's fortunes.
When Henry reached the spot where the fight had happened, he quickly noticed the signs on the ground. He found the main trail nearby, took it without waiting for orders, and followed it until he found the Indians in a swamp by the river, where he easily surprised and scattered them. Atkinson, hearing the gunfire in the swamp, turned back and arrived just in time to help finish the massacre. A few of the Indians had already crossed the river; some had taken refuge on a small willow island in the middle of the stream. The island was stormed—the men wading through water up to their chests—the Indians were driven out and killed on the spot or shot while trying to swim to the western shore. Only fifty prisoners were taken, most of whom were women and children. This was the battle of Bad Axe—a horrific slaughter, given the numbers involved and the complete destruction of Black Hawk's fortunes.
Black Hawk and his twenty warriors, among whom was his own son, made the best of their way to the Dalles on the Wisconsin, where they seem to have awaited passively whatever fate their enemies should contrive for them. There were some Sioux and Winnebagoes in Atkinson's camp,—men who secretly pretended to sympathize with Black Hawk, and, while acting as guides to the army, had really led it astray on many painful and perilous marches. It is certain that Black Hawk had counted on the assistance of those tribes; but after the fight on the Wisconsin, even those who had consented to act as his emissaries about the person of the hostile commander not only deserted him, but volunteered to hunt him down. They now offered to find him, take him, and bring him in, provided that base and cowardly service should be suitably acknowledged. They were duly employed. Black Hawk became their prisoner, and was presented by them to the Indian agent with two or three shameless and disgusting speeches from his captors. He and his son were carried to Washington City, and then through the principal cities of the country, after which President Jackson released him from captivity, and sent him back to his own people. He lived to be eighty years old, honored and beloved by his tribe, and after his death was buried on an eminence overlooking the Mississippi, with such rites as are accorded only to the most distinguished of native captains,—sitting upright in war dress and paint, covered by a conspicuous mound of earth.
Black Hawk and his twenty warriors, including his own son, made their way to the Dalles on the Wisconsin, where they seemed to wait passively for whatever fate their enemies had in store for them. There were some Sioux and Winnebagoes in Atkinson's camp—men who secretly pretended to support Black Hawk but, while posing as guides for the army, had actually led them off course during many difficult and dangerous marches. It's clear that Black Hawk had hoped for help from those tribes; however, after the battle on the Wisconsin, even those who had agreed to spy for him on the hostile commander not only abandoned him but also volunteered to hunt him down. They now offered to locate him, capture him, and bring him in, as long as that underhanded and cowardly task was properly rewarded. They were promptly put to work. Black Hawk became their prisoner and was presented to the Indian agent with two or three disgraceful speeches from his captors. He and his son were taken to Washington City and then through the main cities of the country. Afterward, President Jackson released him from captivity and sent him back to his people. He lived to be eighty years old, respected and loved by his tribe, and after his death, he was buried on a rise overlooking the Mississippi, with rituals reserved for only the most distinguished native leaders—sitting upright in war attire and paint, covered by a prominent mound of earth.
We have given a rapid and perhaps an unsatisfactory sketch of the comparatively great events which brought the Black Hawk War to a close. So much at least was necessary, that the reader might understand the several situations in which Mr. Lincoln found himself during the short term of his second enlistment. We fortunately possess a narrative of his individual experience, covering the whole of that period, from the pen of George W. Harrison, his friend, companion, and messmate. It is given in full; for there is no part of it that would not be injured by the touch of another hand. It is an extremely interesting story, founded upon accurate personal knowledge, and told in a perspicuous and graphic style, admirably suited to the subject.
We’ve provided a quick and maybe unsatisfactory overview of the significant events that led to the end of the Black Hawk War. This is important so that readers can understand the different situations Mr. Lincoln faced during his brief second enlistment. Luckily, we have a detailed account of his personal experience from George W. Harrison, who was his friend, companion, and messmate. It’s shared in full because altering it in any way would diminish its value. It’s a really fascinating story based on firsthand knowledge, told in a clear and engaging style that perfectly fits the topic.
"The new company thus formed was called the 'Independent Spy Company;' not being under the control of any regiment or brigade, but receiving orders directly from the commander-in-chief, and always, when with the army, camping within the lines, and having many other privileges, such as never having camp-duties to perform, drawing rations as much and as often as we pleased, &c, Dr. Early (deceased) of Springfield was elected captain. Five members constituted a tent, or 'messed' together. Qur mess consisted of Mr. Lincoln, Johnston (a half-brother of his), Fanchier, Wyatt, and myself. The 'Independent Spy Company' was used chiefly to carry messages, to send an express, to spy the enemy, and to ascertain facts. I suppose the nearest we were to doing battle was at Gratiot's Grove, near Galena. The spy company of Posey's brigade was many miles in advance of the brigade, when it stopped in the grove at noon for refreshments. Some of the men had turned loose their horses, and others still had theirs in hand, when five or six Sac and Fox Indians came near them. Many of the white men broke after them, some on horseback, some on foot, in great disorder and confusion, thinking to have much sport with their prisoners immediately. The Indians thus decoyed them about two miles from the little cabins in the grove, keeping just out of danger, when suddenly up sprang from the tall prairie grass two hundred and fifty painted warriors, with long spears in hand, and tomahawks and butcher-knives in their belts of deer-skin and buffalo, and raised such a yell that our friends supposed them to be more numerous than Black Hawk's whole clan, and, instantly filled with consternation, commenced to retreat. But the savages soon began to spear them, making it necessary to halt in the flight, and give them a fire, at which time they killed two Indians, one of them being a young chief gayly apparelled. Again, in the utmost horror, such as savage yells alone can produce, they fled for the little fort in the grove. Having arrived, they found the balance of their company, terrified by the screams of the whites and the yells of the savages, closely shut up in the double cabin, into which they quickly plunged, and found the much-needed respite. The Indians then prowled around the grove, shooting nearly all the company's horses, and stealing the balance of them. There, from cracks between the logs of the cabin, three Indians were shot and killed in the act of reaching for the reins of bridles on horses. They endeavored to conceal their bodies by trees in an old field which surrounded the fort; but, reaching with sticks for bridles, they exposed their heads and necks, and all of them were shot with two balls each through the neck. These three, and the two killed where our men wheeled and fired, make five Indians known to be killed; and on their retreat from the prairie to the grove, five white men were cut into small pieces. The field of this action is the greatest battle-ground we saw. The dead still lay unburied until after we arrived at sunrise the next day. The forted men, fifty strong, had not ventured to go out until they saw us, when they rejoiced greatly that friends and not dreaded enemies had come. They looked like men just out of cholera,—having passed through the cramping stage. The only part we could then act was to seek the lost men, and with hatchets and hands to bury them. We buried the white men, and trailed the dead young chief where he had been drawn on the grass a half-mile, and concealed in the thicket. Those who trailed this once noble warrior, and found him, were Lincoln, I think, Wyatt, and myself. By order of Gen. Atkinson, our company started on this expedition one evening, travelled all night, and reached Gratiot's at sunrise. A few hours after, Gen. Posey came up to the fort with his brigade of nearly a thousand men, when he positively refused to pursue the Indians,—being strongly solicited by Capt. Early, Lincoln, and others,—squads of Indians still showing themselves in a menacing manner one and a half miles distant.
"The new company that was formed was called the 'Independent Spy Company,' as it wasn’t controlled by any regiment or brigade, but received orders directly from the commander-in-chief. When with the army, they always camped within the lines and had many other privileges, such as never having to perform camp duties and being able to draw rations as much and as often as we wanted. Dr. Early (who has passed away) from Springfield was elected captain. Five members made up a tent, or 'mess.' Our mess included Mr. Lincoln, Johnston (his half-brother), Fanchier, Wyatt, and me. The 'Independent Spy Company' was mainly used to carry messages, dispatches, gather intelligence on the enemy, and ascertain facts. The closest we came to battle was at Gratiot's Grove, near Galena. The spy company from Posey's brigade was many miles ahead of the brigade when it stopped in the grove at noon for refreshments. Some of the men had let their horses loose, and others were still holding their horses when five or six Sac and Fox Indians approached them. Many of the white men chased after them, some on horseback and some on foot, in a chaotic scramble, thinking they would have a lot of fun capturing their prisoners right away. The Indians lured them about two miles from the small cabins in the grove, staying just out of danger, when suddenly two hundred and fifty painted warriors sprang up from the tall prairie grass, armed with long spears, tomahawks, and butcher knives in their deer-skin and buffalo belts. They let out such a yell that our friends thought they were vastly outnumbered by Black Hawk's entire clan and, filled with panic, began to retreat. But the savages quickly started to spear them, forcing them to stop their flight and fire back, during which they killed two Indians, one of whom was a young chief dressed in fine clothing. In a state of utter horror, fueled by the savage yells, they ran for the small fort in the grove. Upon arrival, they found the rest of their company trapped in the double cabin, terrified by the screams of the whites and the yells of the savages. They quickly rushed inside for the much-needed shelter. The Indians then circled the grove, shooting nearly all of the company’s horses and stealing what remained. Through cracks in the cabin logs, three Indians were shot and killed as they reached for the reins of the horses. They tried to hide their bodies behind trees in an old field around the fort, but while reaching with sticks for the bridles, they exposed their heads and necks, and each was shot twice through the neck. These three, along with the two killed when our men turned and fired, make a total of five known Indians killed. During their retreat from the prairie to the grove, five white men were cut into small pieces. The site of this action became the largest battlefield we encountered. The dead lay unburied until after we arrived at sunrise the next day. The men in the fort, numbering fifty, hadn’t dared to venture out until they saw us, and they greatly rejoiced that friends had arrived instead of dreaded enemies. They looked like men just out of a cholera episode, having gone through the cramping stage. Our only option was to search for the lost men and bury them using hatchets and our hands. We buried the white men and followed the trail of the young chief, who had been dragged across the grass for half a mile and concealed in a thicket. Those who traced this once-noble warrior and found him were Lincoln, I think, Wyatt, and I. At the order of General Atkinson, our company set out on this expedition one evening, traveled all night, and arrived at Gratiot's at sunrise. A few hours later, General Posey came to the fort with nearly a thousand men in his brigade, but he firmly refused to pursue the Indians, despite strong requests from Captain Early, Lincoln, and others, as squads of Indians were still showing themselves in a threatening manner a mile and a half away."
"Our company was disbanded at Whitewater, Wis., a short time before the massacre at Bad Axe by Gen. Henry; and most of our men started for home on the following morning; but it so happened that the night previous to starting on this long trip, Lincoln's horse and mine were stolen, probably by soldiers of our own army, and we were thus compelled to start outside the cavalcade; but I laughed at our fate, and he joked at it, and we all started off merrily. But the generous men of our company walked and rode by turns with us; and we fared about equal with the rest. But for this generosity, our legs would have had to do the better work; for in that day, this then dreary route furnished no horses to buy or to steal; and, whether on horse or afoot, we always had company, for many of the horses' backs were too sore for riding.
"Our company was disbanded in Whitewater, Wisconsin, shortly before the massacre at Bad Axe by General Henry; most of our men headed home the next morning. However, the night before we set out on this long journey, Lincoln's horse and mine were stolen, probably by soldiers from our own army, which forced us to leave outside the main group. But I shrugged it off, and he joked about it, so we all set off cheerfully. The generous members of our company took turns walking and riding alongside us, so we kept pace with the rest. Without their kindness, we would have had to do all the walking ourselves, as there were no horses available to buy or steal along this bleak route. Whether on horseback or on foot, we always had company, as many of the horses were too sore to ride."
"Thus we came to Peoria: here we bought a canoe, in which we two paddled our way to Pekin. The other members of our company, separating in various directions, stimulated by the proximity of home, could never have consented to travel at our usual tardy mode. At Pekin, Lincoln made an oar with which to row our little boat, while I went through the town in order to buy provisions for the trip. One of us pulled away at the one oar, while the other sat astern to steer, or prevent circling. The river being very low was without current, so that we had to pull hard to make half the speed of legs on land,—in fact, we let her float all night, and on the next morning always found the objects still visible that were beside us the previous evening. The water was remarkably clear, for this river of plants, and the fish appeared to be sporting with us as we moved over or near them.
"So we arrived in Peoria, where we bought a canoe and paddled our way to Pekin. The others in our group, eager to get back home, went off in different directions and would never have agreed to travel at our usual slow pace. In Pekin, Lincoln made an oar for our little boat while I explored the town to buy food for the trip. One of us worked the single oar while the other sat at the back to steer and keep us from going in circles. The river was really low with no current, so we had to paddle hard to go half as fast as if we were walking on land. In fact, we let the canoe drift overnight, and the next morning, we could still see the things that were next to us the night before. The water was incredibly clear in this river filled with plants, and the fish seemed to be playing with us as we passed over or near them."
"On the next day after we left Pekin, we overhauled a raft of saw-logs, with two men afloat on it to urge it on with poles and to guide it in the channel. We immediately pulled up to them and went on the raft, where we were made welcome by various demonstrations, especially by that of an invitation to a feast on fish, corn-bread, eggs, butter, and coffee, just prepared for our benefit. Of these good things we ate almost immoderately, for it was the only warm meal we had made for several days. While preparing it, and after dinner, Lincoln entertained them, and they entertained us for a couple of hours very amusingly.
"On the day after we left Beijing, we came across a raft of saw-logs, with two men on it pushing it forward with poles and steering it in the channel. We quickly approached them and climbed onto the raft, where we were warmly welcomed with various gestures, especially the invitation to a feast of fish, cornbread, eggs, butter, and coffee, all freshly prepared for us. We ate a lot of these delicious dishes, as it was the only hot meal we had cooked for several days. While it was being prepared, and after dinner, Lincoln entertained them, and they entertained us for a couple of hours in a very enjoyable manner."
"This slow mode of travel was, at the time, a new mode, and the novelty made it for a short time agreeable. We descended the Illinois to Havana, where we sold our boat, and again set out the old way, over the sand-ridges for Petersburg. As we drew near home, the impulse became stronger, and urged us on amazingly. The long strides of Lincoln, often slipping back in the loose sand six inches every step, were just right for me; and he was greatly diverted when he noticed me behind him stepping along in his tracks to keep from slipping.
"This slow way of traveling was a new experience at the time, and the novelty made it somewhat enjoyable for a little while. We traveled down the Illinois River to Havana, where we sold our boat, and then set off the old way again, over the sandy ridges toward Petersburg. As we got closer to home, the urge to keep moving grew stronger and pushed us on remarkably. Lincoln's long strides, often sinking back six inches in the loose sand with each step, matched my pace perfectly; he found it quite amusing when he noticed me following right behind him, stepping in his footprints to avoid slipping."
"About three days after leaving the army at Whitewater, we saw a battle in full operation about two miles in advance of us. Lincoln was riding a young horse, the property of L. D. Matheny. I was riding a sprightly animal belonging to John T. Stuart. At the time we came in sight of the scene, our two voluntary footmen were about three-fourths of a mile in advance of us, and we about half a mile behind most of our company, and three or four on foot still behind us, leading some sore-backed horses. But the owners of our horses came running back, and, meeting us all in full speed, rightfully ordered us to dismount. We obeyed: they mounted, and all pressed on toward the conflict,—they on horseback, we on foot. In a few moments of hard walking and terribly close observation, Lincoln said to me, 'George, this can't be a very dangerous battle.' Reply: 'Much shooting, nothing falls.' It was at once decided to be a sham for the purpose of training cavalry, instead of Indians having attacked a few white soldiers, and a few of our own men, on their way home, for the purpose of killing them."
"About three days after leaving the army at Whitewater, we saw a battle in full swing about two miles ahead of us. Lincoln was riding a young horse owned by L. D. Matheny. I was riding a lively horse that belonged to John T. Stuart. At the time we spotted the scene, our two volunteer foot soldiers were about three-quarters of a mile in front of us, and we were about half a mile behind most of our group, with three or four more on foot still behind us, leading some sore-backed horses. But the owners of our horses came running back and, meeting us at full speed, rightfully ordered us to get off. We complied: they mounted, and all rushed toward the conflict—on horseback for them, on foot for us. After a few moments of fast walking and intense observation, Lincoln said to me, 'George, this can't be a very dangerous battle.' I replied, 'A lot of shooting, but nothing falls.' It was immediately concluded that it was a staged event for the purpose of training cavalry, rather than any actual attack by Indians on a few white soldiers returning home to kill them."
CHAPTER VI
THE volunteers from Sangamon returned to their homes shortly before the State election, at which, among other officers, assembly-men were to be chosen. Lincoln's popularity had been greatly enhanced by his service in the war, and some of his friends urged him with warm solicitations to become a candidate at the coming election. He prudently resisted, and declined to consent, alleging in excuse his limited acquaintance in the county at large, until Mr. James Rutledge, the founder of New Salem, added the weight of his advice to the nearly unanimous desire of the neighborhood. It is quite likely that his recent military career was thought to furnish high promise of usefulness in civil affairs; but Mr. Rutledge was sure that he saw another proof of his great abilities in a speech which Abe was induced to make, just about this time, before the New-Salem Literary Society. The following is an account of this speech by R. B. Rutledge, the son of James:—
THE volunteers from Sangamon returned home just before the state election, where, among other positions, assemblymen were to be chosen. Lincoln's popularity had significantly increased due to his service in the war, and some of his friends strongly urged him to run in the upcoming election. He wisely resisted and declined to agree, citing his limited connections in the wider county. However, Mr. James Rutledge, the founder of New Salem, added his support to the nearly unanimous desire of the community. It's very likely that his recent military experience was seen as a strong indication of his potential usefulness in civil matters; but Mr. Rutledge was convinced that he found further evidence of Lincoln's great abilities in a speech that Abe was encouraged to give around this time before the New-Salem Literary Society. Here’s R. B. Rutledge’s account of this speech:—
"About the year 1832 or 1833, Mr. Lincoln made his first effort at public speaking. A debating club, of which James Rutledge was president, was organized, and held regular meetings. As he arose to speak, his tall form towered above the little assembly. Both hands were thrust down deep in the pockets of his pantaloons. A perceptible smile at once lit up the faces of the audience, for all anticipated the relation of some humorous story. But he opened up the discussion in splendid style, to the infinite astonishment of his friends. As he warmed with his subject, his hands would forsake his pockets and would enforce his ideas by awkward gestures, but would very soon seek their easy resting-places. He pursued the question with reason and argument so pithy and forcible that all were amazed. The president at his fireside, after the meeting, remarked to his wife, that there was more in Abe's head than wit and fun; that he was already a fine speaker; that all he lacked was culture to enable him to reach the high destiny which he knew was in store for him. From that time Mr. Rutledge took a deeper interest in him.
About 1832 or 1833, Mr. Lincoln made his first attempt at public speaking. A debating club, led by James Rutledge as president, was formed and held regular meetings. As he stood up to speak, his tall figure loomed over the small group. Both hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his pants. A noticeable smile spread across the audience’s faces since everyone expected him to tell a funny story. However, he kicked off the discussion in impressive fashion, leaving his friends completely surprised. As he got more into his topic, his hands would come out of his pockets, emphasizing his points with awkward gestures, but they would quickly return to their comfortable spots. He tackled the issue with reasoning and arguments that were so sharp and impactful that everyone was astounded. Later, at home after the meeting, the president mentioned to his wife that there was more going on in Abe's mind than just humor; he was already a skilled speaker and just needed some refinement to help him achieve the great future he sensed was ahead of him. From that point on, Mr. Rutledge became more invested in him.
"Soon after Mr. Rutledge urged him to announce himself as a candidate for the Legislature. This he at first declined to do, averring that it was impossible to be elected. It was suggested that a canvass of the county would bring him prominently before the people, and in time would do him good. He reluctantly yielded to the solicitations of his friends, and made a partial canvass."
"Soon after, Mr. Rutledge encouraged him to declare his candidacy for the Legislature. At first, he refused, insisting that it was impossible to win. It was suggested that campaigning across the county would bring him into the public eye and, over time, would benefit his chances. He reluctantly agreed to his friends' requests and began a limited campaign."
In those days political animosities were fierce enough; but, owing to the absence of nominating conventions, party lines were not, as yet, very distinctly drawn in Illinois. Candidates announced themselves; but, usually, it was done after full consultation with influential friends, or persons of considerable power in the neighborhood of the candidate's residence. We have already seen the process by which Mr. Lincoln was induced to come forward. There were often secret combinations among a number of candidates, securing a mutual support; but in the present case there is no trace of such an understanding.
Back then, political rivalries were intense; however, because there were no nominating conventions, party lines weren’t clearly defined in Illinois yet. Candidates would declare themselves, but usually after discussing it extensively with influential friends or powerful individuals in their local area. We've already looked at how Mr. Lincoln was persuaded to step up. There were often secret alliances among various candidates to ensure mutual support; but in this situation, there’s no evidence of such an agreement.
This (1832) was the year of Gen. Jackson's election. The Democrats stigmatized their opponents as "Federalists," while the latter were steadily struggling to shuffle off the odious name. For the present they called themselves Democratic Republicans; and it was not until 1833 or 1834, that they formally took to themselves the designation of Whig. The Democrats were known better as Jackson men than as Democrats, and were inexpressibly proud of either name. Four or five years afterward their enemies invented for their benefit the meaningless and hideous word "Locofoco."
This (1832) was the year Gen. Jackson was elected. The Democrats labeled their opponents as "Federalists," while the latter were desperately trying to shed that negative label. For now, they referred to themselves as Democratic Republicans; it wasn't until 1833 or 1834 that they officially adopted the name Whig. The Democrats were better known as Jackson supporters than as Democrats and took immense pride in either name. Four or five years later, their opponents came up with the nonsensical and ugly term "Locofoco" for them.
Since 1826 every general election in the State had resulted in a Democratic victory. The young men were mostly Democrats; and the most promising talents in the State were devoted to the cause, which seemed destined to achieve success wherever there was a contest. In a new country largely peopled by adventurers from older States, there were necessarily found great numbers who would attach themselves to the winning side merely because it was the winning side.
Since 1826, every general election in the state has ended in a Democratic victory. Most young men were Democrats, and the most promising talents in the state were committed to the cause, which appeared to be on track for success whenever there was a competition. In a new country mainly populated by adventurers from older states, many people would naturally choose to align with the winning side simply because it was winning.
It is unnecessary to restate here the prevailing questions in national politics,—Jackson's stupendous struggle with the bank, "hard money," "no monopoly," internal improvements, the tariff, and nullification, or the personal and political relations of the chieftains,—Jackson, Clay, and Calhoun. Mr. Lincoln will shortly disclose in one of his speeches from the stump which of those questions were of special interest to the people of Illinois, and consequently which of them principally occupied his own attention.
It’s not necessary to go over the main issues in national politics again—Jackson’s massive battle with the bank, “hard money,” “no monopoly,” internal improvements, the tariff, and nullification, or the personal and political connections between the leaders—Jackson, Clay, and Calhoun. Mr. Lincoln will soon reveal in one of his campaign speeches which of these issues mattered most to the people of Illinois, and therefore which ones he focused on the most.
The Democrats were divided into "whole-hog men" and "nominal Jackson men;" the former being thoroughly devoted to the fortunes and principles of their leader, while the latter were willing to trim a little for the sake of popular support. It is probable that Mr. Lincoln might be fairly classed as a "nominal Jackson man," although the precise character of some of the views he then held, or is supposed to have held, on national questions, is involved in considerable doubt. He had not wholly forgotten Jones, or Jones's teachings. He still remembered his high disputes with Offutt in the shanty at Spring Creek, when he effectually defended Jackson against the "abuse" of his employer. He was not Whig, but "Whiggish," as Dennis Hanks expresses it. It is not likely that a man who deferred so habitually to the popular sentiment around him would have selected the occasion of his settlement in a new place to go over bodily to a hopeless political minority. At all events, we have at least three undisputed facts, which make it plain that he then occupied an intermediate position between the extremes of all parties. First, he received the votes of all parties at New Salem; second, he was the next year appointed postmaster by Gen. Jackson; and, third, the Democrats ran him for the legislature two years afterwards; and he was elected by a larger majority than any other candidate.
The Democrats were split into "whole-hog men" and "nominal Jackson men;" the former fully committed to their leader's cause and principles, while the latter were open to adjusting their stance for the sake of public support. It's likely that Mr. Lincoln could be seen as a "nominal Jackson man," though there's considerable uncertainty about the exact nature of some views he held, or is believed to have held, on national issues. He hadn't completely forgotten Jones or his teachings. He still recalled his intense debates with Offutt in the shack at Spring Creek, where he strongly defended Jackson against his employer's "abuse." He wasn't Whig, but more "Whiggish," as Dennis Hanks put it. It’s unlikely a man who regularly aligned himself with public opinion would choose to join a doomed political minority when settling in a new area. In any case, there are at least three clear facts that show he held a middle ground between the extremes of all parties. First, he won votes from all parties in New Salem; second, he was appointed postmaster by Gen. Jackson the following year; and third, the Democrats nominated him for the legislature two years later, and he won by a larger majority than any other candidate.
"Our old way of conducting elections," says Gov. Ford, "required each aspirant to announce himself as a candidate. The most prudent, however, always consulted a little caucus of select, influential friends. The candidates then travelled around the county, or State, in proper person, making speeches, conversing with the people, soliciting votes, whispering slanders against their opponents, and defending themselves against the attacks of their adversaries; but it was not always best to defend against such attacks. A candidate in a fair way to be elected should never deny any charge made against him; for, if he does, his adversaries will prove all that they have said, and much more. As a candidate did not offer himself as the champion of any party, he usually agreed with all opinions, and promised every thing demanded by the people, and most usually promised, either directly or indirectly, his support to all the other candidates at the same election. One of the arts was to raise a quarrel with unpopular men who were odious to the people, and then try to be elected upon the unpopularity of others, as well as upon his own popularity. These modes of electioneering were not true of all the candidates, nor perhaps of half of them, very many of them being gentlemen of first-class integrity."
"Our old way of holding elections," says Gov. Ford, "required each candidate to announce themselves. However, the smartest ones always consulted a small group of select, influential friends first. The candidates would then travel around the county or state in person, giving speeches, chatting with the people, asking for votes, spreading rumors about their opponents, and defending themselves against attacks; but sometimes it wasn't wise to respond to those attacks. A candidate who was likely to be elected should never deny any accusations made against them; because if they do, their opponents will back up everything they said and even more. Since a candidate didn't present themselves as the representative of any party, they usually agreed with all opinions and promised everything the people wanted, often directly or indirectly pledging their support for all the other candidates in that election. One tactic was to pick fights with unpopular people who were disliked by the public, then try to get elected based on their unpopularity as well as their own appeal. These election tactics didn't apply to all candidates, nor even half of them, as many were genuinely men of high integrity."
That portion of the people whose influence lay in their fighting qualities, and who were prone to carry a huge knife in the belt of the hunting-shirt, were sometimes called the "butcher-knife boys," and sometimes "the half-horse and half-alligator men." This class, according to Gov. Ford, "made a kind of balance-of-power party." Their favorite was sure of success; and nearly all political contests were decided by "butcher-knife influence." "In all elections and in all enactments of the Legislature, great pains were taken by all candidates, and all men in office, to make their course and measures acceptable" to these knights of steel and muscle.
That group of people whose strength came from their fighting skills, and who often carried a large knife in the belt of their hunting shirts, were sometimes referred to as the "butcher-knife boys," and other times as "the half-horse and half-alligator men." According to Gov. Ford, this group "created a sort of balance-of-power party." Their favorite candidate was guaranteed to win, and almost all political battles were determined by "butcher-knife influence." "In every election and in all legislation by the Legislature, candidates and public officials worked hard to ensure their actions and policies were acceptable" to these warriors of steel and strength.
At a later date they enjoyed a succession of titles, such as "barefoot boys," "the flat-footed boys," and "the big-pawed boys."
At a later date, they enjoyed a series of nicknames, like "barefoot boys," "the flat-footed boys," and "the big-pawed boys."
In those times, Gov. Ford avers that he has seen all the rum-shops and groceries of the principal places of a county chartered by candidates, and kept open for the gratuitous accommodation of the free and independent electors for several weeks before the vote. Every Saturday afternoon the people flocked to the county-seat, to see the candidates, to hear speeches, to discuss prospects, to get drunk and fight.
In those days, Governor Ford claims he saw all the bars and stores in the main towns of a county managed by candidates, kept open to freely serve the independent voters for weeks leading up to the election. Every Saturday afternoon, people gathered at the county seat to see the candidates, listen to speeches, talk about their chances, get drunk, and fight.
"Toward evening they would mount their ponies, go reeling from side to side, galloping through town, and throwing up their caps and hats, screeching like so many infernal spirits broke loose from their nether prison; and thus they separated for their homes." These observations occur in Ford's account of the campaign of 1830, which resulted in the choice of Gov. Reynolds,—two years before Mr. Lincoln first became a candidate,—and lead us to suppose that the body of electors before whom that gentleman presented himself were none too cultivated or refined.
"Towards evening, they would get on their ponies, swaying from side to side, racing through town, tossing their caps and hats in the air, and shouting like a bunch of restless spirits escaping from their dark prison; and that's how they parted ways for home." These observations are from Ford's account of the campaign of 1830, which led to the election of Gov. Reynolds—two years before Mr. Lincoln first ran for office—and suggest that the group of voters Mr. Lincoln faced wasn't particularly cultured or refined.
Mr. Lincoln's first appearance on the stump, in the course of the canvass, was at Pappsville, about eleven miles west of Springfield, upon the occasion of a public sale by the firm of Poog & Knap. The sale over, speech-making was about to begin, when Mr. Lincoln observed strong symptoms of inattention in his audience, who had taken that particular moment to engage in what Mr. James A. Herndon pronounces "a general fight." Lincoln saw that one of his friends was suffering more than he liked in the mêlée; and, stepping into the crowd, he shouldered them sternly away from his man, until he met a fellow who refused to fall back: him he seized by the nape of the neck and the seat of his breeches, and tossed him "ten or twelve feet easily." After this episode,—as characteristic of him as of the times,—he mounted the platform, and delivered, with awkward modesty, the following speech:—
Mr. Lincoln’s first public speech during the campaign was in Pappsville, about eleven miles west of Springfield, at a public sale by the company Poog & Knap. After the sale ended, as speech-making was about to start, Mr. Lincoln noticed that his audience was really distracted, having chosen that moment to engage in what Mr. James A. Herndon calls “a general fight.” Lincoln saw that a friend of his was struggling more than he preferred in the chaos and stepped into the crowd, pushing people firmly away from his friend until he encountered someone who refused to back off. He grabbed this person by the back of the neck and the seat of his pants and easily tossed him “ten or twelve feet.” After this incident—which was typical of both him and the times—he got on the platform and, with an awkward sense of modesty, delivered the following speech:—
"Gentlemen and Fellow-Citizens, I presume you all know who I am. I am humble Abraham Lincoln. I have been solicited by many friends to become a candidate for the Legislature. My politics are short and sweet, like the old woman's dance. I am in favor of a national bank. I am in favor of the internal-improvement system and a high protective tariff. These are my sentiments and political principles. If elected, I shall be thankful; if not, it will be all the same."
"Gentlemen and fellow citizens, I assume you all know who I am. I am humble Abraham Lincoln. Many friends have encouraged me to run for the Legislature. My political views are straightforward, like the old woman's dance. I support a national bank, an internal improvement system, and a high protective tariff. These are my beliefs and political principles. If elected, I will be grateful; if not, it won’t make a difference."
In these few sentences Mr. Lincoln adopted the leading principles of the Whig party,—Clay's "American System" in full. In his view, as we shall see by another paper from him when again a candidate in 1834, the internal-improvement system required the distribution of the proceeds of the sales of the public lands amongst the States. He says nothing of South Carolina, of nullification, of disunion; and on these subjects it is quite probable his views were like Mr. Webster's, and his sympathies with Jackson. The opinions announced in this speech, on all the subjects touched by the speaker, were as emphatically Whig as they could be made in words; yet as far as they related to internal improvements, and indirectly favored the increase of bank issues, they were such as most of the "nominal Jackson men" in Illinois professed to hold, and such as they united with the Whigs to enforce, then and afterwards, in the State Legislature. The "whole-hog men" would have none of them, and therein lay the distinction. Although the Democratic party continued to have a numerical majority for many years in the Legislature, the nominal men and the Whigs coalesced to control legislation in accordance with Whig doctrines. Even with such a record made and making by them, the "nominal men" persisted in calling themselves Democrats, while Jackson was vetoing the Maysville Road Bill, grappling with the National Bank, and exposing the oppressive character of the Tariff Act then in force, which imposed the highest scale of duties since the first enactment for "protection" in 1816. It was their practice to run men like themselves for the State offices where the chances of a plain-spoken Whig were hopeless; and, by means of the "nominal" character of the candidate, secure enough Democratic votes, united with the Whigs, to elect him. In the very next canvass Mr. Lincoln himself was taken up by such a combination and triumphantly elected. Such things were made feasible by the prevalent mode of making nominations without the salutary intervention of regular party conventions and committees. We repeat that Mr. Lincoln's position was midway between the extremes in local politics.
In these few sentences, Mr. Lincoln embraced the key principles of the Whig party—Clay's "American System" in its entirety. As we will see in another paper from him when he ran again in 1834, he believed that the internal-improvement system required sharing the proceeds from public land sales among the states. He doesn't mention South Carolina, nullification, or disunion; it's likely that his views on those issues were similar to Mr. Webster's, and his sympathies aligned with Jackson. The opinions he expressed in this speech on all the topics he addressed were as strictly Whig as possible; however, regarding internal improvements and indirectly supporting an increase in bank issues, they were positions that most of the "nominal Jackson men" in Illinois claimed to hold, and they joined forces with the Whigs to push for those ideas in the State Legislature both then and later. The "whole-hog men" rejected those ideas, and that's where the distinction lay. Although the Democratic party maintained a numerical majority for many years in the Legislature, the nominal Democrats and the Whigs worked together to guide legislation according to Whig principles. Despite their actions and track record, the nominal Democrats continued to identify themselves as Democrats, even while Jackson was vetoing the Maysville Road Bill, battling the National Bank, and highlighting the oppressive nature of the Tariff Act that was in place, which had the highest tariff rates since the first protective law in 1816. They typically ran candidates similar to themselves for state offices where a straightforward Whig had little chance of winning; by leveraging the "nominal" nature of the candidates, they secured enough Democratic votes in tandem with the Whigs to win. In the very next election, Mr. Lincoln was selected by such a coalition and was successfully elected. These situations were made possible by the common practice of nominations occurring without the necessary involvement of formal party conventions and committees. We reiterate that Mr. Lincoln's stance was balanced between the extremes in local politics.
His friend, Mr. A. Y. Ellis, who was with him during a part of this campaign, says, "He wore a mixed jeans coat, claw-hammer style, short in the sleeves, and bobtail,—in fact, it was so short in the tail he could not sit on it,—flax and tow linen pantaloons, and a straw hat. I think he wore a vest, but do not remember how it looked. He then wore pot-metal boots.
His friend, Mr. A. Y. Ellis, who was with him during part of this campaign, says, "He wore a mixed denim coat, claw-hammer style, short in the sleeves and tail—in fact, it was so short in the back that he couldn't sit on it—flax and tow linen pants, and a straw hat. I think he wore a vest, but I don’t remember what it looked like. He was also wearing pot-metal boots."
"I accompanied him on one of his electioneering trips to Island Grove; and he made a speech which pleased his party friends very well indeed, though some of the Jackson men tried to make sport of it. He told several anecdotes in his speech, and applied them, as I thought, very well. He also told the boys several stories which drew them after him. I remember them; but modesty and my veneration for his memory forbid me to relate them."
"I joined him on one of his campaign trips to Island Grove, and he gave a speech that really impressed his supporters, even though some of the Jackson guys tried to make fun of it. He shared several stories in his speech, and I thought he applied them quite effectively. He also entertained the younger crowd with some tales that captured their attention. I remember those stories, but out of respect for his memory and my own modesty, I won’t share them."
Mr. J. R. Herndon, his friend and landlord, heard him make several speeches about this time, and gives us the following extract from one, which seems to have made a special impression upon the minds of his auditors: "Fellow-citizens, I have been told that some of my opponents have said that it was a disgrace to the county of Sangamon to have such a looking man as I am stuck up for the Legislature. Now, I thought this was a free country: that is the reason I address you today. Had I have known to the contrary, I should not have consented to run; but I will say one thing, let the shoe pinch where it may: when I have been a candidate before you some five or six times, and have been beaten every time, I will consider it a disgrace, and will be sure never to try it again; but I am bound to beat that man if I am beat myself."
Mr. J. R. Herndon, his friend and landlord, heard him give several speeches around this time and shares the following excerpt from one that seems to have made a strong impression on his audience: "Fellow citizens, I've heard that some of my opponents say it's a disgrace for someone like me to be put up for the Legislature. Now, I thought this was a free country; that’s why I’m speaking to you today. If I had known otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to run. But I’ll say one thing, let the chips fall where they may: when I've run as a candidate in front of you five or six times and lost every time, I’ll consider it a disgrace, and I won’t try again. But I’m determined to defeat that man, even if I lose myself."
These were not the only speeches he made in furtherance of his present claims, but they are all of which we have any intelligible account. There was one subject upon which he felt himself peculiarly competent to speak,—the practical application of the "internal-improvement system" to the river which flowed by the doors of the constituency he addressed. He firmly believed in the right of the Legislature of the State or the Congress of the United States to appropriate the public money to local improvements for the sole advantage of limited districts; and that he believed it good policy to exercise the right, his subsequent conduct in the Legislature, and an elaborate speech in Congress, are sufficient proof. In this doctrine he had the almost unanimous support of the people of Illinois. Almost every man in the State was a speculator in town lots or lands. Even the farmers had taken up or held the very lands they tilled with a view to a speculation in the near future. Long after the Democratic party in the South and East, leaving Mr. Calhoun in a state of isolation, had begun to inculcate different views of constitutional power and duty, it was a dangerous thing for a politician in Illinois to intimate his agreement with them. Mr. Lincoln knew well that the policy of local improvement at the general expense was at that moment decidedly the most popular platform he could mount; but he felt that this was not enough for his individual purposes, since it was no invention of his, and belonged to nearly everybody else as much as to him. He therefore prudently ingrafted upon it a hobby of his own: "The Improvement of the Sangamon River,"—a plan to straighten it by means of cuts, to clear out its obstructions, and make it a commercial highway at the cost of the State. That the idea was nearly, if not quite impracticable, the trip of "The Talisman" under Mr. Lincoln's piloting, and the fact that the river remained unimproved during all the years of the "internal-improvement" mania, would seem to be pretty clear evidence. But the theme was agreeable to the popular ear, and had been dear to Lincoln from the moment he laid his eyes on the Sangamon. It was the great topic of his speech against Posey and Ewing in Macon County, when, under the auspices of John Hanks, he "beat" those professional politicians so completely that they applauded him themselves. His experience in navigating the river was not calculated to make him forget it, and it had occupied his thoughts more or less from that day forward. Now that it might be turned to good use, where he was personally interested, he set about preparing a written address on it, and on some other questions of local interest, upon which he bestowed infinite pains. The "grammatical errors" in the first draft were corrected by Mr. McNamar, the pioneer of New Salem as a business point, and the gentleman who was destined to be Mr. Lincoln's rival in the most important love-affair of his life. He may have consulted the schoolmaster also; but, if he had done so, it is hardly to be surmised that the schoolmaster would have left so important a fact out of his written reminiscences. It is more probable that Mr. Lincoln confined his applications for assistance on this most important matter to the quarter where he could get light on politics as well as grammar. However that may have been, the following is the finished paper:—
These weren't the only speeches he made to support his current claims, but they're the only ones we have an understandable account of. There was one topic he felt particularly qualified to discuss—the practical application of the "internal-improvement system" to the river right outside the doors of the constituency he addressed. He strongly believed in the right of the State Legislature or the United States Congress to use public funds for local improvements that only benefited specific areas; and he thought it was smart to exercise that right. His later actions in the Legislature and a detailed speech in Congress are proof enough of that. On this issue, he had near-unanimous backing from the people of Illinois. Almost every man in the state was involved in speculating on town lots or land. Even the farmers were farming land with the expectation of making a profit soon. Long after the Democratic party in the South and East had left Mr. Calhoun isolated and started promoting different views on constitutional power and duty, it became risky for a politician in Illinois to suggest he agreed with them. Mr. Lincoln knew that promoting local improvement funded by the public was one of the most popular positions he could take at that time; however, he felt this wasn’t enough for his personal goals, as it wasn’t his original idea and was shared by many others. Therefore, he wisely added his own pet project: "The Improvement of the Sangamon River"—a plan to straighten the river through cuts, remove obstacles, and make it a commercial route funded by the state. That the idea was nearly, if not completely, impractical is evident from the trip of "The Talisman" under Mr. Lincoln's guidance, and the fact that the river stayed unimproved throughout the entire "internal-improvement" craze. But the idea resonated well with the public and had been close to Lincoln's heart since he first saw the Sangamon. It was the major theme of his speech against Posey and Ewing in Macon County, where he, with the help of John Hanks, defeated those seasoned politicians so thoroughly that they applauded him themselves. His experience navigating the river was hard to forget, and it had occupied his mind more or less ever since. Now that he could put it to good use, where he was personally invested, he started preparing a written address on this topic and other local issues, to which he devoted a lot of effort. The "grammatical errors" in the first draft were corrected by Mr. McNamar, the pioneer who made New Salem a business hub, and who would become Mr. Lincoln's rival in the most significant romantic relationship of his life. He may have also consulted the schoolmaster; however, if he had, it's unlikely the schoolmaster would have omitted such an important detail from his written memories. It's more likely that Mr. Lincoln sought help for this crucial matter from someone who could provide insights into both politics and grammar. Regardless, the following is the completed document:—
To the People of Sangamon County.
To the People of Sangamon County.
Fellow-Citizens,—Having become a candidate for the honorable office of one of your Representatives in the next General Assembly of this State, in accordance with an established custom and the principles of true republicanism, it becomes my duty to make known to you, the people, whom I propose to represent, my sentiments with regard to local affairs.
Fellow citizens, I’m running to be one of your Representatives in the next General Assembly of this State. In keeping with tradition and the principles of true republicanism, I feel it's my duty to share my views on local matters with you, the people I aim to represent.
Time and experience have verified to a demonstration the public utility of internal improvements. That the poorest and most thinly-populated countries would be greatly benefited by the opening of good roads, and in the clearing of navigable streams within their limits, is what no person will deny. Yet it is folly to undertake works of this or any other kind, without first knowing that we are able to finish them,—as half-finished work generally proves to be labor lost. There cannot justly be any objection to having railroads and canals, any more than to other good things, provided they cost nothing. The only objection is to paying for them; and the objection arises from the want of ability to pay.
Time and experience have clearly shown the public benefits of internal improvements. No one can deny that poor and sparsely populated areas would greatly benefit from good roads and navigable rivers. However, it's foolish to start such projects without first ensuring we can complete them, as unfinished work is usually a waste of effort. There's no real reason to oppose railroads and canals, just like there’s no reason to oppose other beneficial things, as long as they cost nothing. The only concern is about paying for them, and that concern comes from not being able to afford it.
With respect to the County of Sangamon, some more easy means of communication than it now possesses, for the purpose of facilitating the task of exporting the surplus products of its fertile soil, and importing necessary articles from abroad, are indispensably necessary. A meeting has been held of the citizens of Jacksonville and the adjacent country, for the purpose of deliberating and inquiring into the expediency of constructing a railroad from some eligible point on the Illinois River, through the town of Jacksonville, in Morgan County, to the town of Springfield, in Sangamon County. This is, indeed, a very desirable object. No other improvement that reason will justify us in hoping for can equal in utility the railroad. It is a never-failing source of communication between places of business remotely situated from each other. Upon the railroad the regular progress of commercial intercourse is not interrupted by either high or low water, or freezing weather, which are the principal difficulties that render our future hopes of water communication precarious and uncertain.
In the County of Sangamon, we need better ways to communicate than what we currently have to make it easier to export the extra produce from our fertile land and import essential goods from elsewhere. A meeting was held with citizens from Jacksonville and the surrounding area to discuss the feasibility of building a railroad from a suitable spot on the Illinois River, through Jacksonville in Morgan County, to Springfield in Sangamon County. This is definitely a goal worth pursuing. No other improvement we could hope for can match the usefulness of a railroad. It provides reliable communication between businesses that are far apart. With railroads, commercial activities aren’t disrupted by high or low water, or freezing weather, which are the main challenges that make our hopes for water transportation uncertain.
Yet however desirable an object the construction of a railroad through our country may be; however high our imaginations may be heated at thoughts of it,—there is always a heart-appalling shock accompanying the account of its cost, which forces us to shrink from our pleasing anticipations. The probable cost of this contemplated railroad is estimated at $290,000; the bare statement of which, in my opinion, is sufficient to justify the belief that the improvement of the Sangamon River is an object much better suited to our infant resources.
Yet, no matter how appealing the idea of building a railroad through our country might be, and no matter how excited we get thinking about it, there's always a heart-stopping realization when we hear about the costs, which makes us pull back from our hopeful visions. The estimated cost of this proposed railroad is around $290,000; just stating that amount, in my view, is enough to support the idea that improving the Sangamon River is a goal that better fits our limited resources.
Respecting this view, I think I may say, without the fear of being contradicted, that its navigation may be rendered completely practicable as high as the mouth of the South Fork, or probably higher, to vessels of from twenty-five to thirty tons' burden, for at least one-half of all common years, and to vessels of much greater burden a part of the time. From my peculiar circumstances, it is probable, that for the last twelve months I have given as particular attention to the stage of the water in this river as any other person in the country. In the month of March, 1831, in company with others, I commenced the building of a flatboat on the Sangamon, and finished and took her out in the course of the spring. Since that time I have been concerned in the mill at New Salem. These circumstances are sufficient evidence that I have not been very inattentive to the stages of the water. The time at which we crossed the mill-dam being in the last days of April, the water was lower than it had been since the breaking of winter in February, or than it was for several weeks after. The principal difficulties we encountered in descending the river were from the drifted timber, which obstructions all know are not difficult to be removed. Knowing almost precisely the height of water at that time, I believe I am safe in saying that it has as often been higher as lower since.
Respecting this view, I think I can confidently say that navigation can be made completely practical up to the mouth of the South Fork, or maybe even farther, for boats weighing between twenty-five and thirty tons, for at least half of all average years, and for even larger vessels some of the time. Given my situation, I've probably paid more attention to the water levels in this river than anyone else in the area over the past year. In March 1831, I started building a flatboat on the Sangamon with some others, and we finished and launched it in the spring. Since then, I've been involved with the mill at New Salem. These experiences show I've been quite attentive to the water levels. When we crossed the mill-dam in late April, the water was lower than it had been since winter broke in February, or for several weeks afterward. The main challenges we faced while going down the river were from drifted timber, which everyone knows isn’t too hard to clear. Knowing almost exactly how high the water was at that time, I believe I can safely say that it’s just as often been higher as it has been lower since then.
From this view of the subject, it appears that my calculations with regard to the navigation of the Sangamon cannot but be founded in reason; but, whatever may be its natural advantages, certain it is, that it never can be practically useful to any great extent, without being greatly improved by art. The drifted timber, as I have before mentioned, is the most formidable barrier to this object. Of all parts of this river, none will require so much labor in proportion to make it navigable, as the last thirty or thirty-five miles; and going with the meanderings of the channel, when we are this distance above its mouth we are only between twelve and eighteen miles above Beardstown, in something near a straight direction; and this route is upon such low ground as to retain water in many places during the season, and in all parts such as to draw two-thirds or three-fourths of the river-water at all high stages.
From this perspective, it seems my calculations regarding the navigation of the Sangamon are definitely reasonable. However, despite its natural advantages, it will never be practically useful on a large scale without significant improvements made through engineering. The drifted timber, as I mentioned before, poses the biggest challenge to this goal. Among all sections of this river, the last thirty or thirty-five miles will require the most effort relative to make it navigable. Following the river's winding path, when we are this distance from its mouth, we are only about twelve to eighteen miles from Beardstown in what is nearly a straight line. This route lies in low-lying areas that can hold water in many spots during the season, and throughout, it draws two-thirds to three-fourths of the river's water at all high water levels.
This route is on prairie land the whole distance; so that it appears to me, by removing the turf a sufficient width, and damming up the old channel, the whole river in a short time would wash its way through, thereby curtailing the distance, and increasing the velocity of the current, very considerably: while there would be no timber on the banks to obstruct its navigation in future; and, being nearly straight, the timber which might float in at the head would be apt to go clear through. There are also many places above this where the river, in its zigzag course, forms such complete peninsulas, as to be easier to cut at the necks than to remove the obstructions from the bends, which, if done, would also lessen the distance.
This route runs across prairie land the entire way; so it seems to me that by clearing a wide enough path and blocking off the old channel, the river would quickly carve out a new route. This would shorten the distance and significantly increase the speed of the current. Plus, there wouldn't be any trees along the banks to obstruct navigation in the future, and since the route is almost straight, any floating debris coming in from upstream would likely pass right through. There are also many areas upstream where the river makes such sharp turns that it would be easier to cut through the narrow parts than to remove the obstacles in the bends. If we did that, it would also reduce the distance.
What the cost of this work would be, I am unable to say. It is probable, however, that it would not be greater than is common to streams of the same length. Finally, I believe the improvement of the Sangamon River to be vastly important and highly desirable to the people of the county; and, if elected, any measure in the Legislature having this for its object, which may appear judicious, will meet my approbation and shall receive my support.
I can't say what the cost of this project would be. However, it's likely that it wouldn't be more than what's typical for rivers of the same length. Ultimately, I think improving the Sangamon River is extremely important and very beneficial for the people of the county; and if I'm elected, any reasonable measure in the Legislature aimed at this goal will have my approval and support.
It appears that the practice of drawing money at exorbitant rates of interest has already been opened as a field for discussion; so I suppose I may enter upon it without claiming the honor, or risking the danger, which may await its first explorer. It seems as though we are never to have an end to this baneful and corroding system, acting almost as prejudicial to the general interests of the community as a direct tax of several thousand dollars annually laid on each county, for the benefit of a few individuals only, unless there be a law made fixing the limits of usury. A law for this purpose, I am of opinion, may be made, without materially injuring any class of people. In cases of extreme necessity, there could always be means found to cheat the law; while in all other cases it would have its intended effect. I would favor the passage of a law on this subject which might not be very easily evaded. Let it be such that the labor and difficulty of evading it could only be justified in cases of greatest necessity.1
It seems the issue of charging outrageous interest rates has already been opened up for discussion; so I guess I can jump into it without needing to take credit or risking the challenges that come with being the first to tackle it. It feels like there’s no end to this harmful and destructive system, which is almost as damaging to the community’s interests as a direct tax of several thousand dollars each year imposed on every county, benefiting only a select few. Unless a law is created to set limits on usury, this will continue. I believe such a law could be established without causing significant harm to any group. In situations of extreme need, there will always be ways to bypass the law; however, in all other cases, it would achieve its intended purpose. I would support the enactment of a law on this topic that wouldn't be easily circumvented. It should be structured so that the effort and difficulty to evade it could only be justified in the most urgent situations.
1 Until the year 1833 there had been no legal limit to the rate of interest to be fixed by contract. But usury had been carried to such an unprecedented degree of extortion and oppression as to cause the Legislature to enact severe usury laws, by which all interest above twelve per cent was condemned. It had been no uncommon thing before this to charge one hundred and one hundred and fifty per cent, and sometimes two and three hundred per cent. But the common rate of interest, by contract, had been about fifty per cent.—Ford's History, page 233.
1 Until 1833, there were no legal limits on the interest rates that contracts could set. However, usury had become so exploitative and oppressive that the Legislature enacted strict usury laws, making any interest above twelve percent illegal. It was common before this to charge interest rates of one hundred to one hundred fifty percent, and sometimes even two or three hundred percent. But the usual contracted interest rate was about fifty percent.—Ford's History, page 233.
Upon the subject of education, not presuming to dictate any plan or system respecting it, I can only say that I view it as the most important subject which we as a people can be engaged in. That every man may receive at least a moderate education, and thereby be enabled to read the histories of his own and other countries, by which he may duly appreciate the value of our free institutions, appears to be an object of vital importance, even on this account alone, to say nothing of the advantages and satisfaction to be derived from all being able to read the Scriptures and other works, both of a religious and moral nature, for themselves.
When it comes to education, not wanting to impose any specific plan or system on it, I can only say that I see it as the most crucial topic for us as a society. It's vital that every person has the chance to receive at least a decent education so they can read the histories of their own country and others. This knowledge allows them to truly appreciate the value of our free institutions. This alone makes education extremely important, not to mention the benefits and fulfillment that come from everyone being able to read the Scriptures and other religious and moral works on their own.
For my part, I desire to see the time when education—and, by its means, morality, sobriety, enterprise, and industry—shall become much more general than at present, and should be gratified to have it in my power to contribute something to the advancement of any measure which might have a tendency to accelerate the happy period.
For my part, I look forward to the time when education—and, as a result, morality, sobriety, ambition, and hard work—becomes much more widespread than it is now. I would be pleased to have the chance to contribute something to the progress of any initiative that might help speed up this positive change.
With regard to existing laws, some alterations are thought to be necessary. Many respectable men have suggested that our estray laws—the law respecting the issuing of executions, the road-law, and some others—are deficient in their present form, and require alterations. But, considering the great probability that the framers of those laws were wiser than myself, I should prefer not meddling with them, unless they were first attacked by others; in which case I should feel it both a privilege and a duty to take that stand, which, in my view, might tend most to the advancement of justice.
Regarding current laws, some changes are seen as necessary. Many respected individuals have pointed out that our estray laws—the law about issuing executions, the road law, and a few others—are lacking in their current form and need revisions. However, since it’s highly likely that the authors of those laws were more knowledgeable than I am, I would rather not interfere with them unless they are first challenged by others; in that case, I would feel it both a privilege and a duty to take a position that I believe could best promote justice.
But, fellow-citizens, I shall conclude. Considering the great degree of modesty which should always attend youth, it is probable I have already been more presuming than becomes me. However, upon the subjects of which I have treated, I have spoken as I have thought. I may be wrong in regard to any or all of them; but, holding it a sound maxim, that it is better only sometimes to be right than at all times wrong, so soon as I discover my opinions to be erroneous, I shall be ready to renounce them.
But, fellow citizens, I’ll wrap up. Keeping in mind the modesty that should always accompany youth, it’s likely I’ve already been more forward than I should be. However, on the topics I’ve discussed, I’ve spoken my mind. I could be wrong about any or all of them; but, believing that it’s better to be right sometimes than always wrong, as soon as I realize my opinions are wrong, I’ll be ready to give them up.
Every man is said to have his peculiar ambition. Whether it be true or not, I can say, for one, that I have no other so great as that of being truly esteemed of my fellow-men, by rendering myself worthy of their esteem. How far I shall succeed in gratifying this ambition is yet to be developed. I am young, and unknown to many of you. I was born, and have ever remained, in the most humble walks of life. I have no wealthy or popular relations or friends to recommend. My case is thrown exclusively upon the independent voters of the county; and, if elected, they will have conferred a favor upon me, for which I shall be unremitting in my labors to compensate. But, if the good people in their wisdom shall see fit to keep me in the background, I have been too familiar with disappointments to be very much chagrined.
Every person is said to have their own unique ambition. Whether or not that's true, I can say that my greatest ambition is to earn the genuine respect of my peers by proving myself worthy of it. How successful I will be in fulfilling this ambition is yet to be seen. I’m young and not known to many of you. I was born and have always lived a very humble life. I don’t have any wealthy or influential relatives or friends to vouch for me. My fate relies solely on the independent voters of the county; if I'm elected, they will have done me a favor, and I will work tirelessly to repay that. But if the good people decide to keep me in the shadows, I’ve faced enough disappointments to not be too upset.
Your Friend and Fellow-Citizen,
Your friend and fellow citizen,
A. LINCOLN.
A. Lincoln.
New Salem, March 9, 1832.
New Salem, March 9, 1832.
Mr. Lincoln was defeated at the election, having four hundred and seventy votes less than the candidate who had the highest number. But his disappointment was softened by the action of his immediate neighbors, who gave him an almost unanimous support. With three solitary exceptions, he received the whole vote of his precinct,—two hundred and seventy-seven,—being one more than the whole number cast for both the candidates for Congress.
Mr. Lincoln lost the election, getting four hundred and seventy votes fewer than the candidate with the most votes. However, his disappointment was eased by the support of his close neighbors, who backed him almost unanimously. With just three exceptions, he received all the votes from his precinct—two hundred and seventy-seven— which was one more than the total votes cast for both candidates running for Congress.
CHAPTER VII
THE results of the canvass for the Legislature were precisely such as had been predicted, both by Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Rutledge: he had been defeated, as he expected himself; and it had done "him much good," in the politician's sense, as promised by Mr. Rutledge. He was now somewhat acquainted with the people outside of the New Salem district, and generally marked as a young man of good parts and popular manners. The vote given him at home demonstrated his local strength, and made his favor a thing of value to the politicians of all parties.
THE results of the canvass for the Legislature were exactly what Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Rutledge had predicted: he had lost, just as he expected; and it had done "him much good," in the politician's sense, as Mr. Rutledge promised. He was now somewhat familiar with people outside of the New Salem district and was generally seen as a young man with good qualities and a likable personality. The votes he received at home showed his local strength and made his support valuable to politicians from all parties.
Soon after his return from the army, he had taken quarters at the house of J. R. Herndon, who loved him then, and always, with as much sincerity as one man can love another. Mr. Herndon's family likewise "became much attached to him." He "nearly always had one" of Herndon's children "around with him." Mr. Herndon says of him further, that he was "at home wherever he went;" making himself wonderfully agreeable to the people he lived with, or whom he happened to be visiting. Among other things, "he was very kind to the widow and orphan, and chopped their wood."
Soon after he came back from the army, he moved into the house of J. R. Herndon, who loved him then and always, with a sincerity that only one man can have for another. Mr. Herndon's family also "became quite fond of him." He "almost always had one" of Herndon's kids "with him." Mr. Herndon adds that he was "at home wherever he went," making himself really pleasant to the people he lived with or visited. Among other things, "he was very kind to the widow and orphan, and chopped their wood."
Lincoln, as we have seen already, was not enamored of the life of a common laborer,—mere hewing and drawing. He preferred to clerk, to go to war, to enter politics,—any thing but that dreary round of daily toil and poor pay. But he was now, as he would say, "in a fix:" clerks were not wanted every day in New Salem and he began to cast about for some independent business of his own, by which he could earn enough to pay board and buy books. In every community where he had lived, "the merchant" had been the principal man. He felt that, in view of his apprenticeship under those great masters, Jones and Offutt, he was fully competent to "run a store," and was impatient to find an opening in that line.
Lincoln, as we've already seen, didn’t have much interest in a life of manual labor—just endless chopping and hauling. He would rather work as a clerk, go to war, or get involved in politics—anything but that monotonous grind of daily work and low pay. But now, as he would say, he was "in a fix": clerks weren't needed every day in New Salem, and he started looking for some independent business he could start to earn enough to pay for food and buy books. In every place he had lived, "the merchant" had been the most important person. He believed that, given his apprenticeship with those great masters, Jones and Offutt, he was more than capable of "running a store," and he was eager to find an opportunity in that area.
Unfortunately for him, the circumstances of the business men of New Salem were just then peculiarly favorable to his views. At least three of them were as anxious to sell out as Lincoln was to buy.
Unfortunately for him, the situation for the business people of New Salem was particularly favorable to his goals at that time. At least three of them were just as eager to sell as Lincoln was to buy.
Lincoln, as already stated, was at this time living with "Row" Herndon. Row and his brother "Jim" had taken "a store down to New Salem early in that year." But Jim "didn't like the place," and sold out his interests to an idle, convivial fellow, named Berry. Six weeks later Row Herndon grew tired of his new partner, and sold his interest to Lincoln. The store was a mixed one,—dry goods and groceries.
Lincoln, as mentioned earlier, was living with "Row" Herndon at this time. Row and his brother "Jim" had opened a store in New Salem early that year. But Jim "didn't like the place" and sold his share to a laid-back, sociable guy named Berry. Six weeks later, Row Herndon got fed up with his new partner and sold his share to Lincoln. The store was a combination of dry goods and groceries.
About the same time Mr. Radford, who kept one of the New Salem groceries, fell into disfavor with the "Clary's Grove Boys," who generously determined that he should keep a grocery no longer. They accordingly selected a convenient night for breaking in his windows, and, in their own elegant phrase, "gutting his establishment." Convinced that these neighborly fellows were inclined to honor him with further attentions, and that his bones might share the fate of his windows, Radford determined to sell out with the earliest dawn of the coming day. The next day he was standing disconsolate in the midst of his wreck, when Bill Green rode up. Green thought he saw a speculation in Radford's distress, and offered him four hundred dollars for the whole concern. Radford eagerly closed with him; and in a few minutes Green owned the grocery, and Radford was ready for the road to a more congenial settlement. It is said that Green employed Lincoln to make an inventory of the stock. At all events, Lincoln was satisfied that Green's bargain was a very good one, and proposed that he and Berry should take it off his hands at a premium of two hundred and fifty dollars. Radford had Green's note for four hundred dollars; but he now surrendered, it and took Lincoln & Berry's for the same amount, indorsed by Green; while Lincoln & Berry gave Green a note for two hundred and fifty dollars, the latter's profit in the trade.
About the same time, Mr. Radford, who ran one of the grocery stores in New Salem, fell out of favor with the "Clary's Grove Boys," who decided he shouldn't keep his store any longer. They picked a convenient night to throw rocks through his windows and, in their own classy way, "gut his establishment." Fearing that these neighbors might decide to give him even more attention, and that he might end up like his windows, Radford decided to sell his business at the earliest light of the next day. The next day, he stood sadly amidst his ruined store when Bill Green rode up. Green thought he saw an opportunity in Radford's misfortune and offered him four hundred dollars for the whole thing. Radford eagerly accepted, and within minutes, Green owned the grocery, while Radford was ready to hit the road to a more welcoming place. It’s said that Green asked Lincoln to take stock of the inventory. In any case, Lincoln believed Green got a great deal and suggested he and Berry buy it from him for a profit of two hundred and fifty dollars. Radford had Green's note for four hundred dollars but surrendered it to take Lincoln and Berry's note for the same amount, which was backed by Green; meanwhile, Lincoln and Berry issued Green a note for two hundred and fifty dollars, which was his profit from the deal.
Mr. Rutledge "also owned a small grocery in the village;" and this was speedily absorbed by the enterprising firm of Lincoln & Berry, who now had the field to themselves, being sole proprietors "of the only store of the kind in New Salem."
Mr. Rutledge "also owned a small grocery in the village;" and this was quickly taken over by the ambitious firm of Lincoln & Berry, who now had the market to themselves, being the only owners "of the only store of its kind in New Salem."
Whether Mr. Lincoln sold liquor by the dram over the counter of this shop remains, and will forever remain, an undetermined question. Many of his friends aver that he did, and as many more aver that he did not. When Douglas, with that courtesy for which he distinguished himself in the debates with Lincoln, revived the story, Lincoln replied, that, even if it were true, there was but little difference between them; for, while he figured on one side of the counter, Douglas figured on the other. It is certain liquors were a part of the stock of all the purchases of Lincoln & Berry. Of course they sold them by the quantity, and probably by the drink. Some of it they gave away, for no man could keep store without setting out the customary dram to the patrons of the place.1
Whether Mr. Lincoln sold liquor by the drink at this shop remains an unanswered question and will always be. Many of his friends claim that he did, while just as many insist that he did not. When Douglas, known for his politeness in the debates with Lincoln, brought up the story again, Lincoln responded that even if it were true, there wasn’t much difference between them; after all, while he worked on one side of the counter, Douglas worked on the other. It’s clear that liquors were part of the stock at Lincoln & Berry. They sold them by the quantity and likely by the drink. Some of it they actually gave away, since no one could run a store without offering the customary drink to the patrons.1
1 Here is the evidence of James Davis, a Democrat, "aged sixty," who is willing to "give the Devil his due:"— "Came to Clary's Grove in 1829; knew Lincoln well; knew Jim and Row Herndon: they sold out to Berry,—one of them did; afterwards the other sold out to Lincoln. The store was a mixed one,—dry goods, a few groceries, such as sugar, salt, &c., and whiskey solely kept for their customers, or to sell by the gallon, quart, or pint,—not otherwise. The Herndons probably had the Blankenship goods. Radford had a grocery-store,—salt, pepper, and suchlike things, with whiskey. It is said Green bought this out, and instantly sold to Berry & Lincoln. Lincoln & Berry broke. Berry subsequently kept a doggery, a whiskey saloon, as I do now, or did. Am a Democrat; never agreed in politics with Abe. He was an honest man. Give the Devil his due; he never sold whiskey by the dram in New Salem! I was in town every week for years; knew, I think, all about it. I always drank my dram, and drank at Berry's often; ought to know. Lincoln got involved, I think, in the first operation. Salem Hill was a barren."
1 Here is the account of James Davis, a Democrat, "aged sixty," who is ready to "give credit where it's due":— "I arrived in Clary's Grove in 1829; I knew Lincoln well and knew Jim and Row Herndon: one of them sold out to Berry; later, the other sold out to Lincoln. The store offered a mix of dry goods and a few groceries like sugar and salt, as well as whiskey, which was only kept for their customers or sold by the gallon, quart, or pint—not any other way. The Herndons probably had the Blankenship goods. Radford ran a grocery store—with salt, pepper, and similar items, plus whiskey. It’s said Green bought that out and quickly sold it to Berry & Lincoln. Lincoln & Berry went bust. Later, Berry ran a bar, a whiskey saloon, like I do now, or did. I'm a Democrat; I never agreed with Abe politically. He was an honest man. Give credit where it's due; he never sold whiskey by the shot in New Salem! I was in town every week for years; I think I knew everything about it. I always had my drink and often drank at Berry's; I should know. I think Lincoln was involved in the first business deal. Salem Hill was a wasteland."
The difficulty of gathering authentic evidence on this subject is well illustrated in the following extract from Mr. George Spears of Petersburg:—
The challenge of collecting real evidence on this topic is clearly shown in the following excerpt from Mr. George Spears of Petersburg:—
"I took my horse this morning, and went over to New Salem, among the P——s and A——s, and made all the inquiries I could, but could learn nothing. The old ladies would begin to count up what had happened in New Salem when such a one of their children was born, and such a one had a bastard; but it all amounted to nothing. I could arrive at no dates, only when those children were born. Old Mrs. Potter affirms that Lincoln did sell liquors in a grocery. I can't tell whether he did or not."
"I took my horse this morning and went over to New Salem, among the P——s and A——s, and asked around as much as I could, but I couldn’t find out anything. The old ladies would start recounting what had happened in New Salem when one of their kids was born and when another had a kid outside of marriage, but it didn’t lead to anything useful. I couldn’t get any specific dates, just when the children were born. Old Mrs. Potter insists that Lincoln sold liquor in a grocery store. I can’t say whether he did or not."
All that winter (1832-3) Lincoln struggled along with a bad partner, and a business which began wrong, and grew worse every day. Berry had no qualities which atoned for his evil habits.. He preferred to consume the liquors on hand rather than to sell them, and exerted himself so successfully, that in a few months he had ruined the credit of the firm, squandered its assets, and destroyed his own health. The "store" was a dead failure; and the partners were weighed down with a parcel of debts, against which Lincoln could scarcely have borne up, even with a better man to help him. At last they sold out to two brothers named Trent. The Trents continued the business for a few months, when they broke up and ran away. Then Berry, encouraged by the example of the Trents, "cleared out" also, and, dying soon after, left poor Lincoln the melancholy task of settling up the affairs of their ill-starred partnership.
All that winter (1832-3) Lincoln struggled with a terrible partner and a business that started off on the wrong foot and only got worse. Berry had no redeeming qualities to make up for his bad habits. He preferred to drink the inventory instead of selling it, and he was so good at it that within a few months, he ruined the business's reputation, wasted its assets, and destroyed his own health. The "store" was a complete failure, and the partners were burdened with a pile of debts that Lincoln could barely manage, even if he had a better partner to support him. Eventually, they sold the business to two brothers named Trent. The Trents ran the business for a few months before they disappeared. Then Berry, inspired by the Trents, also "skipped town," and after dying soon after, left poor Lincoln with the sad job of settling the mess of their unfortunate partnership.
In all the preceding transactions, the absence of any cash consideration is the one thing very striking. It is a fair illustration of the speculative spirit pervading the whole people. Green bought from Radford on credit; Lincoln & Berry bought from Green on credit; they bought from the Herndons on credit; they bought from Rutledge on credit; and they sold to the Trents on credit. Those that did not die or run away had a sad time enough in managing the debts resulting from their connection with this unlucky grocery. Radford assigned Lincoln & Berry's note to a Mr. Van Bergen, who got judgment on it, and swept away all Lincoln's little personal property, including his surveying instruments,—his very means of livelihood, as we shall see at another place. The Herndons owed E. C. Blankenship for the goods they sold, and assigned Lincoln & Berry's note in payment. Mr. Lincoln struggled to pay, by slow degrees, this harassing debt to Blankenship, through many long and weary years. It was not until his return from Congress, in 1849, that he got the last dollar of it discharged. He paid Green his note of two hundred and fifty dollars, in small instalments, beginning in 1839, and ending in 1840. The history of his debt to Rutledge is not so well known. It was probably insignificant as compared with the others; and Mr. Rutledge proved a generous creditor, as he had always been a kind and considerate friend.
In all the previous dealings, what stands out the most is the complete lack of any cash involved. It reflects the speculative mindset that was common among everyone. Green purchased from Radford on credit; Lincoln & Berry bought from Green on credit; they bought from the Herndons on credit; they bought from Rutledge on credit; and they sold to the Trents on credit. Those who didn’t die or escape had a tough time managing the debts that came from this unfortunate grocery venture. Radford transferred Lincoln & Berry's note to a Mr. Van Bergen, who obtained a judgment on it and took all of Lincoln's small personal property, including his surveying tools—his very means of making a living, as we’ll see later. The Herndons owed E. C. Blankenship for the goods they sold and transferred Lincoln & Berry's note as payment. Mr. Lincoln worked slowly over many long and exhausting years to pay off this burdensome debt to Blankenship. It wasn’t until his return from Congress in 1849 that he finally cleared the last dollar of it. He paid Green his note of two hundred and fifty dollars in small installments, starting in 1839 and finishing in 1840. The details of his debt to Rutledge aren’t as well documented. It was likely smaller compared to the others, and Mr. Rutledge turned out to be a generous creditor, as he had always been a kind and thoughtful friend.
Certain that he had no abilities for trade, Mr. Lincoln took the best resolution he could have formed under the circumstances. He sat down to his books just where he was, believing that knowledge would be power, and power profit. He had no reason to shun his creditors, for these were the men of all others who most applauded the honesty of his conduct at the period of his greatest pecuniary misfortune. He talked to them constantly of the "old debt," "the national debt," as he sometimes called it,—promised to pay when he could, and they devoutly relied upon every word he said.
Sure that he had no skills for business, Mr. Lincoln made the best decision he could under the circumstances. He settled down with his books right where he was, believing that knowledge would lead to power, and power would bring profit. He had no reason to avoid his creditors, as they were the ones who most praised his honesty during his time of greatest financial trouble. He frequently spoke to them about the "old debt," or as he sometimes referred to it, "the national debt"—he promised to pay them when he could, and they sincerely trusted every word he said.
Row Herndon moved to the country, and Lincoln was compelled to change his boarding-place. He now began to live at a tavern for the first time in his life. It was kept by various persons during his stay,—first, it seems, by Mr. Rutledge, then by Henry Onstatt, and last by Nelson Alley. It was a small log-house, covered with clapboards, and contained four rooms.
Row Herndon moved to the countryside, and Lincoln had to change where he was staying. For the first time in his life, he began living at a tavern. Different people ran it during his stay—first, it was managed by Mr. Rutledge, then by Henry Onstatt, and finally by Nelson Alley. The tavern was a small log cabin, covered with siding, and had four rooms.
Lincoln began to read law while he lived with Herndon. Some of his acquaintances insist that he began even earlier than this, and assert, by way of proof, that he was known to borrow a well-worn copy of Blackstone from A. T. Bogue, a pork-dealer at Beardstown. At all events, he now went to work in earnest, and studied law as faithfully as if he had never dreamed of any other business in life. As a matter of course, his slender purse was unequal to the purchase of the needful books: but this circumstance gave him little trouble; for, although he was short of funds, he was long in the legs, and had nothing to do but to walk off to Springfield, where his friend, John T. Stuart, cheerfully supplied his wants. Mr. Stuart's partner, H. C. Dummer, says, "He was an uncouth-looking lad, did not say much, but what he did say he said straight and sharp."
Lincoln started studying law while living with Herndon. Some of his friends claim he started even earlier, pointing out that he was known to borrow a worn copy of Blackstone from A. T. Bogue, a pork dealer in Beardstown. Regardless, he committed himself to studying law as if he had never considered any other career. Naturally, he didn't have enough money to buy the necessary books, but this didn’t bother him much; even though he was low on cash, he was tall and fit, so he could easily walk to Springfield, where his friend, John T. Stuart, gladly provided what he needed. Mr. Stuart's partner, H. C. Dummer, noted, "He was an awkward-looking kid, didn’t say much, but when he did speak, he was direct and to the point."
"He used to read law," says Henry McHenry, "in 1832 or 1833, barefooted, seated in the shade of a tree, and would grind around with the shade, just opposite Berry's grocery-store, a few feet south of the door." He occasionally varied the attitude by lying flat on his back, and "putting his feet up the tree"—a situation which might have been unfavorable to mental application in the case of a man with shorter extremities.
"He used to study law," says Henry McHenry, "in 1832 or 1833, barefoot, sitting in the shade of a tree, and would move around with the shade, just across from Berry's grocery store, a few feet south of the door." Sometimes he changed his position by lying flat on his back and "putting his feet up the tree"—a position that might not have been great for focusing mentally for someone with shorter legs.
"The first time I ever saw Abe with a law-book in his hand," says Squire Godbey, "he was sitting astride of Jake Bales's woodpile in New Salem. Says I, 'Abe, what are you studying?'—'Law,' says Abe. 'Great God Almighty!' responded I." It was too much for Godbey: he could not suppress the blasphemy at seeing such a figure acquiring science in such an odd situation.
"The first time I ever saw Abe holding a law book," says Squire Godbey, "he was sitting on Jake Bales's woodpile in New Salem. I said, 'Abe, what are you studying?'—'Law,' Abe replied. 'Oh my God!' I exclaimed." It was too much for Godbey: he couldn't hold back his shock at seeing such a person learning in such a strange setting.
Minter Graham asserts that Abe did a little "of what we call sitting up to the fine gals of Illinois;" but, according to other authorities, he always had his book with him "when in company," and would read and talk alternately. He carried it along in his walks to the woods and the river; read it in daylight under the shade-tree by the grocery, and at night by any friendly light he could find,—most frequently the one he kindled himself in the shop of his old benefactor, the cooper.
Minter Graham claims that Abe did a bit of what we now call showing off to the attractive women of Illinois; however, according to other sources, he always had his book with him "when in company" and would switch between reading and chatting. He took it with him on his walks to the woods and the river; read it in daylight under the shade of a tree by the grocery store, and at night by any friendly light he could find—most often the one he lit himself in the workshop of his old mentor, the cooper.
Abe's progress in the law was as surprising as the intensity of his application to study. He never lost a moment that might be improved. It is even said that he read and recited to himself on the road and by the wayside as he came down from Springfield with the books he had borrowed from Stuart. The first time he went up he had "mastered" forty pages of Blackstone before he got back. It was not long until, with his restless desire to be doing something practical, he began to turn his acquisitions to account in forwarding the business of his neighbors. He wrote deeds, contracts, notes, and other legal papers, for them, "using a small dictionary and an old form-book;" "petifogged" incessantly before the justice of the peace, and probably assisted that functionary in the administration of justice as much as he benefited his own clients. This species of country "student's" practice was entered upon very early, and kept up until long after he was quite a distinguished man in the Legislature. But in all this he was only trying himself: as he was not admitted to the bar until 1837, he did not regard it as legitimate practice, and never charged a penny for his services. Although this fact is mentioned by a great number of persons, and the generosity of his conduct much enlarged upon, it is seriously to be regretted that no one has furnished us with a circumstantial account of any of his numerous cases before the magistrate.
Abe's progress in law was as surprising as his dedication to studying. He never wasted a moment that could be spent learning. It's even said that he read and practiced aloud while walking back home from Springfield with the books he had borrowed from Stuart. The first time he went up, he had "mastered" forty pages of Blackstone by the time he returned. Soon enough, driven by his constant urge to be productive, he started using what he learned to help his neighbors with their legal needs. He wrote deeds, contracts, notes, and other legal documents for them, using a small dictionary and an old form book. He constantly "petifogged" in front of the justice of the peace and likely helped that official administer justice just as much as he helped his clients. This kind of country "student's" practice began very early and continued long after he had become quite a notable figure in the Legislature. However, throughout all of this, he was just testing himself; since he wasn’t admitted to the bar until 1837, he didn’t see it as legitimate practice and never charged a dime for his services. Although many people mention this fact, celebrating his generosity, it's unfortunate that no one has provided a detailed account of any of his many cases before the magistrate.
But Mr. Lincoln did not confine himself entirely to the law. He was not yet quite through with Kirkham nor the schoolmaster. The "valuable copy" of the grammar "he delighted to peruse" is still in the possession of R. B. Rutledge, with the thumb-marks of the President all over it. "He also studied natural philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, &c. He had no regular teacher, but perhaps received more assistance from Minter Graham than from any other person."
But Mr. Lincoln didn't limit himself just to the law. He wasn't quite done with Kirkham or the schoolmaster yet. The "valuable copy" of the grammar "he loved to read" is still with R. B. Rutledge, marked up with the President's fingerprints all over it. "He also studied natural philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, etc. He didn't have a regular teacher, but he probably got more help from Minter Graham than from anyone else."
He read with avidity all the newspapers that came to New Salem,—chiefly "The Sangamon Journal," "The Missouri Republican," and "The Louisville Journal." 1 The latter was his favorite: its wit and anecdotes were after his own heart; and he was a regular subscriber for it through several years when he could ill afford a luxury so costly.
He eagerly read all the newspapers that came to New Salem—mainly "The Sangamon Journal," "The Missouri Republican," and "The Louisville Journal." 1 The last one was his favorite; its humor and stories really resonated with him, and he subscribed to it for several years even when he could hardly afford such an expensive luxury.
1 According to Mr. McNamar, Lincoln took "The Sangamon Journal" and "The Louisville Journal" from 1832 to 1837; and Hill and Bale took "The Missouri Republican" and "The Cincinnati Gazette." "The Missouri Republican" was first issued as a daily in September, 1836. Its size was then twenty-five by thirty-six inches.
1 Mr. McNamar states that Lincoln subscribed to "The Sangamon Journal" and "The Louisville Journal" from 1832 to 1837, while Hill and Bale subscribed to "The Missouri Republican" and "The Cincinnati Gazette." "The Missouri Republican" began daily publication in September 1836 and was twenty-five by thirty-six inches in size.
Mr. Lincoln was never a profound historical student: if he happened to need historical facts for the purposes of a political or legal discussion, he read them on the spur of the occasion. For this reason his opinions of current affairs all through his life were based more upon individual observation and reflection than upon scientific deductions from the experience of the world. Yet at this time, when he probably felt more keenly than ever after the want of a little learning to embellish the letters and speeches he was ambitious to compose, he is said to have read Rollin's "Ancient History," Gibbon's "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire," and similar works, with great diligence and care. The books were borrowed from William Green, Bowlin Greene, and other parties in and about New Salem.
Mr. Lincoln was never a deep historical student: if he needed historical facts for a political or legal discussion, he would look them up on the spot. Because of this, his views on current events throughout his life were based more on personal observation and reflection than on scientific conclusions drawn from the world’s experiences. However, during this time, when he likely felt more than ever the lack of a bit of knowledge to enhance the letters and speeches he wanted to write, he reportedly read Rollin's "Ancient History," Gibbon's "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire," and similar works with great diligence and care. The books were borrowed from William Green, Bowlin Greene, and others in and around New Salem.
But he greatly preferred literature of another sort, such as Mrs. Lee Hentz's novels; some of which he found among the effects of Mr. Ellis, at the time his companion and occasional bedfellow. "He was very fond," Mr. Ellis declares, "of short stories, one and two columns long,—like 'Cousin Sally Dillard,' 'Becky Wilson's Courtship,' The Down-easter and the Bull,' 'How a bashful man became a married man, with five little bashful boys, and how he and his red-headed wife became Millerites, and before they were to ascend agreed to make a clean breast of it to each other;' and how, when the old lady was through, the Down-easter earnestly wished that Gabriel might blow his horn without delay." One New Salemite insists that Mr. Lincoln told this latter story "with embezzlements" (embellishments), and therefore he is firmly convinced that Mr. Lincoln "had a hand" in originating it. The catalogue of literature in which he particularly delighted at New Salem is completed by the statement of Mr. Rutledge, that he took great pleasure in "Jack Downing's Letters."
But he really liked a different kind of literature, like Mrs. Lee Hentz's novels; some of which he found among Mr. Ellis's belongings, who was then his companion and occasional bed partner. "He was really into," Mr. Ellis states, "short stories that were one or two columns long—like 'Cousin Sally Dillard,' 'Becky Wilson's Courtship,' 'The Down-easter and the Bull,' 'How a shy guy ended up married with five shy boys, and how he and his red-headed wife became Millerites, and before they were set to ascend, they agreed to come clean with each other;' and how, when the old lady finished, the Down-easter really wished that Gabriel would blow his horn quickly." One New Salemite claims that Mr. Lincoln told this latter story "with embezzlements" (embellishments), and so he's convinced that Mr. Lincoln "had a hand" in creating it. The list of literature he especially enjoyed in New Salem is rounded off by Mr. Rutledge's remark that he took great pleasure in "Jack Downing's Letters."
Mr. Lincoln still relished a popular song with a broad "point" or a palpable moral in it as much as he had ever enjoyed the vocal efforts of Dennis Hanks and his rollicking compeers of the Gentryville grocery. He even continued his own unhappy attempts, although with as little success as before, and quite as much to the amusement of his friends. To the choice collection of miscellaneous ballads acquired in Indiana, he now added several new favorites, like "Old Sukey Blue Skin," and some selections from the "Missouri Harmony," with variations by himself. He was also singularly fond of an Irish song, "which tells how St. Patrick came to be born on the 17th day of March."
Mr. Lincoln still enjoyed a popular song with a clear message or a strong moral just as much as he had enjoyed the singing of Dennis Hanks and his lively friends from the Gentryville grocery. He even kept trying to sing himself, although with just as little success as before, much to the amusement of his friends. To his growing collection of various ballads he had gathered in Indiana, he now added several new favorites, like "Old Sukey Blue Skin," and some selections from the "Missouri Harmony," with his own twists. He was also particularly fond of an Irish song "that tells how St. Patrick was born on the 17th of March."
"You ask me," says Mr. Ellis, "if I remember the first time I saw Mr. Lincoln. Yes, I do.... I was out collecting back tax for Gen. James D. Henry. I went from the tavern down to Jacob Bales's old mill, and then I first saw Mr. Lincoln. He was sitting on a saw-log talking to Jack and Rial Armstrong and a man by the name of Hohammer. I shook hands with the Armstrongs and Hohammer, and was conversing with them a few minutes, when we were joined by my old friend and former townsman, George Warburton, pretty tight as usual; and he soon asked me to tell him the old story about Ben Johnson and Mrs. Dale's blue dye, &c., which I did. And then Jack Armstrong said, 'Lincoln, tell Ellis the story about Gov. J. Sichner, his city-bred son, and his nigger Bob;' which he did, with several others, by Jack's calling for them. I found out then that Lincoln was a cousin to Charley Hanks of Island Grove. I told him I knew three of the boys,—Joe, Charley, and John,—and his uncle, old Billy Hanks, who lived up on the North Fork of the Sangamon River, afterwards near Decatur."1
"You ask me," says Mr. Ellis, "if I remember the first time I saw Mr. Lincoln. Yes, I do... I was out collecting back taxes for Gen. James D. Henry. I walked from the tavern down to Jacob Bales's old mill, and that’s when I first saw Mr. Lincoln. He was sitting on a saw-log talking to Jack and Rial Armstrong and a man named Hohammer. I shook hands with the Armstrongs and Hohammer and chatted with them for a few minutes when my old friend and former neighbor, George Warburton, joined us, a bit tipsy as usual. He quickly asked me to tell him the old story about Ben Johnson and Mrs. Dale's blue dye, which I did. Then Jack Armstrong said, 'Lincoln, tell Ellis the story about Gov. J. Sichner, his city-bred son, and his servant Bob;' and he did, along with several others that Jack requested. I found out then that Lincoln was a cousin to Charley Hanks from Island Grove. I mentioned that I knew three of the boys—Joe, Charley, and John—and his uncle, old Billy Hanks, who lived up on the North Fork of the Sangamon River, later near Decatur."
1 "I myself knew old Billy Hanks, his mother's brother, and he was a very sensible old man. He was father to Mrs. Dillon, on Spring Creek; and Charley, Billy, jr., and John were his sons: they were all low-flung,—could neither read nor write. Some of them used to live in Island Grove, Sangamon County.... I remember the time that Lincoln and E. D. Baker ran in convention, to decide who should run for Congress in old Sangamon; that some of Baker's friends accused Mr. Lincoln of belonging to a proud and an aristocratic family,—meaning the Edwardses and Todds, I suppose; and, when it came to Mr. Lincoln's ears, he laughed heartily, and remarked, 'Well, that sounds strange to me: I do not remember of but one that ever came to see me, and while he was in town he was accused of stealing a jew's- harp.' Josh Speed remembers his saying this. I think you ought to remember it. Beverly Powell and myself lived with Bell and Speed, and I think he said so in their store. After that a Miss Hanks came to spend the winter with Mrs. Lincoln."—A. Y. Ellis.
1 "I knew old Billy Hanks, my mother's brother, and he was a very sensible man. He was the father of Mrs. Dillon, who lives on Spring Creek; and his sons were Charley, Billy Jr., and John: they were all not well-educated—they couldn’t read or write. Some of them used to live in Island Grove, Sangamon County... I remember when Lincoln and E. D. Baker were in a convention to decide who should run for Congress in old Sangamon; some of Baker's friends accused Mr. Lincoln of coming from a proud and aristocratic family—probably referring to the Edwardses and Todds—and when Lincoln heard this, he laughed heartily and said, 'Well, that sounds odd to me: I only remember one who ever came to see me, and while he was in town, he was accused of stealing a Jew's harp.' Josh Speed remembers him saying this. I think you should remember it. Beverly Powell and I lived with Bell and Speed, and I believe he said this in their store. After that, a Miss Hanks came to spend the winter with Mrs. Lincoln."—A. Y. Ellis.
This interview took place shortly after the Black Hawk War; but it was not until the next year (1833), the period at which we have now arrived, that Lincoln and Ellis became "intimate." At that time Ellis went there to keep a store, and boarded "at the same log-tavern" where Lincoln was. Lincoln, being "engaged in no particular business," merely endeavoring to make a lawyer, a surveyor, and a politician of himself, gave a great deal of his time to Ellis and Ellis's business. "He also used to assist me in the store," says this new friend, "on busy days, but he always disliked to wait on the ladies: he preferred trading with the men and boys, as he used to say. I also remember that he used to sleep in the store, on the counter, when they had too much company at the tavern.
This interview happened shortly after the Black Hawk War; however, it wasn't until the following year (1833), the time we're discussing now, that Lincoln and Ellis became "close." At that point, Ellis moved there to run a store and stayed at "the same log tavern" where Lincoln was living. Lincoln, not tied down to any specific job and just trying to become a lawyer, surveyor, and politician, spent a lot of his time helping Ellis with his business. "He also helped me in the store," this new friend says, "on busy days, but he always preferred not to serve the ladies: he liked dealing with the men and boys, as he would say. I also remember that he would sleep in the store, on the counter, when there were too many guests at the tavern."
"I well remember how he was dressed: he wore flax and tow linen pantaloons,—I thought about five inches too short in the legs,—and frequently he had but one suspender, no vest or coat. He wore a calico shirt, such as he had in the Black Hawk War; coarse brogans, tan color; blue yarn socks, and straw hat, old style, and without a band.
"I remember how he was dressed: he wore linen pants that were about five inches too short, and often he had just one suspender, with no vest or coat. He had a calico shirt like the ones from the Black Hawk War; coarse tan brogans; blue yarn socks; and an old-fashioned straw hat without a band."
"Mr. Lincoln was in those days a very shy man of ladies. On one occasion, while we boarded at this tavern, there came a family, containing an old lady and her son and three stylish daughters, from the State of Virginia, and stopped there for two or three weeks; and, during their stay, I do not remember of Mr. Lincoln ever eating at the same table when they did. I then thought it was on account of his awkward appearance and his wearing apparel."
"Mr. Lincoln was quite a shy man around women back then. One time, while we were staying at this inn, a family arrived from Virginia — an elderly lady, her son, and three fashionable daughters — and they stayed for a couple of weeks. During their visit, I don’t recall Mr. Lincoln ever eating at the same table as they did. At the time, I thought it was because of his awkward appearance and his clothes."
There lived at New Salem at this time, and for some years afterward, a festive gentleman named Kelso, a school-teacher, a merchant, or a vagabond, according to the run of his somewhat variable "luck." When other people got drunk at New Salem, it was the usual custom to tussle and fight, and tramp each other's toes, and pull each other's noses; but, when Kelso got drunk, he astonished the rustic community with copious quotations from Robert Burns and William Shakspeare,—authors little known to fame among the literary men of New Salem. Besides Shakspeare and Burns, Mr. Kelso was likewise very fond of fishing, and could catch his game "when no other man could get a bite." Mr. Lincoln hated fishing with all his heart. But it is the testimony of the country-side, from Petersburg to Island Grove, that Kelso "drew Lincoln after him by his talk;" that they became exceedingly intimate; that they loitered away whole days together, along the banks of the quiet streams; that Lincoln learned to love inordinately our "divine William" and "Scotia's Bard," whom his friend mouthed in his cups, or expounded more soberly in the intervals of fixing bait and dropping line. Finally he and Kelso boarded at the same place; and with another "merchant," named Sincho, of tastes congenial and wits as keen as Kelso's, they were "always found together, battling and arguing." Bill Green ventures the opinion, that Lincoln's incessant reading of Shakspeare and Burns had much to do in giving to his mind the "sceptical" tendency so fully developed by the labors of his pen in 1834-5, and in social conversations during many years of his residence at Springfield.
There lived in New Salem at this time, and for several years afterward, a lively guy named Kelso, who was a school teacher, a merchant, or a drifter, depending on how his unpredictable "luck" played out. While others would get drunk and typically end up wrestling, fighting, stepping on each other's toes, and pulling noses, Kelso would surprise the local community with extensive quotes from Robert Burns and William Shakespeare—authors not well-known among New Salem's literary crowd. Besides Shakespeare and Burns, Kelso also loved fishing and could catch fish when no one else could get a bite. Mr. Lincoln completely disliked fishing. However, the folks from Petersburg to Island Grove agreed that Kelso's conversational skills drew Lincoln in; they became very close and spent entire days together by the calm streams. Lincoln grew to passionately appreciate our "divine William" and "Scotia's Bard," which Kelso recited when drunk or discussed more seriously while baiting hooks and dropping lines. Eventually, they ended up boarding at the same place, and with another "merchant" named Sincho, who shared similar interests and had a sharp wit just like Kelso's, they were constantly seen together, debating and arguing. Bill Green suggests that Lincoln's constant reading of Shakespeare and Burns played a significant role in developing the "skeptical" tendencies that became evident in his writings during 1834-5 and in social conversations throughout his many years in Springfield.
Like Offutt, Kelso disappeared suddenly from New Salem, and apparently from the recollection of men. Each with a peculiar talent of his own, kind-hearted, eccentric creatures, no man's enemy and everybody's prey, they strolled out into the great world, and left this little village to perish behind them. Of Kelso a few faint traces have been found in Missouri; but if he ever had a lodging more permanent than the wayside tavern, a haystack, or a hedge, no man was able to tell where it was. Of Offutt not a word was ever heard: the most searching and cunning inquiries have failed to discover any spot where he lingered for a single hour; and but for the humble boy, to whom he was once a gentle master, no human being that knew him then would bestow a thought upon his name. In short, to use the expressive language of Mr. Lincoln himself, he literally "petered out."
Like Offutt, Kelso suddenly vanished from New Salem and seemingly from everyone's memory. Each had a unique talent; they were kind-hearted, quirky individuals, not enemies to anyone but easy targets for all. They stepped out into the wider world, leaving the little village to fade away. A few faint traces of Kelso have been found in Missouri, but if he ever stayed anywhere more permanent than a roadside inn, a haystack, or behind a bush, no one can say where it was. As for Offutt, there hasn't been a word heard about him: even the most thorough and clever inquiries have failed to find any place where he spent even an hour, and if it weren't for the humble boy who once had him as a kind mentor, no one who knew him back then would even think about his name. In short, to use Mr. Lincoln's own colorful words, he literally "petered out."
Mr. Lincoln was often annoyed by "company." His quarters at the tavern afforded him little privacy, and the shade of the tree in front of the grocery was scarcely a sufficiently secluded situation for the purposes of an ardent student. There were too many people to wonder and laugh at a man studying law with "his feet up a tree;" too many to worry him for the stories and jokes which it was supposed he could furnish on demand. For these reasons it became necessary that he should "retire to the country occasionally to rest and study." Sometimes he went to James Short's on the Sand Ridge; sometimes to Minter Graham's; sometimes to Bowlin Greenes; sometimes to Jack Armstrong's, and as often, perhaps, to Able's or Row Herndon's. All of these men served him faithfully and signally at one time and another, and to all of them he was sincerely attached. When Bowlin Greene died, in 1842, Mr. Lincoln, then in the enjoyment of great local reputation, undertook to deliver a funeral oration over the remains of his beloved friend; but, when he rose to speak, his voice was choked with deep emotion: he stood a few moments, while his lips quivered in the effort to form the words of fervent praise he sought to utter, and the tears ran down his yellow and shrivelled cheeks. Some of those who came to hear him, and saw his tall form thus sway in silence over the body of Bowlin Greene, say he looked so helpless, so utterly bereft and pitiable, that every heart in the audience was hushed at the spectacle. After repeated efforts, he found it impossible to speak, and strode away, openly and bitterly sobbing, to the widow's carriage, in which he was driven from the scene. Mr. Herndon's papers disclose less than we should like to know concerning this excellent man: they give us only this burial scene, with the fact that Bowlin Greene had loaned Mr. Lincoln books from their earliest acquaintance, and on one occasion had taken him to his home, and cared for him with the solicitude of a devoted friend through several weeks of great suffering and peril. The circumstances of the attempted eulogy are mentioned here to show the relations which subsisted between Mr. Lincoln and some of the benefactors we have enumerated.
Mr. Lincoln was often irritated by "visitors." His room at the tavern offered him little privacy, and the shade of the tree in front of the grocery store was hardly a private spot for someone who wanted to study hard. There were too many people who would wonder and laugh at a man studying law with "his feet up a tree;" too many who would bother him for stories and jokes that they thought he could provide on request. Because of this, he found it necessary to "get away to the country now and then to rest and study." Sometimes he went to James Short's on Sand Ridge; other times to Minter Graham's; sometimes to Bowlin Greene's; sometimes to Jack Armstrong's, and as often to Able's or Row Herndon’s. All of these men had helped him in significant ways at different times, and he was genuinely fond of all of them. When Bowlin Greene died in 1842, Mr. Lincoln, then enjoying a strong local reputation, took it upon himself to give a eulogy for his dear friend. However, when he stood up to speak, his voice broke with deep emotion: he paused for a few moments, while his lips trembled as he tried to find the words of heartfelt praise he wanted to express, and tears streamed down his yellowed and wrinkled cheeks. Some of those who came to listen, witnessing his tall figure swaying silently over Bowlin Greene's body, said he looked so helpless, so utterly devastated and pitiable, that every heart in the audience fell silent at the sight. After several attempts, he found it impossible to speak and walked away, openly and sorrowfully crying, to the widow's carriage, which took him away from the scene. Mr. Herndon's papers reveal less than we would like to know about this remarkable man: they provide only this burial scene, along with the fact that Bowlin Greene had lent Mr. Lincoln books since their first meeting and had once taken him to his home, caring for him with the concern of a true friend during several weeks of great suffering and danger. The details of the attempted eulogy are mentioned here to illustrate the relationships that existed between Mr. Lincoln and some of the benefactors we have noted.
But all this time Mr. Lincoln had a living to make, a running board-bill to pay, and nothing to pay it with. He was, it is true, in the hands of excellent friends, so far as the greater part of his indebtedness was concerned; but he was industrious by nature, and wanted to be working, and paying as he went. He would not have forfeited the good opinion of those confiding neighbors for a lifetime of ease and luxury. It was therefore a most happy thing for him, and he felt it to be so, when he attracted the attention of John Calhoun, the surveyor of Sangamon County.
But all this time, Mr. Lincoln had to make a living, pay his board bill, and had no way to cover it. True, he was fortunate to have great friends who helped with most of his debts; however, he was naturally hard-working and wanted to earn money and pay as he went. He wouldn’t have sacrificed the good opinion of those trusting neighbors for a lifetime of comfort and luxury. So, it was a very fortunate moment for him, and he realized it, when he caught the attention of John Calhoun, the surveyor of Sangamon County.
Calhoun was the type of a perfect gentleman,—brave, courteous, able, and cultivated. He was a Democrat then, and a Democrat when he died. All the world knows how he was president of the Lecompton Convention; how he administered the trust in accordance with his well-known convictions; and how, after a life of devotion to Douglas, he was adroitly betrayed by that facile politician, and left to die in the midst of obloquy and disaster. At the time we speak of, he was one of the most popular men in the State of Illinois, and was one of the foremost chieftains of the political party which invariably carried the county and the district in which Mr. Lincoln lived. He knew Lincoln, and admired him. He was well assured that Lincoln knew nothing of surveying; but he was equally certain that he could soon acquire it. The speculative fever was at its height; he was overrun with business: the country was alive with strangers seeking land; and every citizen was buying and selling with a view to a great fortune in the "flush times" coming. He wanted a deputy with common sense and common honesty: he chose Lincoln, because nobody else possessed these qualities in a more eminent degree. He hunted him up; gave him a book; told him to study it, and said, that, as soon as he was ready, he should have as much work as he could do.
Calhoun was the kind of perfect gentleman—brave, polite, capable, and educated. He was a Democrat then, and remained a Democrat until his death. Everyone knows he was the president of the Lecompton Convention; how he carried out his responsibilities according to his well-known beliefs; and how, after a lifetime of loyalty to Douglas, he was skillfully betrayed by that cunning politician, ultimately left to face disgrace and failure. At the time we’re discussing, he was one of the most popular figures in the State of Illinois and a leading leader of the political party that consistently won the county and district where Mr. Lincoln lived. He knew Lincoln and respected him. He was fully aware that Lincoln didn’t know anything about surveying; but he was just as certain that Lincoln could learn it quickly. The speculative boom was at its peak; he was overwhelmed with work: the country was buzzing with newcomers looking for land; and every citizen was trading with hopes of striking it rich during the coming “flush times.” He needed a deputy with common sense and integrity: he picked Lincoln because no one else had those qualities to a greater extent. He found him, gave him a book, told him to study it, and said that as soon as he was ready, he would have as much work as he could handle.
Lincoln took the book, and "retired to the country;" that is, he went out to Minter Graham's for about six weeks, in which time, by the aid of that good master, he became an expert surveyor, and was duly appointed Calhoun's deputy. Of course he made some money, merely his pay for work; but it is a remarkable fact, that, with his vast knowledge of the lands in Sangamon and adjacent counties, he never made a single speculation on his own account. It was not long until he acquired a considerable private business. The accuracy of his surveys were seldom, if ever, questioned. Disputes regarding "corners" and "lines" were frequently submitted to his arbitration; and the decision was invariably accepted as final. It often happened that his business kept him away from New Salem, and his other studies, for weeks at a time; but all this while he was gathering friends against the day of election.
Lincoln took the book and "went to the country;" that is, he headed out to Minter Graham's for about six weeks. During that time, with the help of that good master, he became an expert surveyor and was officially appointed Calhoun's deputy. He earned some money, just his pay for work; but it's noteworthy that, despite his extensive knowledge of the lands in Sangamon and nearby counties, he never made a single speculation for himself. Before long, he built up a significant private practice. The accuracy of his surveys was rarely, if ever, questioned. Disputes over "corners" and "lines" were frequently brought to him for arbitration, and his decisions were always accepted as final. It often happened that his work kept him away from New Salem and his other studies for weeks at a time; but during all this, he was making friends for the upcoming election.
In after years—from 1844 onward—it was his good or bad fortune frequently to meet Calhoun on the stump; but he never forgot his benefaction to him, and always regarded him as the ablest and best man with whom he ever had crossed steel. To the day of Calhoun's death they were warmly attached to each other. In the times when it was most fashionable and profitable to denounce Calhoun and the Le-compton Constitution, when even Douglas turned to revile his old friend and coadjutor, Mr. Lincoln was never known to breathe a word of censure on his personal character.
In the years that followed—from 1844 onward—it was either lucky or unlucky for him to often encounter Calhoun on the campaign trail; but he never forgot Calhoun's kindness to him and always considered him the smartest and best person he had ever argued against. Until Calhoun's death, they remained closely bonded. During the era when it became popular and profitable to criticize Calhoun and the Lecompton Constitution, even Douglas publicly condemned his old friend and ally, but Mr. Lincoln never spoke a word of criticism about Calhoun's character.
On the 7th of May, 1833, Mr. Lincoln was appointed postmaster at New Salem. His political opinions were not extreme; and the Jackson administration could find no man who was at the same time more orthodox and equally competent to perform the duties of the office. He was not able to rent a room, for the business is said to have been carried on in his hat; but, from the evidence before us, we imagine that he kept the office in Mr. Hill's store, Mr. Hill's partner, McNamar, having been absent since 1832. He held the place until late in 1836, when New Salem partially disappeared, and the office was removed to Petersburg. For a little while before his own appointment, he is said to have acted as "deputy-postmaster" under Mr. Hill.
On May 7, 1833, Mr. Lincoln was appointed postmaster in New Salem. His political views were moderate, and the Jackson administration couldn't find anyone who was both more conventional and equally capable of handling the responsibilities of the position. He couldn't find a room to rent, as the business was reportedly conducted out of his hat; however, we believe that he managed the office in Mr. Hill's store since Mr. Hill's partner, McNamar, had been absent since 1832. He held the position until late in 1836, when New Salem began to fade away and the office was moved to Petersburg. For a short time before his official appointment, he is said to have served as "deputy-postmaster" under Mr. Hill.
The mail arrived duly once a week; and the labors of distributing and delivering it were by no means great. But Mr. Lincoln was determined that the dignity of the place should not suffer while he was the incumbent. He therefore made up for the lack of real business by deciphering the letters of the uneducated portion of the community, and by reading the newspapers aloud to the assembled inhabitants in front of Hill's store.
The mail came on schedule once a week, and the work of sorting and delivering it was not too demanding. However, Mr. Lincoln was committed to maintaining the dignity of his position while he held it. So, he filled the gap left by the lack of actual work by reading and interpreting letters from the less educated members of the community and by reading the newspapers out loud to the gathered locals in front of Hill's store.
But his easy good-nature was sometimes imposed upon by inconsiderate acquaintances; and Mr. Hill relates one of the devices by which he sought to stop the abuse. "One Elmore Johnson, an ignorant but ostentatious, proud man, used to go to Lincoln's post-office every day,—sometimes three or four times a day, if in town,—and inquire, 'Any thing for me?' This bored Lincoln, yet it amused him. Lincoln fixed a plan,—wrote a letter to Johnson as coming from a negress in Kentucky, saying many good things about opossum, dances, corn-shuckings, &c.; 'John's! come and see me; and old master won't kick you out of the kitchen any more!' Elmore took it out; opened it; couldn't read a word; pretended to read it; went away; got some friends to read it: they read it correctly; he thought the reader was fooling him, and went to others with the same result. At last he said he would get Lincoln to read it, and presented it to Lincoln. It was almost too much for Lincoln, but he read it. The man never asked afterwards, 'Any thing here for me?"
But his easygoing nature was sometimes taken advantage of by thoughtless acquaintances; and Mr. Hill recounts one of the ways he tried to put a stop to the annoyance. "One Elmore Johnson, an ignorant but showy, proud man, used to go to Lincoln's post office every day—sometimes three or four times a day, when he was in town—and ask, 'Anything for me?' This bored Lincoln, but it also amused him. Lincoln came up with a plan—he wrote a letter to Johnson pretending it was from a Black woman in Kentucky, saying a lot of nice things about opossum, dances, corn shuckings, etc.; 'John's! come and see me; and old master won't kick you out of the kitchen anymore!' Elmore took it out, opened it, couldn't read a word, pretended to read it, went away, and got some friends to read it for him: they read it correctly; he thought the reader was messing with him, and asked others with the same result. Finally, he said he would get Lincoln to read it, and he showed it to Lincoln. It was almost too much for Lincoln, but he read it. The man never asked again, 'Anything here for me?'"
It was in the latter part of 1834 that Mr. Lincoln's personal property was sold under the hammer, and by due process of law, to meet the judgment obtained by Van Bergen on the note assigned to him by Radford. Every thing he had was taken; but it was the surveyor's instruments which it hurt him most to part with, for by their use he was making a tolerable living, and building up a respectable business. This time, however, rescue came from an unexpected quarter.
It was in late 1834 when Mr. Lincoln's personal property was sold at auction, following legal procedures, to settle the judgment won by Van Bergen on the note transferred to him by Radford. Everything he owned was taken, but what hurt him the most to lose were the surveying tools, as he relied on them to make a decent living and grow a respectable business. However, this time, help came from an unexpected source.
When Mr. Lincoln first came to New Salem, he employed a woman to make him a pair of pantaloons, which, probably from the scarcity of material, were cut entirely too short, as his garments usually were. Soon afterwards the woman's brother came to town, and she pointed Abe out to him as he walked along the street. The brother's name was James Short. "Without the necessity of a formal introduction," says Short, "we fell in together, and struck up a conversation, the purport of which I have now forgotten. He made a favorable impression upon me by his conversation on first acquaintance through his intelligence and sprightliness, which impression was deepened from time to time, as I became better acquainted with him." This was a lucky "impression" for Abe. Short was a fast friend, and in the day of trouble a sure and able one. At the time the judgment was obtained, Short lived on the Sand Ridge, four miles from New Salem; and Lincoln was in the habit of walking out there almost daily. Short was then unconscious of the main reason of Mr. Lincoln's remarkable devotion to him: there was a lady in the house whom Lincoln secretly but earnestly loved, and of whom there is much to be said at another place. If the host had known every thing, however, poor Abe would have been equally welcome; for he made himself a strangely agreeable guest here, as he did everywhere else. In busy times he pulled off his roundabout, and helped Short in the field with more energy than any hired man would have displayed. "He was," said Short, "the best hand at husking corn on the stalk I ever saw. I used to consider myself very good; but he would gather two loads to my one."
When Mr. Lincoln first arrived in New Salem, he hired a woman to make him a pair of pants, which, probably due to a shortage of fabric, ended up being cut way too short, just like his clothes usually were. Soon after, the woman's brother came to town, and she pointed out Abe to him as he walked down the street. The brother's name was James Short. "Without needing a formal introduction," Short says, "we started talking, and I’ve now forgotten what we talked about. He made a good impression on me right away with his intelligence and energy, and that impression only grew the more I got to know him." That was a lucky "impression" for Abe. Short became a close friend and a reliable ally during tough times. At the time the judgment was made, Short lived on Sand Ridge, about four miles from New Salem, and Lincoln would often walk out there almost every day. Short was unaware of the main reason for Mr. Lincoln's strong attachment to him: there was a woman in the house whom Lincoln secretly but deeply loved, and there's much more to discuss about her later. However, if Short had known everything, Abe would have still been equally welcomed; he was a surprisingly enjoyable guest, just like he was everywhere else. During busy times, he would take off his coat and help Short in the fields with more energy than any hired hand would have shown. "He was," Short said, "the best at husking corn on the stalk I've ever seen. I thought I was pretty good, but he would gather two loads for every one of mine."
These visits increased Short's disposition to serve him; and it touched him sorely when he heard Lincoln moaning about the catastrophe that hung over him in the form of Van Bergen's judgment. "An execution was issued," says he, "and levied on Lincoln's horse, saddle, bridle, compass, chain, and other surveyor's instruments. He was then very much discouraged, and said he would let the whole thing go by the board. He was at my house very much,—half the time. I did all I could to put him in better spirits. I went on the delivery-bond with him; and when the sale came off, which Mr. Lincoln did not attend, I bid in the above property at a hundred and twenty dollars, and immediately gave it up again to him. Mr. Lincoln afterwards repaid me when he had moved to Springfield. Greene also turned in on this judgment his horse, saddle, and bridle at a hundred and twenty-five dollars; and Lincoln afterwards repaid him."
These visits made Short more willing to help him, and it really affected him when he heard Lincoln complaining about the disaster looming over him because of Van Bergen's judgment. "An execution was issued," he said, "and it was enforced on Lincoln's horse, saddle, bridle, compass, chain, and other surveying tools. He was very discouraged and said he wanted to just let the whole thing go. He spent a lot of time at my house—about half the time. I did everything I could to lift his spirits. I signed the delivery bond with him; and when the sale happened, which Mr. Lincoln didn’t attend, I bid on those items for a hundred and twenty dollars and then immediately gave them back to him. Mr. Lincoln later paid me back after he moved to Springfield. Greene also contributed his horse, saddle, and bridle towards this judgment for a hundred and twenty-five dollars, and Lincoln paid him back too."
But, after all, Mr. Lincoln had no friend more intimate than Jack Armstrong, and none that valued him more highly. Until he finally left New Salem for Springfield, he "rusticated" occasionally at Jack's hospitable cabin, situated "four miles in the country," as the polished metropolitans of New Salem would say. Jack's wife, Hannah, before alluded to, liked Abe, and enjoyed his visits not less than Jack did. "Abe would come out to our house," she says, "drink milk, eat mush, corn-bread, and butter, bring the children candy, and rock the cradle while I got him something to eat.... I foxed his pants; made his shirts... He has gone with us to father's; he would tell stories, joke people, girls and boys, at parties. He would nurse babies,—do any thing to accommodate anybody.... I had no books about my house; loaned him none. We didn't think about books and papers. We worked; had to live. Lincoln has staid at our house two or three weeks at a time."
But after all, Mr. Lincoln had no closer friend than Jack Armstrong, and no one who valued him more. Until he finally left New Salem for Springfield, he would occasionally spend time at Jack's welcoming cabin, located "four miles out in the country," as the polished city folks of New Salem would say. Jack's wife, Hannah, who was mentioned earlier, liked Abe and enjoyed his visits just as much as Jack did. "Abe would come to our house," she says, "drink milk, eat mush, cornbread, and butter, bring candy for the kids, and rock the cradle while I got him something to eat.... I patched his pants; made his shirts... He came with us to my father's; he would tell stories and joke with everyone, both girls and boys, at parties. He would take care of babies—do anything to help anyone.... I didn’t have any books around the house; I didn’t lend him any. We didn’t think about books and papers. We worked; we had to make a living. Lincoln stayed at our house for two or three weeks at a time."
If Jack had "to work to live," as his wife has it, he was likewise constrained to fight and wrestle and tumble about with his unhappy fellow-citizens, in order to enjoy the life he earned by labor. He frequently came "to town," where his sportive inclinations ran riot, except as they were checked and regulated by the amicable interposition of Abe,—the prince of his affections, and the only man who was competent to restrain him.
If Jack had "to work to live," as his wife puts it, he was also forced to struggle and mess around with his unhappy neighbors in order to enjoy the life he earned through hard work. He often went "to town," where his playful urges ran wild, unless they were kept in check by the friendly intervention of Abe—the one he cared for most and the only person capable of holding him back.
"The children at school had made a wide sliding walk," from the top of Salem Hill to the river-bank, down which they rode on sleds and boards,—a distance of two hundred and fifty or three hundred yards. Now, it was one of the suggestions of Jack's passion for innocent diversion to nail up in hogsheads such of the population as incurred his displeasure, and send them adrift along this frightful descent. Sol. Spears and one Scanlon were treated to an adventure of this kind; but the hogshead in which the two were caged "leaped over an embankment, and came near killing Scanlon." After that the sport was considered less amusing, and was very much discouraged by that portion of the community who feared, that, in the absence of more convenient victims, "the boys" might light on them. Under these circumstances, Jack, for once in his life, thought it best to abandon coercion, and negotiate for subjects. He selected an elderly person of bibulous proclivities, and tempted him with a great temptation. "Old man Jordan agreed to be rolled down the hill for a gallon of whiskey;" but Lincoln, fully impressed with the brutality of the pastime, and the danger to the old sot, "stopped it." Whether he did it by persuasion or force, we know not, but probably by a judicious employment of both.
The kids at school had created a long sliding path from the top of Salem Hill down to the riverbank, where they rode on sleds and boards—a stretch of about two hundred and fifty to three hundred yards. One of Jack's ideas for fun involved nailing people he didn’t like inside large barrels and sending them down this terrifying slope. Sol. Spears and a guy named Scanlon got caught in this kind of adventure; however, the barrel they were in "went over an embankment and nearly killed Scanlon." After that, the activity was seen as less entertaining and was strongly discouraged by those in the community who feared that, without more suitable targets, "the boys" might end up picking on them. Given these circumstances, Jack, for once, decided it was better to negotiate for participants instead of forcing them. He picked an older man known for his drinking habits and tempted him with a big reward. "Old man Jordan agreed to be rolled down the hill for a gallon of whiskey," but Lincoln, fully aware of how cruel this activity was and the danger it posed to the old drunk, "put a stop to it." Whether he used persuasion or force, we don’t know, but it was likely a smart mix of both.
"I remember once," says Mr. Ellis, "of seeing Mr. Lincoln out of temper, and laughing at the same time. It was at New Salem. The boys were having a jollification after an election. They had a large fire made of shavings and hemp-stalks; and some of the boys made a bet with a fellow that I shall call 'Ike,' that he couldn't run his little bob-tail pony through the fire. Ike took them up, and trotted his pony back about one hundred yards, to give him a good start, as he said. The boys all formed a line on either side, to make way for Ike and his pony. Presently here he come, full tilt, with his hat off; and, just as he reached the blazing fire, Ike raised in his saddle for the jump straight ahead; but pony was not of the same opinion, so he flew the track, and pitched poor Ike into the devouring element. Mr. Lincoln saw it, and ran to his assistance, saying, 'You have carried this thing far enough.' I could see he was mad, though he could not help laughing himself. The poor fellow was considerably scorched about the head and face. Jack Armstrong took him to the doctor, who shaved his head to fix him up, and put salve on the burn. I think Mr. Lincoln was a little mad at Armstrong, and Jack himself was very sorry for it. Jack gave Ike next morning a dram, his breakfast, and a seal-skin cap, and sent him home."
"I remember once," says Mr. Ellis, "seeing Mr. Lincoln in a bad mood, yet laughing at the same time. It was in New Salem. The boys were celebrating after an election. They had a big fire made of shavings and hemp stalks, and some of the boys made a bet with a guy I’ll call 'Ike,' that he couldn't run his little bobtail pony through the fire. Ike accepted the challenge and trotted his pony back about a hundred yards to give him a good start, as he said. The boys all lined up on either side to clear a path for Ike and his pony. Suddenly, here he came, full speed, with his hat off; and just as he reached the blazing fire, Ike rose in his saddle for the jump, but the pony didn't agree and veered off the track, sending poor Ike crashing into the fire. Mr. Lincoln saw it and ran to help him, saying, 'You've gone far enough with this.' I could see he was angry, though he couldn't help but laugh. The poor guy was pretty scorched on his head and face. Jack Armstrong took him to the doctor, who shaved his head to treat him and put salve on the burn. I think Mr. Lincoln was a bit upset with Armstrong, and Jack himself felt really bad about it. The next morning, Jack gave Ike a drink, his breakfast, and a seal-skin cap, and sent him home."
"One cold winter day, Lincoln saw a poor fellow named "Ab Trent" hard at work chopping up "a house," which Mr. Hill had employed him to convert into firewood. Ab was barefooted, and shivered pitifully while he worked. Lincoln watched him a few moments, and asked him what he was to get for the job. Ab answered, 'One dollar;' and, pointing to his naked and suffering feet, said that he wished to buy a pair of shoes. Lincoln seized the axe, and, ordering the boy to comfort himself at the nearest fire, chopped up 'the house' so fast that Ab and the owner were both amazed when they saw it done." According to Mr. Rutledge, "Ab remembered this act with the liveliest gratitude. Once he, being a cast-iron Democrat, determined to vote against his party and for Mr. Lincoln; but the friends, as he afterwards said with tears in his eyes, made him drunk, and he had voted against Abe. Thus he did not even have an opportunity to return the noble conduct of Mr. Lincoln by this small measure of thanks."
"One cold winter day, Lincoln saw a poor guy named "Ab Trent" hard at work chopping up "a house," which Mr. Hill had hired him to turn into firewood. Ab was barefoot and shivered pitifully while he worked. Lincoln watched him for a moment and asked what he would get paid for the job. Ab replied, 'One dollar;' and, pointing to his cold and hurting feet, said that he wanted to buy a pair of shoes. Lincoln grabbed the axe and, telling the boy to warm up by the nearest fire, chopped up 'the house' so quickly that both Ab and the owner were amazed when they saw it done." According to Mr. Rutledge, "Ab remembered this act with deep gratitude. Once he, being a staunch Democrat, decided to vote against his party and for Mr. Lincoln; but his friends, as he later said with tears in his eyes, got him drunk, and he ended up voting against Abe. So, he never even had the chance to repay Mr. Lincoln's kindness with this small act of thanks."
We have given some instances of Mr. Lincoln's unfailing disposition to succor the weak and the unfortunate. He never seems to have hesitated on account of actual or fancied danger to himself, but boldly espoused the side of the oppressed against the oppressor, whoever and whatever the latter might be. In a fisticuff or a rough-and-tumble fight, he was one of the most formidable men of the region in which he lived. It took a big bully, and a persevering one, to force him into a collision; but, being in, his enemy found good reason to beware of him. He was cool, calculating, but swift in action, and terribly strong. Nevertheless, he never promoted a quarrel, and would be at infinite trouble any time to compose one. An unnecessary broil gave him pain; and whenever there was the slightest hope of successful mediation, whether by soft speech or by the strong hand, he was instant and fearless for peace. His good-nature, his humor, his fertility in expedients, and his alliance, offensive and defensive, with Jack Armstrong, made him almost irresistible in his benevolent efforts to keep the ordinary ruffian of New Salem within decent bounds. If he was talking to Squire Godbey or Row Herndon (each of them give incidents of the kind), and he heard the sounds or saw the signs which betoken a row in the street, he would jump up, saying, "Let's go and stop it." He would push through the "ring" which was generally formed around the combatants, and, after separating the latter, would demand a truce and "a talk;" and so soon as he got them to talking, the victory was his. If it happened to be rough Jack himself who was at the bottom of the disturbance, he usually became very much ashamed of his conduct, and offered to "treat," or do any thing else that would atone for his brutality.
We have provided some examples of Mr. Lincoln's consistent willingness to help the weak and unfortunate. He never seemed to hesitate due to real or perceived danger to himself, but boldly took the side of the oppressed against the oppressor, no matter who or what they were. In a fistfight or brawl, he was one of the most formidable men in his area. It took a significant bully, and one who was persistent, to provoke him into a fight; but once engaged, his opponent had good reason to be cautious. He was calm, strategic, but quick to act, and incredibly strong. Nevertheless, he never initiated a fight and would go to great lengths to resolve one. An unnecessary dispute upset him; and whenever there was the slightest chance for successful mediation, whether through gentle conversation or with a firm hand, he was quick and fearless in pursuing peace. His good nature, sense of humor, creativity in finding solutions, and partnership, both offensive and defensive, with Jack Armstrong, made him nearly unstoppable in his efforts to keep the common troublemakers of New Salem in check. If he was speaking to Squire Godbey or Row Herndon and heard the sounds or saw the signs of a fight in the street, he would jump up and say, "Let's go and stop it." He would push through the crowd often formed around the fighters, and after breaking them apart, would call for a truce and "a talk"; as soon as he got them conversing, the victory was his. If rough Jack himself happened to be the cause of the trouble, he usually felt very ashamed of his behavior and would offer to "treat" or do anything else to make up for his aggression.
Lincoln has often been seen in the old mill on the river-bank to lift a box of stones weighing from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds. Of course it was not done by a straight lift of the hands: he "was harnessed to the box with ropes and straps." It was even said he could easily raise a barrel of whiskey to his mouth when standing upright, and take a drink out of the bung-hole; but of course one cannot believe it. Frequent exhibitions of such strength doubtless had much to do with his unbounded influence over the rougher class of men.
Lincoln was often seen at the old mill by the river lifting a box of stones weighing between a thousand and twelve hundred pounds. Of course, he didn't lift it straight up with his hands; he was "harnessed to the box with ropes and straps." Some even claimed he could easily raise a barrel of whiskey to his mouth while standing upright and drink from the bung-hole, but that's hard to believe. His frequent displays of strength likely contributed significantly to his strong influence over the rougher crowd.
He possessed the judicial quality of mind in a degree so eminent, and it was so universally recognized, that he never could attend a horse-race without being importuned to act as a judge, or witness a bet without assuming the responsibility of a stakeholder. "In the spring or summer of 1832," says Henry McHenry, "I had a horse-race with George Warbur-ton. I got Lincoln, who was at the race, to be a judge of the race, much against his will and after hard persuasion. Lincoln decided correctly; and the other judge said, 'Lincoln is the fairest man I ever bad to deal with: if Lincoln is in this county when I die, I want him to be my administrator, for he is the only man I ever met with that was wholly and unselfishly honest.'" His ineffable purity in determining the result of a scrub-race had actually set his colleague to thinking of his latter end.
He had such a remarkable sense of fairness that everyone knew it, so he could never go to a horse race without being asked to judge, or witness a bet without taking on the role of a stakeholder. "In the spring or summer of 1832," Henry McHenry recalls, "I had a horse race with George Warburton. I got Lincoln, who was at the race, to judge it, even though he didn’t want to and after a lot of convincing. Lincoln made the right call; and the other judge said, 'Lincoln is the fairest person I've ever dealt with: if Lincoln is in this county when I die, I want him to be my administrator because he’s the only person I've met who is completely and genuinely honest.'" His incredible integrity in determining the outcome of a low-stakes race actually got his colleague thinking about his final arrangements.
But Lincoln endured another annoyance much worse than this. He was so generally esteemed, and so highly admired, that, when any of his neighbors had a fight in prospect, one of the parties was sure to insist upon his acting as his second. Lincoln was opposed to fights, but there were some fights that had to be fought; and these were "set," a day fixed, and the neighborhood notified. In these cases there was no room for the offices of a mediator; and when the affair was pre-ordained, "and must come off," Mr. Lincoln had no excuse for denying the request of a friend.
But Lincoln faced another annoyance that was much worse than this. He was so well-respected and admired that when any of his neighbors were gearing up for a fight, one of the parties would insist on him being their second. Lincoln didn't support fighting, but there were some battles that had to be fought; these were "set," with a day scheduled and the neighborhood informed. In these situations, there was no space for mediation, and when something was predetermined and "had to happen," Mr. Lincoln had no reason to turn down a friend's request.
"Two neighbors, Harry Clark and Ben Wilcox," says Mr. Rutledge, "had had a lawsuit. The defeated declared, that, although he was beaten in the suit, he could whip his opponent. This was a formal challenge, and was at once carried to the ears of the victor (Wilcox), and as promptly accepted. The time, place, and seconds were chosen with due regularity; Mr. Lincoln being Clark's, and John Brewer, Wilcox's second. The parties met, stripped themselves all but their breeches, went in, and Mr. Lincoln's principal was beautifully whipped. These combats were conducted with as much ceremony and punctiliousness as ever graced the duelling-ground. After the conflict, the seconds conducted their respective principals to the river, washed off the blood, and assisted them to dress. During this performance, the second of the party opposed to Mr. Lincoln remarked, 'Well, Abe, my man has whipped yours, and I can whip you.' Now, this challenge came from a man who was very small in size. Mr. Lincoln agreed to fight, provided he would chalk out his size on Mr. Lincoln's person, and every blow struck outside of that mark should be counted foul. After this sally, there was the best possible humor, and all parties were as orderly as if they had been engaged in the most harmless amusement."
"Two neighbors, Harry Clark and Ben Wilcox," Mr. Rutledge says, "had a lawsuit. The one who lost claimed that, even though he lost in court, he could beat his opponent in a fight. This was a formal challenge, which was quickly relayed to the winner (Wilcox) and just as quickly accepted. They chose the time, place, and seconds with proper formality; Mr. Lincoln was Clark's second, and John Brewer was Wilcox's second. The two men met, stripped down to their pants, and fought, with Mr. Lincoln’s guy getting thoroughly beaten. These fights were carried out with as much ceremony and care as any duel. After the fight, the seconds led their respective principals to the river to wash off the blood and helped them get dressed. During this, the second for the guy against Mr. Lincoln said, 'Well, Abe, my guy has whipped yours, and I can whip you.' This challenge came from a guy who was quite small. Mr. Lincoln agreed to the fight as long as he could mark his size on Mr. Lincoln’s body, and any hits outside that mark would be considered foul. After this exchange, everyone was in great spirits, and all parties were as well-behaved as if they were enjoying the most innocent entertainment."
In 1834 Lincoln was again a candidate for the Legislature, and this time was elected by a larger majority than any other man on the ticket. By this time the party with which he acted in the future was "discriminated as Whig;" and he did not hesitate to call himself a Whig, although he sought and received the votes of a great many Democrats. Just before the time had arrived for candidates to announce themselves, he went to John T. Stuart, and told him "the Democrats wanted to run him." He made the same statement to Ninian W. Edwards. Edwards and Stuart were both his personal and political friends, and they both advised him to let the Democrats have their way. Major Stuart's advice was certainly disinterested; for, in pursuance of it, two of the Whig candidates, Lincoln and Dawson, made a bargain with the Democrats which very nearly proved fatal to Stuart himself. He was at that time the favorite candidate of the Whigs for the Legislature; but the conduct of Lincoln and Dawson so demoralized the party, that his vote was seriously diminished. Up to this time Sangamon had been stanchly Democratic; but even in this election of 1834 we perceive slight evidences of that party's decay, and so early as 1836 the county became thoroughly Whig.
In 1834, Lincoln ran for the Legislature again and this time he was elected by a bigger margin than anyone else on the ticket. By then, the party he would align with in the future was identified as the Whig party; he didn't hesitate to label himself as a Whig, even though he sought and received a lot of votes from Democrats. Just before the candidates were set to announce, he spoke to John T. Stuart and mentioned that "the Democrats wanted to run him." He told Ninian W. Edwards the same thing. Edwards and Stuart were both his personal and political allies, and they both advised him to let the Democrats proceed as they wished. Major Stuart's advice was certainly unbiased; following it, two of the Whig candidates, Lincoln and Dawson, made a deal with the Democrats that nearly proved disastrous for Stuart himself. At that time, he was the favored candidate of the Whigs for the Legislature, but the actions of Lincoln and Dawson seriously demoralized the party, leading to a significant drop in his votes. Up until then, Sangamon had firmly supported the Democrats; however, even in the 1834 election, we can see early signs of that party's decline, and by 1836, the county had completely turned Whig.
We shall give no details of this campaign, since we should only be repeating what is written of the campaign of 1832. But we cannot withhold one extract from the reminiscences of Mr. Row Herndon:—
We won’t provide details about this campaign, as we would just be restating what's already written about the campaign of 1832. However, we can’t hold back one excerpt from the memories of Mr. Row Herndon:—
"He (Lincoln) came to my house, near Island Grove, during harvest. There were some thirty men in the field. He got his dinner, and went out in the field where the men were at work. I gave him an introduction, and the boys said that they could not vote for a man unless he could make a hand. 'Well, boys,' said he, 'if that is all, I am sure of your votes.' He took hold of the cradle, and led the way all the round with perfect ease. The boys were satisfied, and I don't think he lost a vote in the crowd.
"He (Lincoln) came to my house near Island Grove during harvest. There were about thirty men in the field. He had his dinner and then went out where the men were working. I introduced him, and the guys said they wouldn’t vote for a man unless he could pitch in. 'Well, guys,' he said, 'if that's the only requirement, I'm definitely getting your votes.' He picked up the cradle and led the way around the field with complete ease. The guys were impressed, and I don't think he lost a single vote from the crowd."
"The next day was speaking at Berlin. He went from my house with Dr. Barnett, the man that had asked me who this man Lincoln was. I told him that he was a candidate for the Legislature. He laughed and said, 'Can't the party raise no better material than that?' I said, 'Go to-morrow, and hear all before you pronounce judgment.' When he came back, I said, 'Doctor, what say you now?' 'Why, sir,' said he, 'he is a perfect take-in: he knows more than all of them put together.'"
"The next day, he was speaking in Berlin. He left my house with Dr. Barnett, the guy who had asked me who this Lincoln was. I told him Lincoln was a candidate for the Legislature. He laughed and said, 'Can't the party find anyone better than that?' I replied, 'Go tomorrow and listen for yourself before you judge.' When he came back, I asked, 'Doctor, what do you think now?' 'Well,' he said, 'he's a complete surprise: he knows more than all of them combined.'"
Lincoln got 1,376 votes, Dawson 1,370, Carpenter 1,170, Stuart 1,164. Lincoln was at last duly elected a Representative by a very flattering majority, and began to look about for the pecuniary means necessary to maintain his new dignity. In this extremity he had recourse to an old friend named Coleman Smoot.
Lincoln received 1,376 votes, Dawson 1,370, Carpenter 1,170, and Stuart 1,164. Lincoln was finally elected as a Representative with a very impressive majority, and he started to look for the financial resources needed to support his new position. In this situation, he turned to an old friend named Coleman Smoot.
One day in 1832, while he was clerking for Offutt, a stranger came into the store, and soon disclosed the fact that his name was Smoot. Abe was behind the counter at the moment; but, hearing the name, he sprang over and introduced himself. Abe had often heard of Smoot, and Smoot had often heard of Abe. They had been as anxious to meet as ever two celebrities were; but hitherto they had never been able to manage it. "Smoot," said Lincoln, after a steady survey of his person, "I am very much disappointed in you: I expected to see an old Probst of a fellow." (Probst, it appears, was the most hideous specimen of humanity in all that country.) "Yes," replied Smoot; "and I am equally disappointed, for I expected to see a good-looking man when I saw you." A few neat compliments like the foregoing laid the foundation of a lasting intimacy between the two men, and in his present distress Lincoln knew no one who would be more likely than Smoot to respond favorably to an application for money.
One day in 1832, while he was working for Offutt, a stranger walked into the store and soon revealed that his name was Smoot. Abe was behind the counter at the time, but upon hearing the name, he jumped over and introduced himself. Abe had often heard of Smoot, and Smoot had often heard of Abe. They were both eager to meet, just like two famous people, but until then, they had never managed to do so. "Smoot," said Lincoln after taking a good look at him, "I’m really disappointed in you; I expected to see an old Probst of a guy." (Probst was known to be the ugliest person in the whole area.) "Yes," replied Smoot, "and I’m equally disappointed because I thought I’d see a handsome man when I met you." A few nice compliments like this laid the groundwork for a lasting friendship between the two men, and in his current situation, Lincoln knew no one more likely than Smoot to respond favorably to a request for money.
"After he was elected to the Legislature," says Mr. Smoot, "he came to my house one day in company with Hugh Armstrong. Says he, 'Smoot, did you vote for me?' I told him I did. 'Well,' says he, 'you must loan me money to buy suitable clothing, for I want to make a decent appearance in the Legislature.' I then loaned him two hundred dollars, which he returned to me according to promise."
"After he was elected to the Legislature," Mr. Smoot says, "he came to my house one day with Hugh Armstrong. He asked, 'Smoot, did you vote for me?' I told him I did. 'Well,' he said, 'you need to lend me some money to buy suitable clothes because I want to look decent in the Legislature.' I then lent him two hundred dollars, which he paid back to me as promised."
The interval between the election and his departure for the seat of government was employed by Mr. Lincoln partly in reading, partly in writing.
The time between the election and his departure for the capital was spent by Mr. Lincoln partly reading and partly writing.
The community in which he lived was pre-eminently a community of free-thinkers in matters of religion; and it was then no secret, nor has it been a secret since, that Mr. Lincoln agreed with the majority of his associates in denying to the Bible the authority of divine revelation. It was his honest belief,—a belief which it was no reproach to hold at New Salem, Anno Domini 1834, and one which he never thought of concealing. It was no distinction, either good or bad, no honor, and no shame. But he had made himself thoroughly familiar with the writings of Paine and Volney,—"The Ruins" by one and "The Age of Reason" by the other. His mind was full of the subject, and he felt an itching to write. He did write, and the result was a "little book." It was probably merely an extended essay; but it is ambitiously spoken of as "a book" by himself and by the persons who were made acquainted with its contents. In this work he intended to demonstrate,—
The community he lived in was mainly made up of free-thinkers when it came to religion, and it was no secret—nor has it remained one—that Mr. Lincoln shared the views of most of his peers in rejecting the Bible as a source of divine authority. He genuinely believed this, a belief that wasn't frowned upon in New Salem in 1834, and one he never tried to hide. It was neither a mark of distinction, good or bad, nor a source of honor or shame. He had become very familiar with the writings of Paine and Volney—specifically, "The Ruins" by one and "The Age of Reason" by the other. His mind was filled with these ideas, and he felt compelled to write. So he did, producing what he called a "little book." It was likely just an extended essay, but he and those who read it referred to it as "a book." In this work, he aimed to demonstrate—
"First, that the Bible was not God's revelation; and,
"First, that the Bible wasn't God's revelation; and,
"Secondly, that Jesus was not the Son of God."
"Secondly, that Jesus was not the Son of God."
These were his leading propositions, and surely they were comprehensive enough; but the reader will be better able to guess at the arguments by which they were sustained, when he has examined some of the evidence recorded in Chapter XIX.
These were his main ideas, and they were definitely broad enough; but the reader will be better able to understand the arguments that supported them after looking at some of the evidence presented in Chapter XIX.
No leaf of this little volume has survived. Mr. Lincoln carried it in manuscript to the store of Mr. Samuel Hill, where it was read and discussed. Hill was himself an unbeliever, but his son considered this book "infamous." It is more than probable that Hill, being a warm personal friend of Lincoln, feared that the publication of the essay would some day interfere with the political advancement of his favorite. At all events, he snatched it out of his hand, and thrust it into the fire, from which not a shred escaped. The sequel will show that even Mr. Hill's provident forethought was not altogether equal to the prevention of the injury he dreaded.
No leaf of this little book has survived. Mr. Lincoln took it in manuscript to Mr. Samuel Hill's store, where it was read and discussed. Hill was an unbeliever, but his son thought this book was "infamous." It's very likely that Hill, being a close personal friend of Lincoln, worried that publishing the essay would someday hurt his friend's political prospects. In any case, he snatched it out of Lincoln's hand and threw it into the fire, from which not a single piece escaped. The next part will show that even Mr. Hill's careful planning didn't completely prevent the harm he feared.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE reader is already familiar with the name of James Rutledge, the founder of New Salem, and the owner in part of the famous mill on the Sangamon. He was born in South Carolina, and was of the illustrious Rutledge family of that State. From South Carolina he emigrated to Kentucky, and thence to Illinois. In 1828 he settled at New Salem, built the mill and laid out the village in conjunction with Mr. Cameron, a retired minister of the Cumberland Presbyterians. Mr. Rutledge's character seems to have been pure and high; for wherever his name occurs in the voluminous records before us,—in the long talks and the numerous epistles of his neighbors,—it is almost invariably coupled with some expression of genuine esteem and respect.
THE reader is already familiar with the name James Rutledge, the founder of New Salem, and part-owner of the famous mill on the Sangamon. He was born in South Carolina and belonged to the notable Rutledge family from that state. He moved from South Carolina to Kentucky, and then to Illinois. In 1828, he settled in New Salem, built the mill, and helped lay out the village alongside Mr. Cameron, a retired Cumberland Presbyterian minister. Mr. Rutledge's character appears to have been pure and admirable; wherever his name appears in the extensive records we have—through the long conversations and many letters from his neighbors—it is almost always paired with genuine expressions of esteem and respect.
At one time, and along with his other business,—which appears to have been quite extensive and various,—Mr. Rutledge kept the tavern, the small house with four rooms on the main street of New Salem, just opposite Lincoln's grocery. There Mr. Lincoln came to board late in 1832, or early in 1833. The family consisted of the father, mother, and nine children,—three of them born in Kentucky and six in Illinois; three grown up, and the rest quite young. Ann, the principal subject of this chapter, was the third child. She was born on the 7th of January, 1813, and was about nineteen years of age when Mr. Lincoln came to live in the house.
At one point, alongside his other business—which seems to have been quite extensive and diverse—Mr. Rutledge ran a tavern, a small house with four rooms on the main street of New Salem, directly across from Lincoln's grocery store. It was there that Mr. Lincoln began boarding in late 1832 or early 1833. The family included the father, mother, and nine children—three of them born in Kentucky and six in Illinois; three were grown up, while the rest were quite young. Ann, the main focus of this chapter, was the third child. She was born on January 7, 1813, and she was about nineteen years old when Mr. Lincoln moved into the house.
When Ann was a little maiden just turned of seventeen, and still attending the school of that redoubtable pedagogue Min-ter Graham, there came to New Salem a young gentleman of singular enterprise, tact, and capacity for business. He is identical with the man whom we have already quoted as "the pioneer of New Salem as a business point," and who built the first storehouse there at the extravagant cost of fifteen dollars. He took boarding with Mr. Rutledge's friend and partner, James Cameron, and gave out his name as John McNeil. He came to New Salem with no other capital than good sense and an active and plucky spirit; but somehow fortune smiled indiscriminately on all his endeavors, and very soon—as early as the latter part of 1832—he found himself a well-to-do and prosperous man, owning a snug farm seven miles north of New Salem, and a half-interest in the largest store of the place. This latter property his partner, Samuel Hill, bought from him at a good round sum; for McNeil now announced his intention of being absent for a brief period, and his purpose was such that he might need all his available capital.
When Ann was a young girl just turned seventeen, still attending the school of the formidable teacher Min-ter Graham, a young man of remarkable initiative, skill, and business savvy arrived in New Salem. He is the same person we previously referred to as "the pioneer of New Salem as a business point," who built the first storehouse there for the extravagant price of fifteen dollars. He boarded with Mr. Rutledge's friend and partner, James Cameron, and introduced himself as John McNeil. He came to New Salem with no capital other than common sense and a bold, spirited attitude; yet, somehow luck favored all his efforts, and very soon—by the late part of 1832—he found himself to be a prosperous man, owning a cozy farm seven miles north of New Salem and a half-interest in the largest store in town. His partner, Samuel Hill, ended up buying that latter property from him for a good amount because McNeil announced he would be away for a short time, and his plans required him to have all his available funds.
In the mean time the partners, Hill and McNeil, had both fallen in love with Ann Rutledge, and both courted her with devoted assiduity. But the contest had long since been decided in favor of McNeil, and Ann loved him with all her susceptible and sensitive heart. When the time drew near for McNeil to depart, he confided to Ann a strange story,—and, in the eyes of a person less fond, a very startling story. His name was not John McNeil at all, but John McNamar. His family was a highly respectable one in the State of New York; but a few years before his father had failed in business, and there was great distress at home. He (John) then conceived the romantic plan of running away, and, at some undefined place in the far West, making a sudden fortune with which to retrieve the family disaster. He fled accordingly, changed his name to avoid the pursuit of his father, found his way to New Salem, and—she knew the rest. He was now able to perform that great act of filial piety which he set out to accomplish, would return at once to the relief of his parents, and, in all human probability, bring them back with him to his new home in Illinois. At all events, she might look for his return as speedily as the journey could be made with ordinary diligence; and thenceforward there should be no more partings between him and his fair Ann. She believed this tale, because she loved the man that told it; and she would have believed it all the same if it had been ten times as incredible. A wise man would have rejected it with scorn, but the girl's instinct was a better guide; and McNamar proved to be all that he said he was, although poor Ann never saw the proof which others got of it.
In the meantime, the partners, Hill and McNeil, had both fallen for Ann Rutledge and were both pursuing her with dedicated effort. However, the competition was long decided in favor of McNeil, and Ann loved him with all her tender and sensitive heart. As the time approached for McNeil to leave, he shared a strange story with Ann—one that would have shocked someone less in love. His name wasn’t really John McNeil; it was John McNamar. His family was quite respectable in New York, but a few years earlier, his father had gone bankrupt, causing a lot of hardship at home. John then came up with the romantic idea of running away and making a fortune somewhere in the far West to help his family recover from their struggles. So, he fled, changed his name to escape his father’s search, ended up in New Salem, and—she knew the rest. He was now ready to fulfill that important act of duty to his family, planning to return home immediately to help his parents and, most likely, bring them back with him to his new place in Illinois. In any case, she could expect him back as soon as the journey could be made with reasonable speed, and from then on, there would be no more goodbyes between him and his beloved Ann. She believed his story because she loved the man telling it; she would have believed it even if it were ten times as unbelievable. A wise person would have dismissed it with ridicule, but the girl’s intuition was a better guide; and McNamar turned out to be exactly who he claimed to be, even though poor Ann never saw the evidence that others did.
McNamar rode away "on old Charley," an antiquated steed that had seen hard usage in the Black Hawk War. Charley was slow, stumbled dreadfully, and caused his rider much annoyance and some hard swearing. On this provoking animal McNamar jogged through the long journey from New Salem to New York, and arrived there after many delays, only to find that his broken and dispirited father was fast sinking into the grave. After all his efforts, he was too late: the father could never enjoy the prosperity which the long-absent and long-silent son had brought him. McNamar wrote to Ann that there was sickness in the family, and he could not return at the time appointed. Then there were other and still other postponements; "circumstances over which he had no control" prevented his departure from time to time, until years had rolled away, and Ann's heart had grown sick with hope deferred. She never quite gave him up, but continued to expect him until death terminated her melancholy watch. His inexplicable delay, however, the infrequency of his letters, and their unsatisfactory character,—these and something else had broken her attachment, and toward the last she waited for him only to ask a release from her engagement, and to say that she preferred another and a more urgent suitor. But without his knowledge and formal renunciation of his claim upon her, she did not like to marry; and, in obedience to this refinement of honor, she postponed her union with the more pressing lover until Aug. 25, 1835, when, as many persons believe, she died of a broken heart.
McNamar rode away "on old Charley," an old horse that had seen tough times during the Black Hawk War. Charley was slow, stumbled a lot, and drove his rider to frustration and some swearing. On this aggravating animal, McNamar made the long journey from New Salem to New York and arrived after many delays, only to find that his broken and disheartened father was quickly approaching death. After all his efforts, he was too late: his father would never enjoy the success that the long-absent and quiet son had brought him. McNamar wrote to Ann that there was illness in the family, and he could not return at the scheduled time. Then there were more and more delays; “circumstances beyond his control” kept preventing his departure until years had passed, and Ann’s heart had grown weary with unfulfilled hope. She never completely gave up on him, but she continued to wait for him until death ended her sorrowful vigil. However, his puzzling delay, the rarity of his letters, and their unsatisfactory nature—these factors and a few others had weakened her attachment, and by the end, she was only waiting for him to formally release her from their engagement and to say that she preferred another, more eager suitor. But without his knowledge and formal renunciation of his claim on her, she didn’t want to get married; and, honoring this sense of duty, she delayed her union with the more persistent lover until August 25, 1835, when, as many believe, she died of a broken heart.
Lincoln's friend Short was in some way related to the Rutledges, and for a while Lincoln visited Ann two or three times a week at his house. According to him, "Miss Rutledge was a good-looking, smart, lively girl, a good housekeeper, with a moderate education, and without any of the so-called accomplishments." L. M. Greene, who knew her well, talks about her as "a beautiful and very amiable young woman;" and "Nult" Greene is even more enthusiastic. "This young lady," in the language of the latter gentleman, "was a woman of exquisite beauty; but her intellect was quick, sharp, deep, and philosophic, as well as brilliant. She had as gentle and kind a heart as an angel, full of love, kindliness, and sympathy. She was beloved by everybody, and everybody respected and loved her, so sweet and angelic was she. Her character was more than good: it was positively noted throughout the county. She was a woman worthy of Lincoln's love." McNamar, her unfortunate lover, says, "Miss Ann was a gentle, amiable maiden, without any of the airs of your city belles, but winsome and comely withal; a blonde in complexion, with golden hair, cherry-red lips, and a bonny blue eye." Even the women of the neighborhood united with the men to praise the name of this beautiful but unhappy girl. Mrs. Hardin Bale "knew her well. She had auburn hair, blue eyes, fair complexion; was a slim, pretty, kind, tender, good-hearted woman; in height about five feet three inches, and weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds. She was beloved by all who knew her. McNamar, Hill, and Lincoln all courted her near the same time. She died as it were of grief. Miss Rutledge was beautiful." Such was Ann Rutledge, the girl in whose grave Mr. Lincoln said, "My heart lies buried." When Mr. Lincoln first saw Ann, she was probably the most refined woman with whom he had then ever spoken,—a modest, delicate creature, fascinating by reason of the mere contrast with the rude people by whom they were both surrounded. She had a secret, too, and a sorrow,—the unexplained and painful absence of McNamar,—which no doubt made her all the more interesting to him whose spirit was often even more melancholy than her own. It would be hard to trace the growth of such an attachment at a time and place so distant; but that it actually grew, and became an intense and mutual passion, the evidence before us is painfully abundant.
Lincoln's friend Short was somehow related to the Rutledges, and for a while, Lincoln visited Ann two or three times a week at her house. According to him, "Miss Rutledge was a good-looking, smart, lively girl, a good housekeeper, with a decent education, and none of the so-called accomplishments." L. M. Greene, who knew her well, described her as "a beautiful and very friendly young woman;" and "Nult" Greene is even more enthusiastic. "This young lady," in the words of the latter gentleman, "was a woman of exquisite beauty; but her intellect was quick, sharp, deep, and philosophical, as well as brilliant. She had as gentle and kind a heart as an angel, full of love, kindness, and sympathy. She was loved by everyone, and everyone respected and cherished her; she was so sweet and angelic. Her character was more than good: it was positively noted throughout the county. She was a woman worthy of Lincoln's love." McNamar, her unfortunate admirer, says, "Miss Ann was a gentle, friendly young woman, without any of the airs of your city girls, but charming and pretty as well; a blonde, with golden hair, cherry-red lips, and lovely blue eyes." Even the women in the neighborhood joined the men in praising the name of this beautiful but unhappy girl. Mrs. Hardin Bale "knew her well. She had auburn hair, blue eyes, a fair complexion; she was a slim, pretty, kind, tender, good-hearted woman; about five feet three inches tall, and weighed around a hundred and twenty pounds. She was loved by all who knew her. McNamar, Hill, and Lincoln all courted her around the same time. She died, in a way, of grief. Miss Rutledge was beautiful." Such was Ann Rutledge, the girl in whose grave Mr. Lincoln said, "My heart lies buried." When Mr. Lincoln first saw Ann, she was probably the most refined woman he had ever spoken to at that time—a modest, delicate person, captivating simply because of her contrast with the rough people around them. She had a secret and a sorrow—the unexplained and painful absence of McNamar—which undoubtedly made her all the more intriguing to him, whose spirit was often even more melancholy than hers. It would be difficult to trace the development of such a relationship in a time and place so distant; but that it truly deepened and became an intense and mutual passion is painfully evident in the records we have.
Mr. Lincoln was always welcome at the little tavern, at Short's on the Sand Ridge, or at the farm, half a mile from Short's, where the Rutledges finally abode. Ann's father was his devoted friend, and the mother he called affectionately "Aunt Polly." It is probable that the family looked upon McNamar's delay with more suspicion than Ann did herself. At all events, all her adult relatives encouraged the suit which Lincoln early began to press; and as time, absence, and apparent neglect, gradually told against McNamar, she listened to him with augmenting interest, until, in 1835, we find them formally and solemnly betrothed. Ann now waited only for the return of McNamar to marry Lincoln. David Rutledge urged her to marry immediately, without regard to any thing but her own happiness; but she said she could not consent to it until McNamar came back and released her from her pledge. At length, however, as McNamar's re-appearance became more and more hopeless, she took a different view of it, and then thought she would become Abe's wife as soon as he found the means of a decent livelihood. "Ann told me once," says James M. in a letter to R. B. Rutledge, in coming from camp-meeting on Rock Creek, "that engagements made too far ahead sometimes failed; that one had failed (meaning her engagement with McNamar), and gave me to understand, that, as soon as certain studies were completed, she and Lincoln would be married."
Mr. Lincoln was always welcome at the little tavern at Short's on Sand Ridge or at the farm half a mile away where the Rutledges finally settled. Ann's father was his devoted friend, and he affectionately called her mother "Aunt Polly." It's likely the family viewed McNamar's delay with more suspicion than Ann did herself. In any case, all her adult relatives supported Lincoln's early pursuit. As time passed, and McNamar's absence and seeming neglect took their toll, Ann listened to Lincoln with growing interest, until, in 1835, we find them formally and solemnly engaged. Ann now waited only for McNamar's return to marry Lincoln. David Rutledge urged her to marry immediately, focusing solely on her happiness; however, she said she couldn’t agree to it until McNamar returned and released her from her promise. Eventually, as McNamar's return seemed less and less likely, she reconsidered and thought she would marry Abe as soon as he could secure a decent living. "Ann once told me," James M. wrote in a letter to R. B. Rutledge, after coming back from a camp meeting on Rock Creek, "that engagements made too far ahead sometimes fell through; that one had fallen through (meaning her engagement with McNamar), and she hinted that once some specific studies were completed, she and Lincoln would get married."
In the summer of 1835 Ann showed unmistakable symptoms of failing health, attributable, as most of the neighborhood believed, to the distressing attitude she felt bound to maintain between her two lovers. On the 25th of August, in that year, she died of what the doctors chose to call "brain-fever." In a letter to Mr. Herndon, her brother says, "You suggest that the probable cause of Ann's sickness was her conflicts, emotions, &c. As to this I cannot say. I, however, have my own private convictions. The character of her sickness was brain-fever." A few days before her death Lincoln was summoned to her bedside. What happened in that solemn conference was known only to him and the dying girl. But when he left her, and stopped at the house of John Jones, on his way home, Jones saw signs of the most terrible distress in his face and his conduct. When Ann actually died, and was buried, his grief became frantic: he lost all self-control, even the consciousness of identity, and every friend he had in New Salem pronounced him insane, mad, crazy. "He was watched with especial vigilance," as William Green tells us, "during storms, fogs, damp, gloomy weather, for fear of an accident." "At such times he raved piteously, declaring, among other wild expressions of his woe, 'I can never be reconciled to have the snow, rains, and storms to beat upon her grave!'"
In the summer of 1835, Ann showed clear signs of declining health, which most people in the neighborhood believed was due to the emotional turmoil caused by her two lovers. On August 25th of that year, she passed away from what the doctors referred to as "brain fever." In a letter to Mr. Herndon, her brother wrote, "You suggest that the likely cause of Ann's illness was her conflicts and emotions, etc. I can't say for sure, but I have my own thoughts. The nature of her illness was brain fever." A few days before her death, Lincoln was called to her bedside. What transpired during that solemn meeting was known only to him and the dying girl. However, when he left her and stopped at John Jones's house on his way home, Jones noticed a terrible distress on Lincoln's face and in his behavior. After Ann died and was buried, his grief became overwhelming; he lost all self-control, even a sense of his identity, and everyone in New Salem deemed him insane, mad, crazy. "He was watched very closely," as William Green recounts, "during storms, fogs, and gloomy weather, for fear of an accident." "During those times, he would cry out in despair, saying among other wild expressions, 'I can never accept having snow, rain, and storms beating down on her grave!'"
About three-quarters of a mile below New Salem, at the foot of the main bluff, and in a hollow between two lateral bluffs, stood the house of Bowlin Greene, built of logs and weather-boarded. Thither the friends of Lincoln, who apprehended a total abdication of reason, determined to transport him, partly for the benefit of a mere change of scene, and partly to keep him within constant reach of his near and noble friend, Bowlin Greene. During this period of his darkened and wavering intellect, when "accidents" were momentarily expected, it was discovered that Bowlin Greene possessed a power to persuade and guide him proportioned to the affection that had subsisted between them in former and better times. Bowlin Greene came for him, but Lincoln was cunning and obstinate: it required the most artful practices of a general conspiracy of all his friends to "disarm his suspicions," and induce him to go and stay with his most anxious and devoted friend. But at last they succeeded; and Lincoln remained down under the bluff for two or three weeks, the object of undisguised solicitude and of the strictest surveillance. At the end of that time his mind seemed to be restored, and it was thought safe to let him go back to his old haunts,—to the study of law, to the writing of legal papers for his neighbors, to pettifogging before the justice of the peace, and perhaps to a little surveying. But Mr. Lincoln was never precisely the same man again. At the time of his release he was thin, haggard, and careworn,—like one risen from the verge of the grave. He had always been subject to fits of great mental depression, but after this they were more frequent and alarming. It was then that he began to repeat, with a feeling which seemed to inspire every listener with awe, and to carry him to the fresh grave of Ann at every one of his solemn periods, the lines entitled, "Immortality; or, Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" None heard him but knew that he selected these curiously empty, yet wonderfully sad, impressive lines, to celebrate a grief which lay with continual heaviness on his heart, but to which he could not with becoming delicacy directly allude. He muttered them as he rambled through the woods, or walked by the roaring Sangamon. He was heard to murmur them to himself as he slipped into the village at nightfall, after a long walk of six miles, and an evening visit to the Concord graveyard; and he would suddenly break out with them in little social assemblies after noticeable periods of silent gloom. They came unbidden to his lips, while the air of affliction in face and gesture, the moving tones and touching modulations of his voice, made it evident that every syllable of the recitation was meant to commemorate the mournful fate of Ann. The poem is now his: the name of the obscure author is forgotten, and his work is imperishably associated with the memory of a great man, and interwoven with the history of his greatest Sorrow. Mr. Lincoln's adoption of it has saved it from merited oblivion, and translated it from the "poet's corner" of the country newspaper to a place in the story of his own life,—a story that will continue to be written, or written about, as long as our language exists.
About three-quarters of a mile below New Salem, at the base of the main bluff, and in a hollow between two side bluffs, stood Bowlin Greene’s house, which was made of logs and weatherboarded. Lincoln's friends, worried about his mental state, decided to take him there, partly for a change of scenery and partly to keep him close to his caring friend, Bowlin Greene. During this time when his mind was clouded and unstable, with "accidents" expected at any moment, it became clear that Bowlin Greene had a special ability to encourage and support him, which matched the deep bond they had shared in better times. Bowlin Greene came to get him, but Lincoln was clever and stubborn; it took the combined efforts of all his friends to "disarm his suspicions" and persuade him to stay with his concerned and loyal friend. Eventually, they managed to convince him, and Lincoln spent two or three weeks under the bluff, where he was the focus of sincere worry and closely watched. By the end of that time, he seemed to have regained his clarity of mind, and it was deemed safe for him to return to his previous routines—studying law, drafting legal documents for neighbors, practicing before the justice of the peace, and perhaps a bit of surveying. However, Mr. Lincoln was never quite the same man again. When he was released, he looked thin, worn, and exhausted, as if he had just come back from the brink of death. He had always struggled with intense bouts of depression, but after this episode, they became more frequent and concerning. It was then that he started reciting, with a weight of feeling that left listeners in awe, the lines titled, "Immortality; or, Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" Anyone who heard him understood that he chose these hauntingly empty yet profoundly sorrowful lines to express a grief that weighed heavily on his heart, one that he could not refer to directly with the delicacy it deserved. He would mumble them while wandering through the woods or walking by the rushing Sangamon River. He was heard whispering them to himself as he returned to the village at dusk after a six-mile walk and a visit to the Concord graveyard, and he would suddenly recite them in small social gatherings following noticeable stretches of silence. The words came to his lips unbidden, as his sad expression, body language, and the emotional tones of his voice made it clear that every word was a tribute to Ann's tragic fate. The poem became his: the name of its obscure author faded from memory, and it is forever linked to the legacy of a great man, intertwined with the story of his greatest sorrow. Mr. Lincoln’s embrace of it has rescued it from deserved obscurity, elevating it from the "poet's corner" of a local newspaper to a significant place in the narrative of his life—a narrative that will continue to be told as long as our language endures.
Many years afterwards, when Mr. Lincoln, the best lawyer of his section, with one exception, travelled the circuit with the court and a crowd of his jolly brethren, he always rose early, be fore any one else was stirring, and, raking together a few glowing coals on the hearth, he would sit looking into them, musing and talking with himself, for hours together. One morning, in the year of his nomination, his companions found him in this attitude, when "Mr. Lincoln repeated aloud, and at length, the poem 'Immortality,'" indicating his preference for the two last stanzas, but insisting that the entire composition "sounded to him as much like true poetry as any thing that he had ever heard."
Many years later, when Mr. Lincoln, the best lawyer in his area, except for one other, traveled the circuit with the court and a group of his cheerful peers, he always woke up early, before anyone else was up, and, gathering a few glowing coals on the hearth, he would sit and gaze into them, thinking and talking to himself for hours. One morning, in the year he was nominated, his friends found him in this position, when "Mr. Lincoln recited aloud and in full the poem 'Immortality,'" showing his preference for the last two stanzas, but insisting that the whole poem "sounded to him as much like real poetry as anything he had ever heard."
In Carpenter's "Anecdotes and Reminiscences of President Lincoln," occurs the following passage:—?
In Carpenter's "Anecdotes and Reminiscences of President Lincoln," the following passage appears:—?
"The evening of March 22, 1864, was a most interesting one to me. I was with the President alone in his office for several hours. Busy with pen and papers when I went in, he presently threw them aside, and commenced talking to me of Shakspeare, of whom he was very fond. Little 'Tad,' his son, coming in, he sent him to the library for a copy of the plays, and then read to me several of his favorite passages. Relapsing into a sadder strain, he laid the book aside, and, leaning back in his chair, said,—
"The evening of March 22, 1864, was really interesting to me. I was with the President alone in his office for several hours. He was busy with pen and papers when I arrived, but soon he put them down and started talking to me about Shakespeare, someone he really loved. Little 'Tad,' his son, came in, and the President sent him to the library for a copy of the plays. Then he read me several of his favorite passages. After falling into a more somber mood, he put the book down, leaned back in his chair, and said,—
"'There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper, and learned by heart. I would,' he continued, 'give a great deal to know who wrote it; but I have never been able to ascertain.'
"'There's a poem that I've loved for years. A friend first showed it to me when I was younger, and later I found it in a newspaper, cut it out, and memorized it. I would,' he went on, 'give a lot to know who wrote it, but I've never been able to figure it out.'"
"Then, half closing his eyes, he repeated the verses to me:—
"Then, half closing his eyes, he repeated the lines to me:—
"'Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved; The mother that infant's affection who proved; The husband that mother and infant who blest,— Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. [The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased.] The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. [The saint who enjoyed the communion of Heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.] So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed, That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen; We drink the same stream, we view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumber will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died, ay, they died: we things that are now, That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, And make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye,'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?'"
"Oh! Why should a person be proud? Like a shooting star, a passing cloud, a flash of lightning, or a crashing wave, they move from life to their rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow will fade, be scattered, and eventually gathered together; and the young and the old, the lowly and the mighty, will all turn to dust and lie side by side. The baby cared for and loved by a mother; the mother who showed her love for that child; the husband who blessed both mother and child—each has gone to their resting place. [The woman with beauty shining on her face, forehead, and in her eyes, her victories are over; and the memories of those who loved and praised her have vanished from the minds of the living.] The king's hand holding the scepter, the priest's brow under the mitre, the gaze of the wise, and the heart of the brave are all hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant who sowed and reaped, the herdsman who scaled the steep mountain with his goats, the beggar wandering in search of food have all faded away like the grass we walk on. [The saint enjoying communion with Heaven, the sinner who refused to seek forgiveness, the wise and the foolish, the guilty and the just have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.] So the multitude goes, like flowers or weeds that wither away to make room for others; and so the multitude comes, even those we see, to repeat every story that has often been told. For we are just like our forebears; we see the same sights they saw; we drink the same water, we see the same sun, and we follow the same path our ancestors walked. The thoughts we have, our forefathers would have; from the death we fear, our forefathers would fear; to the life we hold onto, they too would hold; but it slips away from us all like a bird in flight. They loved, but we cannot share their stories; they scorned, but the proud heart is cold; they grieved, but no cries from their slumber will come; they rejoiced, but the joy in their hearts is silent. They died, yes, they died: we, the living, walk the ground above their graves, making a temporary home in their dwellings, meeting those they encountered on their journey. Yes, hope and despair, pleasure and pain are mixed together in sunshine and rain; and the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge still follow each other like waves upon waves. It’s just a blink of an eye, just a breath taken, from the bloom of health to the pallor of death, from the lavish hall to the coffin and shroud—Oh! Why should a person be proud?"
It was only a year or two after the death of Ann Rutledge that Mr. Lincoln told Robert L. Wilson, a distinguished colleague in the Legislature, parts of whose letter will be printed in another place, that, although "he appeared to enjoy life rapturously," it was a mistake; that, "when alone, he was so overcome by mental depression, that he never dared to carry a pocket-knife." And during all Mr. Wilson's extended acquaintance with him he never did own a knife, notwithstanding he was inordinately fond of whittling.
It was only a year or two after Ann Rutledge's death that Mr. Lincoln told Robert L. Wilson, a well-respected colleague in the Legislature, parts of whose letter will be printed elsewhere, that even though "he seemed to enjoy life tremendously," it was a mistake; that "when he was alone, he was so overwhelmed by mental sadness that he never dared to carry a pocket knife." And throughout all of Mr. Wilson's lengthy acquaintance with him, he never did own a knife, even though he really loved whittling.
Mr. Herndon says, "He never addressed another woman, in my opinion, 'Yours affectionately,' and generally and characteristically abstained from the use of the word 'love.' That word cannot be found more than a half-dozen times, if that often, in all his letters and speeches since that time. I have seen some of his letters to other ladies, but he never says 'love.' He never ended his letters with 'Yours affectionately,' but signed his name, 'Your friend, A. Lincoln.'" After Mr. Lincoln's election to the Presidency, he one day met an old friend, Isaac Cogdale, who had known him intimately in the better days of the Rutledges at New Salem. "Ike," said he, "call at my office at the State House about an hour by sundown. The company will then all be gone." Cogdale went according to request; "and sure enough," as he expressed it, "the company dropped off one by one, including Lincoln's clerk."
Mr. Herndon says, "He never addressed another woman, in my opinion, 'Yours affectionately,' and generally avoided using the word 'love.' That word can hardly be found more than a half-dozen times, if that often, in all his letters and speeches since then. I’ve seen some of his letters to other women, but he never uses 'love.' He never finished his letters with 'Yours affectionately,' but signed his name, 'Your friend, A. Lincoln.'" After Mr. Lincoln was elected President, he ran into an old friend, Isaac Cogdale, who had known him well during the better days of the Rutledges at New Salem. "Ike," he said, "come by my office at the State House about an hour before sunset. The crowd will all be gone by then." Cogdale did as requested; "and sure enough," as he put it, "the crowd left one by one, including Lincoln's clerk."
"'I want to inquire about old times and old acquaintances,' began Mr. Lincoln. 'When we lived in Salem, there were the Greenes, Potters, Armstrongs, and Rutledges. These folks have got scattered all over the world,—some are dead. Where are the Rutledges, Greenes, &c.?'
"'I want to ask about the past and old friends,' started Mr. Lincoln. 'When we lived in Salem, there were the Greenes, Potters, Armstrongs, and Rutledges. These people have spread out all over the world—some have passed away. Where are the Rutledges, Greenes, etc.?'
"After we had spoken over old times," continues Cogdale,—"persons, circumstances,—in which he showed a wonderful memory, I then dared to ask him this question:—
"After we talked about the old days," continues Cogdale, "people, situations—which he remembered remarkably well—I then felt brave enough to ask him this question:—
"'May I now, in turn, ask you one question, Lincoln?'
"'Can I ask you a question now, Lincoln?'"
"'Assuredly. I will answer your question, if a fair one, with all my heart.'
"'Of course. I’ll answer your question, if it’s a fair one, with all my heart.'"
"'Well, Abe, is it true that you fell in love and courted Ann Rutledge?'
"'Well, Abe, is it true that you fell in love and dated Ann Rutledge?'"
"'It is true,—true: indeed I did. I have loved the name of Rutledge to this day. I have kept my mind on their movements ever since, and love them dearly.'
"'It's true—true: I really did. I've loved the name Rutledge to this day. I've been paying attention to their movements ever since and love them dearly.'"
"'Abe, is it true,'" still urged Cogdale, "that you ran a little wild about the matter?'
"'Abe, is it true,'” Cogdale pressed on, “that you got a bit carried away about the whole thing?"
"'I did really. I ran off the track. It was my first. I loved the woman dearly. She was a handsome girl; would have made a good, loving wife; was natural and quite intellectual, though not highly educated. I did honestly and truly love the girl, and think often, often, of her now.'"
"'I really did. I ran off the track. It was my first time. I loved her dearly. She was a beautiful girl; she would have made a good, loving wife; she was genuine and quite smart, even though she wasn't highly educated. I honestly and truly loved her, and I think about her often, often, now.'"
A few weeks after the burial of Ann, McNamar returned to New Salem. He saw Lincoln at the post-office, and was struck with the deplorable change in his appearance. A short time afterwards Lincoln wrote him a deed, which he still has, and prizes highly, in memory of his great friend and rival. His father was at last dead; but he brought back with him his mother and her family. In December of the same year his mother died, and was buried in the same graveyard with Ann. During his absence, Col. Rutledge had occupied his farm, and there Ann died; but "the Rutledge farm" proper adjoined this one to the south. "Some of Mr. Lincoln's corners, as a surveyor, are still visible on lines traced by him on both farms."
A few weeks after Ann's burial, McNamar returned to New Salem. He saw Lincoln at the post office and was struck by how much he had changed for the worse. Shortly after, Lincoln wrote him a deed, which McNamar still cherishes as a reminder of his great friend and rival. His father had finally passed away, but he brought back his mother and her family. In December of the same year, his mother died and was buried in the same cemetery as Ann. While he was away, Col. Rutledge had occupied his farm, where Ann died; however, "the Rutledge farm" was directly next door to the south. "Some of Mr. Lincoln's corners, as a surveyor, are still visible on lines he traced on both farms."
On Sunday, the fourteenth day of October, 1866, William H. Herndon knocked at the door of John McNamar, at his residence, but a few feet distant from the spot where Ann Rutledge breathed her last. After some preliminaries not necessary to be related, Mr. Herndon says, "I asked him the question:—
On Sunday, October 14, 1866, William H. Herndon knocked on the door of John McNamar at his home, just a short distance from the place where Ann Rutledge passed away. After some small talk that isn’t important to mention, Mr. Herndon said, "I asked him the question:—
"'Did you know Miss Rutledge? If so, where did she die?'
"'Did you know Miss Rutledge? If so, where did she pass away?'"
"He sat by his open window, looking westerly; and, pulling me closer to himself, looked through the window and said, 'There, by that,'—choking up with emotion, pointing his long forefinger, nervous and trembling, to the spot,—'there, by that currant-bush, she died. The old house in which she and her father died is gone.'
"He sat by his open window, looking west, and pulled me closer to him. Looking through the window, he said, 'There, by that,'—choking up with emotion, pointing his long, nervous, and trembling finger to the spot—'there, by that currant bush, she died. The old house where she and her father died is gone.'"
"After further conversation, leaving the sadness to momentarily pass away, I asked this additional question:—
"After some more chatting, letting the sadness fade for a moment, I asked this extra question:—"
"'Where was she buried?'
"'Where is she buried?'"
"'In Concord burying-ground, one mile south-east of this place.'"
"In the Concord cemetery, located one mile southeast of here."
Mr. Herndon sought the grave. "S. C. Berry," says he, "James Short (the gentleman who purchased in Mr. Lincoln's compass and chain in 1834, under an execution against Lincoln, or Lincoln & Berry, and gratuitously gave them back to Mr. Lincoln), James Miles, and myself were together.
Mr. Herndon looked for the grave. "S. C. Berry," he says, "James Short (the guy who bought Mr. Lincoln's compass and chain in 1834 under a court order against Lincoln, or Lincoln & Berry, and kindly returned them to Mr. Lincoln), James Miles, and I were together.
"I asked Mr. Berry if he knew where Miss Rutledge was buried,—the place and exact surroundings. He replied, 'I do. The grave of Miss Rutledge lies just north of her brother's, David Rutledge, a young lawyer of great promise, who died in 1842, in his twenty-seventh year.'
"I asked Mr. Berry if he knew where Miss Rutledge was buried—the location and details around it. He responded, 'I do. Miss Rutledge's grave is located just north of her brother's, David Rutledge, a promising young lawyer who passed away in 1842 at the age of twenty-seven.'"
"The cemetery contains but an acre of ground, in a beautiful and secluded situation. A thin skirt of timber lies on the east, commencing at the fence of the cemetery. The ribbon of timber, some fifty yards wide, hides the sun's early rise. At nine o'clock the sun pours all his rays into the cemetery. An extensive prairie lies west, the forest north, a field on the east, and timber and prairie on the south. In this lonely ground lie the Berrys, the Rutledges, the Clarys, the Armstrongs, and the Joneses, old and respected citizens,—pioneers of an early day. I write, or rather did write, the original draught of this description in the immediate presence of the ashes of Miss Ann Rutledge, the beautiful and tender dead. The village of the dead is a sad, solemn place. Its very presence imposes truth on the mind of the living writer. Ann Rutledge lies buried north of lier brother, and rests sweetly on his left arm, angels to guard her. The cemetery is fast filling with the hazel and the dead."
"The cemetery covers just an acre of land in a lovely and secluded spot. A thin strip of trees borders the east, starting at the cemetery fence. This strip of trees, about fifty yards wide, blocks the early sunlight. By nine o'clock, the sun shines all its rays into the cemetery. To the west lies an expansive prairie, to the north is the forest, to the east is a field, and to the south are more trees and prairie. In this quiet area rest the Berrys, the Rutledges, the Clarys, the Armstrongs, and the Joneses, who were longtime respected citizens—pioneers from the early days. I wrote, or rather did write, the first draft of this description right beside the ashes of Miss Ann Rutledge, the beautiful and gentle departed. The village of the dead is a somber and serious place. Its mere existence brings the truth home to the living writer. Ann Rutledge is buried north of her brother, resting gently on his left arm, with angels to watch over her. The cemetery is quickly filling up with the hazel and the dead."
A lecture delivered by William H. Herndon at Springfield, in 1866, contained the main outline, without the minuter details, of the story here related. It was spoken, printed, and circulated without contradiction from any quarter. It was sent to the Rutledges, McNeeleys, Greenes, Short, and many other of the old residents of New Salem and Petersburg, with particular requests that they should correct any error they might find in it. It was pronounced by them all truthful and accurate; but their replies, together with a mass of additional evidence, have been carefully collated with the lecture, and the result is the present chapter. The story of Ann Rutledge, Lincoln, and McNamar, as told here, is as well proved as the fact of Mr. Lincoln's election to the Presidency.
A lecture given by William H. Herndon in Springfield in 1866 included the main outline, without the finer details, of the story presented here. It was shared, printed, and circulated without any challenge from anyone. It was sent to the Rutledges, McNeeleys, Greenes, Short, and many other long-time residents of New Salem and Petersburg, with specific requests for them to correct any mistakes they might find. They all confirmed it was truthful and accurate; however, their responses, along with a wealth of additional evidence, have been carefully compared with the lecture, resulting in this chapter. The story of Ann Rutledge, Lincoln, and McNamar, as told here, is as well substantiated as the fact of Mr. Lincoln's election to the Presidency.
CHAPTER IX
FOLLOWING strictly the chronological order hitherto observed in the course of this narrative, we should be compelled to break off the story of Mr. Lincoln's love-affairs at New Salem, and enter upon his public career in the Legislature and before the people. But, while by that means we should preserve continuity in one respect, we should lose it in another; and the reader would perhaps prefer to take in at one view all of Mr. Lincoln's courtships, save only that one which resulted in marriage.
FOLLOWING strictly the chronological order that has been followed in this narrative, we would need to stop the story of Mr. Lincoln's romantic relationships in New Salem and move on to his public career in the Legislature and before the people. However, while this approach would maintain continuity in one way, it would disrupt it in another; and the reader might prefer to understand all of Mr. Lincoln's courtships at once, except for the one that led to marriage.
Three-quarters of a mile, or nearly so, north of Bowlin Greene's, and on the summit of a hill, stood the house of Bennett Able, a small frame building eighteen by twenty feet. Able and his wife were warm friends of Mr. Lincoln; and many of his rambles through the surrounding country, reading and talking to himself, terminated at their door, where he always found the latch-string on the outside, and a hearty welcome within. In October, 1833, Mr. Lincoln met there Miss Mary Owens, a sister of Mrs. Able, and, as we shall presently learn from his own words, admired her, although not extravagantly. She remained but four weeks, and then went back to her home in Kentucky.
About three-quarters of a mile north of Bowlin Greene's, on top of a hill, stood Bennett Able's house, a small frame building measuring eighteen by twenty feet. Able and his wife were close friends of Mr. Lincoln, and many of his walks through the nearby countryside, during which he often read and talked to himself, ended at their door, where he would always find the latch-string on the outside and a warm welcome inside. In October 1833, Mr. Lincoln met Miss Mary Owens there, who was Mrs. Able's sister, and as we will soon see from his own words, he admired her, though not overly so. She stayed for just four weeks before returning to her home in Kentucky.
Miss Owens's mother being dead, her father married again; and Miss Owens, for good reasons of her own, thought she would rather live with her sister than with her stepmother. Accordingly, in the fall of 1836, she re-appeared at Able's, passing through New Salem on the day of the presidential election, where the men standing about the polls stared and wondered at her "beauty." Twenty eight or nine years of age, "she was," in the language of Mr. L. M. Greene, "tall and portly; weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds, and had large blue eyes, with the finest trimmings I ever saw. She was jovial, social, loved wit and humor, had a liberal English education, and was considered wealthy. Bill," continues our excellent friend, "I am getting old; have seen too much trouble to give a lifelike picture of this woman. I won't try it. None of the poets or romance-writers has ever given to us a picture of a heroine so beautiful as a good description of Miss Owens in 1836 would be."
Miss Owens's mother had passed away, so her father remarried; and Miss Owens, for her own good reasons, decided she would prefer to live with her sister rather than with her stepmother. Therefore, in the fall of 1836, she reappeared at Able's, passing through New Salem on the day of the presidential election, where the men gathered around the polls stared and marveled at her "beauty." At twenty-eight or nine years old, "she was," in the words of Mr. L. M. Greene, "tall and stocky; weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds, and had large blue eyes, with the finest features I have ever seen. She was cheerful, sociable, loved wit and humor, had a solid English education, and was considered wealthy. Bill," our good friend continues, "I'm getting older; I've seen too much trouble to provide a lifelike description of this woman. I won't attempt it. None of the poets or romance writers have ever given us a portrayal of a heroine as beautiful as a good description of Miss Owens in 1836 would be."
Mrs. Hardin Bale, a cousin to Miss Owens, says "she was blue-eyed, dark-haired, handsome,—not pretty,—was rather large and tall, handsome, truly handsome, matronly looking, over ordinary size in height and weight.... Miss Owens was handsome, that is to say, noble-looking, matronly seeming."
Mrs. Hardin Bale, a cousin of Miss Owens, says, "She had blue eyes, dark hair, and was attractive—not pretty—was quite tall and large, truly attractive, with a matronly appearance, above average in height and weight.... Miss Owens was attractive, meaning she had a noble look and a matronly vibe."
Respecting her age and looks, Miss. Owens herself makes the following note, Aug. 6, 1866:—-
Respecting her age and appearance, Miss Owens made the following note on August 6, 1866:—-
"Born in the year eight; fair skin, deep-blue eyes, with dark curling hair; height five feet five inches, weighing about one hundred and fifty pounds."
"Born in the year 8; fair skin, deep blue eyes, with dark curly hair; height 5 feet 5 inches, weighing about 150 pounds."
Johnson G. Greene is Miss Owens's cousin; and, whilst on a visit to her in 1866, he contrived to get her version of the Lincoln courtship at great length. It does not vary in any material part from the account currently received in the neighborhood, and given by various persons, whose oral or written testimony is preserved in Mr. Herndon's collection of manuscripts. Greene (J. G.) described her in terms about the same as those used by Mrs. Bale, adding that "she was a nervous and muscular woman," very "intellectual,"—"the most intellectual woman he ever saw,"—"with a forehead massive and angular, square, prominent, and broad."
Johnson G. Greene is Miss Owens's cousin, and during a visit to her in 1866, he managed to get her detailed version of the Lincoln courtship. It does not differ significantly from the account that's commonly accepted in the area, as provided by various individuals whose oral or written testimonies are collected in Mr. Herndon's manuscript collection. Greene (J. G.) described her in similar terms to those used by Mrs. Bale, adding that "she was a nervous and strong woman," very "intellectual,"—"the most intelligent woman he had ever seen,"—"with a large, angular, square, prominent, and broad forehead."
After Miss Owens's return to New Salem, in the fall of 1813, Mr. Lincoln was unremitting in his attentions; and wherever she went he was at her side. She had many relatives in the neighborhood,—the Bales, the Greenes, the Grahams: and, if she went to spend an afternoon or an evening with any of these, Abe was very likely to be on hand to conduct her home. He asked her to marry him; but she prudently evaded a positive answer until she could make up her mind about questionable points of his character. She did not think him coarse or cruel; but she did think him thoughtless, careless, not altogether as polite as he might be,—in short, "deficient," as she expresses it, "in those little links which make up the great chain of woman's happiness." His heart was good, his principles were high, his honor sensitive; but still, in the eyes of this refined, young lady, he did not seem to be quite the gentleman. "He was lacking in the smaller attentions;" and, in fact, the whole affair is explained when she tells us that "his education was different from" hers.
After Miss Owens returned to New Salem in the fall of 1813, Mr. Lincoln was relentless in his attention; wherever she went, he was by her side. She had many relatives in the area— the Bales, the Greenes, the Grahams—and if she went to spend an afternoon or evening with any of them, Abe was likely to be there to take her home. He proposed to her, but she wisely avoided giving a direct answer until she could sort out her feelings about some questionable aspects of his character. She didn’t think he was coarse or cruel; however, she did consider him thoughtless, careless, and not quite as polite as he could be—in short, "lacking," as she puts it, "in those little things that contribute to a woman's happiness." His heart was good, his principles were high, and his honor was sensitive; but still, in the eyes of this refined young lady, he didn’t seem quite like a gentleman. "He was lacking in the smaller attentions," and in fact, the whole situation is clarified when she tells us that "his education was different from” hers.
One day Miss Owens and Mrs. Bowlin Greene were making their way slowly and tediously up the hill to Able's house, when they were joined by Lincoln. Mrs. Bowlin Greene was carrying "a great big fat child, heavy, and crossly disposed." Although the woman bent pitiably under her burden, Lincoln offered her no assistance, but, dropping behind with Miss Owens, beguiled the way according to his wishes. When they reached the summit, "Miss Owens said to Lincoln laughingly, 'You would not make a good husband. Abe.' They sat on the fence; and one word brought on another, till a split or breach ensued."
One day, Miss Owens and Mrs. Bowlin Greene were slowly climbing the hill to Able's house when Lincoln joined them. Mrs. Bowlin Greene was carrying "a great big fat child, heavy, and crossly disposed." Even though the woman struggled under her load, Lincoln didn’t offer to help her. Instead, he fell behind with Miss Owens and chatted in his own way. When they reached the top, Miss Owens jokingly said to Lincoln, "You wouldn’t make a good husband, Abe." They sat on the fence, and one thing led to another until they ended up in an argument.
Immediately after this misunderstanding, Lincoln went off toward Havana on a surveying expedition, and was absent about three weeks. On the first day of his return, one of Able's boys was sent up "to town" for the mail. Lincoln saw him at the post-office, and "asked if Miss Owens was at Mr. Able's." The boy said "Yes."—"Tell her," said Lin-join, "that I'll be down to see her in a few minutes." Now, Miss Owens had determined to spend that evening at Minter Graham's; and when the boy gave in the report, "she thought a moment, and said to herself, 'If I can draw Lincoln up there to Graham's, it will be all right.'" This scheme was to operate as a test of Abe's love; but it shared the fate of some of "the best-laid schemes of mice and men," and went "all agley."
Immediately after this misunderstanding, Lincoln headed toward Havana for a surveying trip and was gone for about three weeks. On the first day of his return, one of Able's boys was sent to "town" for the mail. Lincoln saw him at the post office and asked, "Is Miss Owens at Mr. Able's?" The boy replied, "Yes." "Tell her," Lincoln said, "that I'll be down to see her in a few minutes." Now, Miss Owens had decided to spend that evening at Minter Graham's, and when the boy gave her the message, she thought for a moment and said to herself, "If I can get Lincoln to come up to Graham's, it will be great." This plan was meant to test Abe's love, but it ended up like some of "the best-laid schemes of mice and men" and went "all wrong."
Lincoln, according to promise, went down to Able's, and asked if Miss Owens was in. Mrs. Able replied that she had gone to Graham's, about one and a half miles from Able's due south-west. Lincoln said, "Didn't she know I was coming?" Mrs. Able answered, "No;" but one of the children said, "Yes, ma, she did, for I heard Sam tell her so." Lincoln sat a while, and then went about his business. "The fat was now in the fire. Lincoln thought, as he was extremely poor, and Miss Owens very rich, it was a fling on him on that account. Abe was mistaken in his guesses, for wealth cut no figure in Miss Owens's eyes. Miss Owens regretted her course. Abe would not bend; and Miss Owens wouldn't. She said, if she had it to do over again she would play the cards differently.... She had two sons in the Southern army. She said that if either of them had got into difficulty, she would willingly have gone to old Abe for relief."
Lincoln, as promised, went over to Able's place and asked if Miss Owens was there. Mrs. Able replied that she had gone to Graham's, which was about a mile and a half due southwest of Able's. Lincoln asked, "Did she not know I was coming?" Mrs. Able said, "No," but one of the kids chimed in, "Yes, mom, she did, because I heard Sam tell her." Lincoln sat there for a while and then went on with his business. "The situation was now complicated," Lincoln thought, considering how he was very poor and Miss Owens was quite wealthy, which made him feel it was a slight against him. Abe misjudged the situation; money didn't matter to Miss Owens. She wished she had acted differently. Abe wouldn’t back down, and Miss Owens wouldn’t either. She said that if she had the chance to do it all over again, she would play her cards differently... She had two sons in the Southern army and mentioned that if either of them had gotten into trouble, she would have gladly gone to old Abe for help.
In Miss Owens's letter of July 22, 1866, it will be observed! that she tacitly admitted to Mr. Gaines Greene "the circumstances in connection with Mrs. Greene and child." Although she here denies the precise words alleged to have been used by her in the little quarrel at the top of the hill, she does not deny the impression his conduct left upon her mind, but presents additional evidence of it by the relation of another incident of similar character, from which her inferences were the same.
In Miss Owens's letter from July 22, 1866, it's clear that she subtly acknowledged to Mr. Gaines Greene "the situation regarding Mrs. Greene and the child." While she denies the exact words she supposedly used during the small argument at the top of the hill, she doesn't deny the impact his actions had on her thoughts. Instead, she offers more proof of this by recounting another similar incident that led her to the same conclusions.
Fortunately we are not compelled, to rely upon tradition, however authentic, for the facts concerning this interesting episode in Mr. Lincoln's life. Miss Owens is still alive to tell her own tale, and we have besides his letters to the lady herself. Mr. Lincoln wrote his account of it as early as 1838. As in duty bound, we shall permit the lady to speak first. At her particular request, her present name and residence are suppressed.
Fortunately, we don't have to rely on tradition, no matter how genuine, for the details about this fascinating moment in Mr. Lincoln's life. Miss Owens is still alive to share her own story, and we also have his letters to her. Mr. Lincoln wrote his version of the story as early as 1838. As is proper, we'll let the lady speak first. At her specific request, her current name and location are kept private.
———, May 1, 1866.
———, May 1, 1866.
Mr. W. H. Herndon.
Mr. W.H. Herndon.
Dear Sir,—After quite a struggle with my feelings, I have at last decided to send you the letters in my possession written by Mr. Lincoln, believing, as I do, that you are a gentleman of honor, and will faithfully abide by all you have said.
Dear Sir,—After much conflict with my emotions, I have finally decided to send you the letters I have written by Mr. Lincoln, trusting that you are a man of integrity and will honor all you have promised.
My associations with your lamented friend were in Menard County, whilst visiting a sister, who then resided near Petersburg. I have learned that my maiden name is now in your possession; and you have ere this, no doubt, been informed that I am a native Kentuckian.
My connections with your sadly departed friend were in Menard County while I was visiting a sister who lived near Petersburg. I’ve heard that my maiden name is now with you; and you’ve probably already been told that I’m originally from Kentucky.
As regards Miss Rutledge, I cannot tell you any thing, she having died previous to my acquaintance with Mr. Lincoln; and I do not now recollect of ever hearing him mention her name. Please return the letters at your earliest convenience.
As for Miss Rutledge, I can’t tell you anything; she passed away before I met Mr. Lincoln, and I don’t recall ever hearing him mention her name. Please return the letters as soon as you can.
Very respectfully yours,
Sincerely yours,
Mary S.———.
Mary S.———.
———, May 22,1866.
———, May 22, 1866.
Mr. W. H. Herndon.
Mr. W. H. Herndon.
My dear Sir,—Really you catechise me in true lawyer style; but I feel you will have the goodness to excuse me if I decline answering all your questions in detail, being well assured that few women would have ceded as much as I have under all the circumstances.
My dear Sir,—You’re really interrogating me like a true lawyer; however, I hope you’ll understand if I choose not to answer all your questions in detail, being confident that few women would have given in as much as I have given given the circumstances.
You say you have heard why our acquaintance terminated as it did. I, too, have heard the same bit of gossip; but I never used the remark which Madam Rumor says I did to Mr. Lincoln. I think I did on one occasion say to my sister, who was very anxious for us to be married, that I thought Mr. Lincoln was deficient in those little links which make up the chain of woman's happiness,—at least, it was so in my case. Not that I believed it proceeded from a lack of goodness of heart: but his training had been different from mine; hence there was not that congeniality which would otherwise have existed.
You say you’ve heard why our friendship ended the way it did. I’ve heard the same gossip, but I never made the comment that Madam Rumor claims I did to Mr. Lincoln. I think I mentioned once to my sister, who was very eager for us to get married, that I felt Mr. Lincoln was lacking those little qualities that create a woman’s happiness—in my case, at least. It’s not that I thought he wasn’t a good person; it’s just that he was raised differently than I was, so there wasn’t that natural compatibility that might have been there otherwise.
From his own showing, you perceive that his heart and hand were at my disposal; and I suppose that my feelings were not sufficiently enlisted to have the matter consummated. About the beginning of the year 1833 I left Illinois, at which time our acquaintance and correspondence ceased without ever again being renewed.
From what he showed me, you can see that he was willing to offer his heart and help; yet, I guess my feelings weren't strong enough to take it to the next level. At the start of 1833, I moved away from Illinois, and that's when our friendship and communication ended without ever being picked up again.
My father, who resided in Green County, Kentucky, was a gentleman of considerable means; and I am persuaded that few persons placed a higher estimate on education than he did.
My father, who lived in Green County, Kentucky, was a man of significant wealth; and I believe that very few people valued education more than he did.
Respectfully yours,
Respectfully,
Mart S.———.
Mart S.
———, July 22, 1866.
———, July 22, 1866.
Mr. W. H. Herndon.
Mr. W.H. Herndon.
Dear Sir,—I do not think that you are pertinacious in asking the question relative to old Mrs. Bowlin Greene, because I wish to set you right on that question. Your information, no doubt, came through my cousin, Mr. Gaines Greene, who visited us last winter. Whilst here, he was laughing at me about Mr. Lincoln, and among other things spoke about the circumstance in connection with Mrs. Greene and child. My impression is now that I tacitly admitted it, for it was a season of trouble with me, and I gave but little heed to the matter. We never had any hard feelings toward each other that I know of. On no occasion did I say to Mr. Lincoln that I did not believe he would make a kind husband, because he did not tender his services to Mrs. Greene in helping of her carry her babe. As I said to you in a former letter, I thought him lacking in smaller attentions. One circumstance presents itself just now to my mind's eye. There was a company of us going to Uncle Billy Greene's. Mr. Lincoln was riding with me; and we had a very bad branch to cross. The other gentlemen were very officious in seeing that their partners got over safely. We were behind, he riding in, never looking back to see how I got along. When I rode up beside him, I remarked, "You are a nice fellow! I suppose you did not care whether my neck was broken or not." He laughingly replied (I suppose by way of compliment) that he knew I was plenty smart to take care of myself.
Dear Sir,—I don’t think you’re being stubborn by asking about old Mrs. Bowlin Greene, as I want to clarify things for you. Your information likely came from my cousin, Mr. Gaines Greene, who visited us last winter. While he was here, he joked with me about Mr. Lincoln and mentioned the situation involving Mrs. Greene and her child. I now realize that I might have subtly agreed with him, as it was a tough time for me and I paid little attention to the matter. To my knowledge, we never had any hard feelings towards each other. I never told Mr. Lincoln that I didn’t think he would be a kind husband just because he didn’t offer to help Mrs. Greene carry her baby. As I mentioned in a previous letter, I thought he was lacking in smaller gestures. One situation pops into my mind right now. A group of us was heading to Uncle Billy Greene's. Mr. Lincoln was riding alongside me, and we had a really tough branch to cross. The other gentlemen were quite eager to help their partners cross safely. We were lagging behind, him riding ahead without looking back to check on me. When I finally caught up to him, I said, "You're a nice guy! I guess you didn’t care whether I broke my neck or not." He jokingly replied (I think to compliment me) that he knew I was clever enough to take care of myself.
In many things he was sensitive, almost to a fault. He told me of an incident: that he was crossing a prairie one day, and saw before him "a hog mired down," to use his own language. He was rather "fixed up;" and he resolved that he would pass on without looking towards the shoat. After he had gone by, he said the feeling was irresistible; and he had to look back, and the poor thing seemed to say wistfully, "There, now, my last hope is gone;" that he deliberately got down, and relieved it from its difficulty.
In many ways, he was sensitive to an almost excessive degree. He told me about an incident: one day, while crossing a prairie, he saw in front of him “a hog stuck in the mud,” as he put it. He was dressed fairly well, and he decided that he would walk by without looking at the pig. But after he had passed, he said the urge was too strong, and he had to look back; the poor animal seemed to say sadly, “There, now, my last hope is gone.” So he intentionally got down and helped it out of its predicament.
In many things we were congenial spirits. In politics we saw eye to eye, though since then we differed as widely as the South is from the North. But methinks I hear you say, "Save me from a political woman!" So say I.
In many ways, we were like-minded. In politics, we were on the same page, although since then we've disagreed as much as the South and the North. But I can hear you saying, "Save me from a political woman!" I agree.
The last message I ever received from him was about a year after we parted in Illinois. Mrs. Able visited Kentucky; and he said to her in Springfield, "Tell your sister that I think she was a great fool, because she did not stay here, and marry me." Characteristic of the man.
The last message I ever got from him was about a year after we separated in Illinois. Mrs. Able visited Kentucky, and he told her in Springfield, "Tell your sister that I think she was a big fool for not staying here and marrying me." Just typical of him.
Respectfully yours,
Sincerely,
Mary S.———.
Mary S.
Vandalia, Dec. 13, 1836.
Vandalia, Dec. 13, 1836.
Mary,—I have been sick ever since my arrival, or I should have written sooner. It is but little difference, however, as I have very little even yet to write. And more, the longer I can avoid the mortification of looking in the post-office for your letter, and not finding it, the better. You see I am mad about that old letter yet. I don't like very well to risk you again. I'll try you once more, anyhow.
Mary, I've been sick ever since I got here, or I would have written sooner. It doesn't really matter, though, since I still don't have much to say. Plus, the longer I can keep from being disappointed by checking the post office for your letter and not finding it, the better. You see, I’m still upset about that old letter. I’m not too keen on risking my feelings again, but I’ll give it another shot anyway.
The new State House is not yet finished, and consequently the Legislature is doing little or nothing. The Governor delivered an inflammatory political message, and it is expected there will be some sparring between the parties about it as soon as the two Houses get to business. Taylor delivered up his petitions for the new county to one of our members this morning. I am told he despairs of its success, on account of all the members from Morgan County opposing it. There are names enough on the petition, I think, to justify the members from our county in going for it; but if the members from Morgan oppose it, which they say they will, the chance will be bad.
The new State House isn't finished yet, so the Legislature isn't doing much. The Governor gave a contentious political speech, and it's expected that there will be some back-and-forth between the parties about it once the two Houses start working. Taylor submitted his petitions for the new county to one of our members this morning. I've heard he’s losing hope for its success because all the members from Morgan County are against it. I think there are enough names on the petition to encourage our county's members to support it, but if the Morgan members are opposed, as they say they will be, the chances look slim.
Our chance to take the seat of government to Springfield is better than I expected. An internal-improvement convention was held here since we met, which recommended a loan of several million of dollars, on the faith of the State, to construct railroads. Some of the Legislature are for it, and some against it: which has the majority I cannot tell. There is great strife and struggling for the office of the United States Senator here at this time. It is probable we shall ease their pains in a few days. The opposition men have no candidate of their own; and consequently they will smile as complacently at the angry snarl of the contending Van-Buren candidates and their respective friends, as the Christian does at Satan's rage. You recollect that I mentioned at the outset of this letter that I had been unwell. That is the fact, though I believe I am about well now; but that, with other things I cannot account for, have conspired, and have gotten my spirits so low that I feel that I would rather be any place in the world than here. I really cannot endure the thought of staying here ten weeks. Write back as soon as you get this, and, if possible, say something that will please me; for really I have not been pleased since I left you. This letter is so dry and stupid that I am ashamed to send it, but with my present feelings I cannot do any better.
Our chance to take the government seat to Springfield is better than I expected. Since we last met, there was an internal-improvement convention here that recommended borrowing several million dollars, backed by the state, to build railroads. Some in the Legislature are for it, and some are against it; I can't tell which side has the majority. Right now, there’s a lot of competition for the United States Senate seat. It's likely we’ll relieve their tensions in a few days. The opposing party doesn't have a candidate of their own, so they’ll just watch with satisfaction as the Van-Buren candidates and their supporters clash, much like a Christian watching Satan fume. You remember I mentioned earlier in this letter that I haven’t been feeling well. That’s true, but I think I’m getting better now; however, that and a few other things I can’t explain have really brought my spirits down, making me wish to be anywhere else in the world. I honestly can't stand the thought of being here for ten weeks. Write back as soon as you can, and if possible, say something that will make me happy, because I haven’t felt pleased since I left you. This letter is so dull and uninspiring that I’m embarrassed to send it, but with how I’m feeling right now, I can’t do any better.
Give my best respects to Mr. and Mrs. Able and family.
Give my best regards to Mr. and Mrs. Able and their family.
Your friend,
Your buddy,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Springfield, May 7, 1837.
Springfield, May 7, 1837.
Miss Mary S. Owens.
Miss Mary S. Owens.
Friend Mary,—I have commenced two letters to send you before this, both of which displeased me before I got half done, and so I tore them up. The first I thought was not serious enough, and the second was on the other extreme. I shall send this, turn out as it may.
Friend Mary,—I've started two letters to send you before this, but I was unhappy with both of them before I was halfway through, so I ended up tearing them up. The first one felt too lighthearted, and the second was way too serious. I'm sending this one, no matter what happens.
This thing of living in Springfield is rather a dull business, after all; at least, it is so to me. I am quite as lonesome here as I ever was anywhere in my life. I have been spoken to by but one woman since I've been here, and should not have been by her, if she could have avoided it. I've never been to church yet, nor probably shall not be soon. I stay away because I am conscious I should not know how to behave myself.
Living in Springfield is pretty boring, to be honest; at least, it is for me. I feel just as lonely here as I ever did anywhere else in my life. I’ve only been spoken to by one woman since I arrived, and she probably would have avoided talking to me if she could. I haven't been to church yet, and I probably won't go anytime soon. I stay away because I'm aware that I wouldn't know how to act.
I am often thinking about what we said of your coming to live at Springfield. I am afraid you would not be satisfied. There is a great deal of flourishing about in carriages here, which it would be your doom to see without sharing it. You would have to be poor, without the means of hiding your poverty. Do you believe you could bear that patiently? Whatever woman may cast her lot with mine, should any ever do so, it is my intention to do all in my power to make her happy and contented; and there is nothing I can imagine that would make me more unhappy than to fail in the effort. I know I should be much happier with you than the way I am, provided I saw no signs of discontent in you. What you have said to me may have been in the way of jest, or I may have misunderstood it. If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise, I much wish you would think seriously before you decide. For my part, I have already decided. What I have said I will most positively abide by, provided you wish it. My opinion is, that you had better not do it. You have not been accustomed to hardship, and it may be more severe than you now imagine. I know you are capable of thinking correctly on any subject; and, if you deliberate maturely upon this before you decide, then I am willing to abide your decision.
I often think about what we talked about regarding your move to Springfield. I'm afraid you might not be happy here. There's a lot of showiness with carriages that you would see without being able to join in. You would have to deal with being poor, and there wouldn’t be a way to hide that. Do you think you could handle that calmly? Any woman who shares her life with mine, if that ever happens, I want to do everything I can to make her happy and content. Nothing would make me more upset than failing at that. I know I would be much happier with you than I am now, as long as I didn’t notice any unhappiness from you. What you told me may have been a joke, or maybe I misunderstood it. If that's the case, let's forget about it; otherwise, I really hope you think it over carefully before making a decision. As for me, I've already made up my mind. What I’ve said, I will definitely stick to, as long as you want that. I believe it might be better for you not to do it. You haven't faced much hardship, and it could be tougher than you think. I know you’re capable of thinking clearly about any issue, and if you take your time to consider this before deciding, then I’m okay with whatever choice you make.
You must write me a good long letter after you get this. You have nothing else to do; and, though it might not seem interesting to you after you have written it, it would be a good deal of company to me in this "busy wilderness." Tell your sister, I don't want to hear any more about selling out and moving, That gives me the hypo whenever I think of it.
You need to write me a long letter after you get this. You have nothing else to do, and even if it doesn't seem interesting to you once you've written it, it will keep me company in this "busy wilderness." Tell your sister that I don’t want to hear any more about selling everything and moving. Just thinking about it gives me the blues.
Yours, &c.,
Yours, etc.,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Springfield, Aug. 16, 1837.
Springfield, Aug. 16, 1837.
Friend Mary,—You will no doubt think it rather strange that I should write you a letter on the same day on which we parted; and I can only account for it by supposing that seeing you lately makes me think of you more than usual; while at our late meeting we had but few expressions of thoughts. You must know that I cannot see you, or think of you, with entire indifference; and yet it may be that you are mistaken in regard to what my real feelings toward you are. If I knew you were not, I should not trouble you with this letter. Perhaps any other man would know enough without further information; but I consider it my peculiar right to plead ignorance, and your bounden duty to allow the plea. I want in all cases to do right; and most particularly so in all cases with women. I want, at this particular time, more than any thing else, to do right with you: and if I knew it would be doing right, as I rather suspect it would, to let you alone, I would do it. And, for the purpose of making the matter as plain as possible, I now say that you can now drop the subject, dismiss your thoughts (if you ever had any) from me forever, and leave this letter unanswered, without calling forth one accusing murmur from me. And I will even go further, and say, that, if it will add any thing to your comfort or peace of mind to do so, it is my sincere wish that you should. Do not understand by this that I wish to cut your acquaintance. I mean no such thing. What I do wish is, that our further acquaintance shall depend upon yourself. If such further acquaintance would constitute nothing to your happiness, I am sure it would not to mine. If you feel yourself in any degree bound to me, I am now willing to release you, provided you wish it; while, on the other hand, I am willing, and even anxious, to bind you faster, if I can be convinced that it will, in any considerable degree, add to your happiness. This, indeed, is the whole question with me. Nothing would make me more miserable than to believe you miserable,—nothing more happy than to know you were so.
Dear Mary, — You might find it a bit odd that I'm writing to you on the same day we said goodbye; the only reason I can come up with is that seeing you recently has made me think about you more than usual, especially since we didn’t share many thoughts during our last meeting. You should know that I can’t see you or think of you without feeling something, and yet, you might be wrong about what my true feelings for you are. If I knew you weren't, I wouldn’t bother you with this letter. Other guys might figure this out without more context, but I’m choosing to admit my uncertainty and I hope you feel it’s your duty to accept that. I always want to do the right thing, especially when it comes to women. Right now, more than anything, I want to do the right thing for you: if I thought that leaving you alone would be the right thing to do— which I somewhat suspect it might be—I’d do it. To be as clear as possible, you can drop this subject, forget about me (if you ever thought about me at all), and leave this letter unanswered, without me ever holding it against you. In fact, I’ll go a step further: if it would give you any comfort or peace of mind to do so, I honestly wish you would. Don’t think this means I want to end our friendship; that’s not my intention. What I actually want is for our future interactions to be entirely up to you. If continuing our relationship doesn’t bring you any happiness, then I’m sure it wouldn’t bring me any either. If you feel at all obligated to me, I’m happy to release you, as long as that’s what you want; on the flip side, I’m more than willing—and even eager—to get closer, if I can be convinced it would genuinely make you happier. That’s really the main point for me. Nothing would make me feel worse than knowing you’re unhappy—nothing would make me happier than knowing you are.
In what I have now said, I think I cannot be misunderstood; and to make myself understood is the only object of this letter.
In what I just said, I believe I can't be misinterpreted; and making myself clear is the only goal of this letter.
If it suits you best to not answer this, farewell. A long life and a merry one attend you. But, if you conclude to write back, speak as plainly as I do. There can be neither harm nor danger in saying to me any thing you think, just in the manner you think it.
If it works better for you not to respond, goodbye. Wishing you a long and happy life. But if you decide to write back, be as straightforward as I am. There's no harm or danger in telling me anything you think, exactly how you think it.
My respects to your sister. Your friend,
My regards to your sister. Your friend,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
After his second meeting with Mary, Mr. Lincoln had little time to prosecute his addresses in person; for early in December he was called away to his seat in the Legislature; but, if his tongue was silent in the cause, his pen was busy.
After his second meeting with Mary, Mr. Lincoln had little time to deliver his speeches in person; because early in December, he was called away to his position in the Legislature. But even if he wasn't speaking publicly, his pen was working hard.
During the session of the Legislature of 1886-7, Mr. Lincoln made the acquaintance of Mrs. O. H. Browning, whose husband was also a member. The acquaintance ripened into friendship, and that winter and the next Mr. Lincoln spent a great deal of time in social intercourse with the Brownings. Mrs. Browning knew nothing as yet of the affair with Miss Owens; but as the latter progressed, and Lincoln became more and more involved, she noticed the ebb of his spirits, and often rallied him as the victim of some secret but consuming passion. With this for his excuse, Lincoln wrote her, after the adjournment of the Legislature, a full and connected account of the manner in which he had latterly been making "a fool of" himself. For many reasons the publication of this letter is an extremely painful duty. If it could be withheld, and the act decently reconciled to the conscience of a biographer professing to be honest and candid, it should never see the light in these pages. Its grotesque humor, its coarse exaggerations in describing the person of a lady whom the writer was willing to marry, its imputation of toothless and weatherbeaten old age to a woman really young and handsome, its utter lack of that delicacy of tone and sentiment which one naturally expects a gentleman to adopt when he thinks proper to discuss the merits of his late mistress,—all these, and its defective orthography, it would certainly be more agreeable to suppress than to publish. But, if we begin by omitting or mutilating a document which sheds so broad a light upon one part of his life and one phase of his character, why may we not do the like as fast and as often as the temptations arise? and where shall the process cease? A biography worth writing at all is worth writing fully and honestly; and the writer who suppresses or mangles the truth is no better than he who bears false witness in any other capacity. In April, 1838, Miss Owens finally departed from Illinois; and in that same month Mr. Lincoln wrote Mrs. Browning:—
During the 1886-7 Legislative session, Mr. Lincoln met Mrs. O. H. Browning, whose husband was also a member. Their acquaintance grew into friendship, and that winter and the next, Mr. Lincoln spent a lot of time socializing with the Brownings. Mrs. Browning was unaware of the situation with Miss Owens at that point; however, as things progressed and Lincoln became more entangled, she noticed his fading spirits and often teased him about being the victim of some hidden but intense passion. Using this as an excuse, Lincoln wrote her, after the Legislature adjourned, a detailed account of how he had recently been "making a fool of" himself. For many reasons, publishing this letter is a very difficult task. If it could be kept private, and this act could be comfortably reconciled with the conscience of a biographer claiming to be honest and open, it should never be revealed in these pages. Its absurd humor, crude exaggerations when describing a woman he was willing to marry, its portrayal of her as toothless and weatherworn despite her being young and attractive, and its complete absence of the subtlety and sentiment one would expect from a gentleman discussing his former mistress—all of these, along with its poor spelling, it would definitely be more pleasant to hide than to share. But if we start by omitting or altering a document that casts such a clear light on one part of his life and one aspect of his character, why shouldn’t we do the same whenever temptations arise? And where would that process end? A biography worth writing is worth writing in full and with honesty; and a writer who hides or distorts the truth is no better than someone who gives false testimony in any other situation. In April 1838, Miss Owens finally left Illinois; and in that same month, Mr. Lincoln wrote to Mrs. Browning:—
Springfield, April 1, 1838.
Springfield, April 1, 1838.
Dear Madam,—Without appologising for being egotistical, I shall make the history of so much of my life as has elapsed since I saw you the subject of this letter. And, by the way, I now discover, that, in order to give a full and inteligible account of the things I have done and suffered since I saw you, I shall necessarily have to relate some that happened before.
Dear Madam,—Without apologizing for being self-centered, I’ll make the history of my life since I last saw you the subject of this letter. By the way, I’ve now realized that in order to give a complete and clear account of what I’ve done and experienced since we last met, I’ll need to include some things that happened beforehand.
It was, then, in the autumn of 1836, that a married lady of my acquaintance, and who was a great friend of mine, being about to pay a visit to her father & other relatives residing in Kentucky, proposed to me that on her return she would bring a sister of hers with her on condition that I would engage to become her brother-in-law with all convenient despatch. I, of course, accepted the proposal, for you know I could not have done otherwise, had I really been averse to it; but privately, between you and me, I was most confoundedly well pleased with the project. I had seen the said sister some three years before, thought her inteligent and agreeable, and saw no good objection to plodding life through hand in hand with her. Time passed on, the lady took her journey, and in due time returned, sister in company, sure enough. This astonished me a little; for it appeared to me that her coming so readily showed that she was a trifle too willing; but, on reflection, it occurred to me that she might have been prevailed on by her married sister to come, without any thing concerning me ever having been mentioned to her; and so I concluded, that, if no other objection presented itself, I would consent to wave this. All this occurred to me on hearing of her arrival in the neighborhood; for, be it remembered, I had not yet seen her, except about three years previous, as above mentioned. In a few days we had an interview; and, although I had seen her before, she did not look as my imagination had pictured her. I knew she was oversize, but she now appeared a fair match for Falstaff. I knew she was called an "old maid," and I felt no doubt of the truth of at least half of the appelation; but now, when I beheld her, I could not for my life avoid thinking of my mother; and this, not from withered features, for her skin was too full of fat 'to permit of its contracting into wrinkles, but from her want of teeth, weather-beaten appearance in general, and from a kind of notion that ran in my head that nothing could have commenced at the size of infancy and reached her present bulk in less than thirty-five or forty years; and, in short, I was not at all pleased with her. But what could I do? I had told her sister that I would take her for better or for worse; and I made a point of honor and conscience in all things to stick to my word, especially if others had been induced to act on it, which in this case I had no doubt they had; for I was now fairly convinced that no other man on earth would have her, and hence the conclusion that they were bent on holding me to my bargain. "Well," thought I, "I have said it, and, be the consequences what they may, it shall not be my fault if I fail to do it." At once I determined to consider her my wife; and, this done, all my powers of discovery were put to work in search of perfections in her which might be fairly sett off against her defects. I tried to imagine her handsome, which, but for her unfortunate corpulency, was actually true. Exclusive of this, no woman that I have ever seen has a finer face. I also tried to convince myself that the mind was much more to be valued than the person; and in this she was not inferior, as I could discover, to any with whom I had been acquainted.
It was in the fall of 1836 that a married friend of mine, who I was very close to, was about to visit her father and other relatives in Kentucky. She suggested that on her way back, she would bring her sister along, on the condition that I would promise to become her brother-in-law as soon as possible. Naturally, I accepted the offer because I couldn’t have done otherwise, even if I had been hesitant. But truth be told, I was quite pleased with the idea. I had met the sister about three years earlier and found her smart and pleasant, and I had no real objections to sharing my life with her. Time passed, and my friend went on her trip and came back with her sister, just as promised. This surprised me a bit because it seemed like she was a bit too eager, but I thought maybe her married sister had convinced her to come without mentioning anything about me. So, I decided to overlook that concern. This realization came to me when I learned of her arrival nearby; remember, I hadn’t seen her since that meeting three years back. A few days later, we met, and even though I recognized her from before, she didn’t look like I had imagined. I knew she was on the larger side, but she now reminded me of Falstaff. I had heard she was called an "old maid," and I was certain there was some truth to that label. However, when I saw her, I couldn’t help but think of my mother—not because her face was wrinkled, as it was too plump to have any creases, but because of her missing teeth, her generally weathered look, and the strange thought that something must have started small and taken thirty-five or forty years to reach her current size. Honestly, I wasn’t pleased with her at all. But what could I do? I had told her sister I would take her for better or for worse, and I believed it was a matter of honor and conscience to keep my word, especially if others were counting on it. I had no doubt they were; it seemed clear to me that no other man would want her, so they were probably determined to hold me to my promise. "Well," I thought, "I’ve said it, and no matter the consequences, it won't be my fault if I don’t follow through." I decided to treat her as my wife, and once I'd made that choice, I focused all my energy on finding qualities in her that could balance out her shortcomings. I tried to convince myself she was attractive, which, aside from her unfortunate weight, was somewhat accurate. Besides that, I’d never seen a woman with a more beautiful face. I also tried to reassure myself that a good mind was more valuable than looks, and she seemed to have as much intellect as anyone I’d known.
Shortly after this, without attempting to come to any positive understanding with her, I sat out for Vandalia, when and where you first saw me. During my stay there I had letters from her which did not change my opinion of either her intelect or intention, but, on the contrary, confirmed it in both.
Shortly after this, without trying to reach any clear understanding with her, I set off for Vandalia, where you first saw me. During my time there, I received letters from her that didn't change my opinion about her intelligence or intentions; instead, they confirmed it in both respects.
All this while, although I was fixed, "firm as the surge-repelling rock," in my resolution, I found I was continually repenting the rashness which had led me to make it. Through life, I have been in no bondage, either real or imaginary, from the thraldom of which I so much desired to be free. After my return home, I saw nothing to change my opinions of her in any particular. She was the same, and so was I. I now spent my time in planing how I might get along through life after my contemplated change of circumstances should have taken place, and how I might procrastinate the evil day for a time, which I really dreaded as much, perhaps more, than an Irishman does the halter.
All this time, even though I was set, "solid as the rock that holds back the waves," in my decision, I found myself constantly regretting the impulsiveness that made me take it. Throughout my life, I’ve never been truly trapped, either physically or mentally, from which I had longed to be free. After returning home, I saw nothing that changed my views on her in any way. She was the same, and so was I. I now spent my time figuring out how I could manage my life after the change in my circumstances happened and how I could delay the dreaded day, which I feared as much, if not more, than an Irishman fears the noose.
After all my suffering upon this deeply-interesting subject, here I am, wholly, unexpectedly, completely, out of the "scrape;" and I now want to know if you can guess how I got out of it,—out, clear, in every sense of the term; no violation of word, honor, or conscience. I don't believe you can guess, and so I might as well tell you at once. As the lawyer says, it was done in the manner following, to wit: After I had delayed the matter as long as I thought I could in honor do (which, by the way, had brought me round into the last fall), I concluded I might as well bring it to a consumation without further delay; and so I mustered my resolution, and made the proposal to her direct: but, shocking to relate, she answered, No, At first I supposed she did it through an affectation of modesty, which I thought but ill became her under the peculiar circumstances of her case; but, on my renewal of the charge, I found she repeled it with greater firmness than before. I tried it again and again, but with the same success, or rather with the same want of success.
After all my struggles with this really interesting situation, here I am, completely and unexpectedly out of the "scrape," and now I want to see if you can guess how I got out of it—totally free, in every sense of the word; no breach of trust, honor, or conscience. I doubt you can guess, so I might as well just tell you right away. As the lawyer would say, it happened like this: After I had postponed things for as long as I thought I could in good conscience (which, by the way, had landed me in a tough spot last fall), I decided it was time to wrap it up without any more delays. So, I gathered my courage and proposed to her directly: but shockingly, she said no. At first, I thought she was just pretending to be modest, which seemed inappropriate given her situation; but when I brought it up again, I found she refused even more firmly than before. I tried again and again, but with the same lack of success.
I finally was forced to give it up; at which I verry unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond endurance. I was mortified, it seemed to me, in a hundred different ways. My vanity was deeply wounded by the reflection that I had so long been too stupid to discover her intentions, and at the same time never doubting that I understood them perfectly; and also that she, whom I had taught myself to believe nobody else would have, had actually rejected me with all my fancied greatness. And, to cap the whole, I then, for the first time, began to suspect that I was really a little in love with her. But let it all go. I'll try and outlive it. Others have been made fools of by the girls; but this can never with truth be said of me. I most emphatically, in this instance, made a fool of myself. I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason: I can never be satisfied with any one who would be blockhead enough to have me.
I finally had to give it up; at which point I unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond endurance. I felt embarrassed in a hundred different ways. My pride was deeply hurt by the realization that I had been too naive to recognize her intentions, while at the same time believing I understood them perfectly. Additionally, the fact that she, whom I had convinced myself nobody else would want, had actually rejected me despite my imagined greatness. To make matters worse, I began to suspect for the first time that I might actually be a little in love with her. But let it go. I’ll try to move on. Others have been made fools of by girls; but I can never truthfully say that about myself. I most definitely, in this case, made a fool of myself. I have now decided never to think about marriage again, and for this reason: I could never be satisfied with anyone who would be foolish enough to want me.
When you receive this, write me a long yarn about something to amuse me. Give my respects to Mr. Browning.
When you get this, send me a long story about something entertaining. Please give my regards to Mr. Browning.
Your sincere friend,
Your true friend,
A. Lincoln,
Lincoln,
Mrs. O. H. Browning.
Mrs. O.H. Browning.
CHAPTER X
THE majority of Mr. Lincoln's biographers—and they are many and credulous—tell us that he walked from New Salem to Vandalia, a distance of one hundred miles, to take his seat, for the first time, in the Legislature of the State. But that is an innocent mistake; for he was resolved to appear with as much of the dignity of the senator as his circumstances would permit. It was for this very purpose that he had borrowed the two hundred dollars from Coleman Smoot; and, when the choice between riding and walking presented itself, he sensibly enough got into the stage, with his new clothes on, and rode to the scene of his labors.
Most of Mr. Lincoln's biographers—and there are quite a few of them who believe everything—they say that he walked from New Salem to Vandalia, a hundred miles, to take his seat in the State Legislature for the first time. But that's a simple error; he wanted to show up with as much dignity as possible for a senator, given his situation. That's exactly why he borrowed two hundred dollars from Coleman Smoot; and when he had the option to ride or walk, he smartly chose to get into the stagecoach, wearing his new clothes, and rode to his new job.
When he arrived there, he found a singular state of affairs. Duncan had been chosen Governor at the recent August election by "the whole-hog Jackson men;" but he was absent in Congress during the whole of the campaign; and, now that he came to the duties of his office, it was discovered that he had been all the while an anti-Jackson man, and was quite willing to aid the Whigs in furtherance of some of their worst schemes. These schemes were then just beginning to be hatched in great numbers; but in due time they were enacted into laws, and prepared Illinois with the proper weights of public debt and "rag" currency, to sink her deeper than her neighbors into the miseries of financial ruin in 1837. The speculating fever was just reaching Illinois; the land and town-lot business had barely taken shape at Chicago; and State banks and multitudinous internal improvements were yet to be invented. But this Legislature was a very wise one in its own conceit, and was not slow to launch out with the first of a series of magnificent experiments. It contented itself, however, with chartering a State bank, with a capital of one million five hundred thousand dollars; rechartering, with a capital of three hundred thousand dollars, the Shawneetown Bank, which had broken twelve years before; and providing for a loan of five hundred thousand dollars, on the credit of the State, wherewith to make a beginning on the Illinois and Michigan Canal. The bill for the latter project was drawn and introduced by Senator James M. Strode, the gentleman who described with such moving eloquence the horrors of Stillman's defeat. These measures Gov. Ford considers "the beginning of all the bad legislation which followed in a few years, and which, as is well known, resulted in general ruin." Mr. Lincoln favored them all, and faithfully followed out the policy of which they were the inauguration at subsequent sessions of the same body. For the present, nevertheless, he was a silent member, although he was assigned a prominent place on the Committee on Public Accounts and Expenditures. The bank-charters were drawn by a Democrat who hoped to find his account in the issue; all the bills were passed by a Legislature "nominally" Democratic; but the Board of Canal Commissioners was composed exclusively of Whigs, and the Whigs straightway assumed control of the banks.
When he got there, he found a unique situation. Duncan had been elected Governor during the recent August election by the "full-on Jackson supporters;" however, he was absent in Congress throughout the entire campaign. Now that he was taking on his responsibilities, it turned out that he had actually been an anti-Jackson supporter all along and was more than willing to help the Whigs with some of their worst plans. These plans were just beginning to form in large numbers, but eventually, they were made into laws, weighing down Illinois with public debt and "rag" currency, pushing it deeper into financial ruin than its neighbors in 1837. The speculating frenzy was just starting to hit Illinois; the land and town-lot market was barely starting in Chicago; and State banks and numerous internal improvements were still to be created. But this Legislature thought highly of itself and quickly jumped into a series of grand experiments. However, it settled for chartering a State bank with a capital of one million five hundred thousand dollars; rechartering the Shawneetown Bank, which had failed twelve years earlier, with a capital of three hundred thousand dollars; and arranging a loan of five hundred thousand dollars on the State’s credit to kick off the Illinois and Michigan Canal. The bill for that project was drafted and introduced by Senator James M. Strode, the man who emotionally described the horrors of Stillman's defeat. Governor Ford considers these actions as "the beginning of all the bad legislation that followed within a few years, which, as is well known, led to widespread ruin." Mr. Lincoln supported all of them and diligently followed the policy they initiated in later sessions of the same body. For now, though, he was a quiet member, even though he was given a significant role on the Committee on Public Accounts and Expenditures. The bank charters were written by a Democrat who hoped to benefit from the outcome; all the bills passed through a Legislature that was "nominally" Democratic, but the Board of Canal Commissioners was made up entirely of Whigs, who immediately took control of the banks.
It was at a special session of this Legislature that Lincoln first saw Stephen A. Douglas, and, viewing his active little person with immense amusement, pronounced him "the least man he ever saw." Douglas had come into the State (from Vermont) only the previous year, but, having studied law for several months, considered himself eminently qualified to be State's attorney for the district in which he lived, and was now come to Vandalia for that purpose. The place was already filled by a man of considerable distinction; but the incumbent remaining at home, possibly in blissful ignorance of his neighbor's design, was easily supplanted by the supple Vermonter.
It was during a special session of this Legislature that Lincoln first met Stephen A. Douglas and, finding his lively little figure quite amusing, called him "the least man he ever saw." Douglas had only moved to the state from Vermont the previous year, but after studying law for several months, he believed he was more than qualified to be the State's attorney for his district and had come to Vandalia to pursue that goal. The position was already filled by a man with a solid reputation; however, the current officeholder was staying at home, possibly unaware of his neighbor's intentions, making it easy for the agile Vermonter to take his place.
It is the misfortune of legislatures in general, as it was in those days the peculiar misfortune of the Legislature of Illinois, to be beset by a multitude of gentlemen engaged in the exclusive business of "log-rolling." Chief among the "rollers" were some of the most "distinguished" members, each assisted by an influential delegation from the district, bank, or "institution" to be benefited by the legislation proposed. An expert "log-roller," an especially wily and persuasive person, who could depict the merits of his scheme with roseate but delusive eloquence, was said to carry "a gourd of possum fat," and the unhappy victim of his art was said to be "greased and swallowed."
It is the unfortunate reality for legislatures in general, just as it was back then for the Legislature of Illinois, to be surrounded by many individuals focused solely on "log-rolling." Leading the "rollers" were some of the most "notable" members, each backed by a powerful group from the district, bank, or "institution" that stood to gain from the proposed legislation. An adept "log-roller," a particularly clever and convincing person, who could present the advantages of his proposal with upbeat but misleading charm, was said to carry "a gourd of possum fat," and the unlucky target of his tactics was said to be "greased and swallowed."
It is not to be supposed that anybody ever succeeded in anointing a single square inch of Mr. Lincoln's person with the "fat" that deluded; but historians aver that "the Long Nine," of whom he was the longest and cleverest, possessed "gourds" of extraordinary dimensions, and distributed "grease" of marvellous virtues. But of that at another place.
It’s not to be assumed that anyone ever managed to anoint even a tiny part of Mr. Lincoln's body with the "fat" that deceived; however, historians claim that "the Long Nine," of whom he was the tallest and smartest, had "gourds" of incredible size and shared "grease" with amazing properties. But more on that another time.
In 1836 Mr. Lincoln was again a candidate for the Legislature; his colleagues on the Whig ticket in Sangamon being, for Representatives, John Dawson, William F. Elkin, N. W. Edwards, Andrew McCormick, Dan Stone, and R. L. Wilson; and for Senators, A. G. Herndon and Job Fletcher. They were all elected but one, and he was beaten by John Calhoun.
In 1836, Mr. Lincoln ran again for the Legislature; his colleagues on the Whig ticket in Sangamon for Representatives were John Dawson, William F. Elkin, N. W. Edwards, Andrew McCormick, Dan Stone, and R. L. Wilson; and for Senators, A. G. Herndon and Job Fletcher. They all got elected except for one, who lost to John Calhoun.
Mr. Lincoln opened the campaign by the following manifesto:—
Mr. Lincoln kicked off the campaign with this manifesto:—
New Salem, June 13, 1836.
New Salem, June 13, 1836.
To the Editor of "The Journal."
To the Editor of "The Journal."
In your paper of last Saturday, I see a communication over the signature of "Many Voters," in which the candidates who are announced in the "Journal" are called upon to "show their hands." Agreed. Here's mine.
In your Saturday paper, I see a letter signed "Many Voters," where the candidates listed in the "Journal" are asked to "show their hands." Agreed. Here’s mine.
I go for all sharing the privileges of the government who assist in bearing its burdens. Consequently, I go for admitting all whites to the right of suffrage who pay taxes or bear arms (by no means excluding females).
I support extending the privileges of the government to everyone who helps bear its burdens. Therefore, I support allowing all whites the right to vote who pay taxes or serve in the military (definitely including women).
If elected, I shall consider the whole people of Sangamon my constituents, as well those that oppose as those that support me.
If I'm elected, I will see all the people of Sangamon as my constituents, including both those who oppose me and those who support me.
While acting as their Representative, I shall be governed by their will on all subjects upon which I have the means of knowing what their will is; and upon all others I shall do what my own judgment teaches me will best advance their interests. Whether elected or not, I go for distributing the proceeds of the sales of the public lands to the several States, to enable our State, in common with others, to dig canals and construct railroads without borrowing money and paying the interest on it.
While serving as their Representative, I will follow their wishes on all matters where I understand what they want; and on everything else, I will act based on my own judgment about what will best serve their interests. Whether elected or not, I support distributing the proceeds from the sales of public lands to the various States, so our State, along with others, can build canals and railroads without needing to borrow money and pay interest on it.
If alive on the first Monday in November, I shall vote for Hugh L. White for President.
If I'm alive on the first Monday in November, I'm going to vote for Hugh L. White for President.
Very respectfully,
Respectfully,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
The elections were held on the first Monday in August, and the campaign began about six weeks or two months before. Popular meetings were advertised in "The Sangamon Journal" and "The State Register,"—organs of the respective parties. Not unfrequently the meetings were joint, —composed of both parties,—when, as Lincoln would say, the candidates "put in their best licks," while the audience "rose to the height of the great argument" with cheers, taunts, cat-calls, fights, and other exercises appropriate to the free and untrammelled enjoyment of the freeman's boon.
The elections took place on the first Monday in August, and the campaign kicked off about six weeks to two months beforehand. Popular meetings were promoted in "The Sangamon Journal" and "The State Register," which were the mouthpieces of the two parties. Often, the meetings were joint—featuring both parties—where, as Lincoln would say, the candidates "gave it their all," while the audience "rose to the occasion" with cheers, taunts, cat-calls, fights, and other activities fitting for the unrestrained enjoyment of a free citizen's privilege.
The candidates travelled from one grove to another on horseback; and, when the "Long Nine" (all over six feet in height) took the road, it must have been a goodly sight to see.
The candidates rode horseback from one grove to another; and when the "Long Nine" (all over six feet tall) hit the road, it must have been quite a sight to see.
"I heard Lincoln make a speech," says James Gourly, "in Mechanicsburg, Sangamon County, in 1836. John Neal had a fight at the time: the roughs got on him, and Lincoln jumped in and saw fair play. We staid for dinner at Green's, close to Mechanicsburg,—drank whiskey sweetened with honey. There the questions discussed were internal improvements, Whig principles." (Gourly was a great friend of Lincoln's, for Gourly had had a foot-race "with H. B. Truett, now of California," and Lincoln had been his "judge;" and it was a remarkable circumstance, that nearly everybody for whom Lincoln "judged" came out ahead.)
"I heard Lincoln give a speech," says James Gourly, "in Mechanicsburg, Sangamon County, in 1836. John Neal was in a fight at the time: some rough guys were on him, and Lincoln jumped in to ensure fair play. We stayed for dinner at Green's, near Mechanicsburg, and drank whiskey sweetened with honey. The topics we discussed included internal improvements and Whig principles." (Gourly was a good friend of Lincoln's because Gourly had a foot race "with H. B. Truett, now of California," and Lincoln had been his "judge;" it was quite remarkable that almost everyone Lincoln "judged" ended up winning.)
"I heard Mr. Lincoln during the same canvass," continues Gourly. "It was at the Court House, where the State House now stands. The Whigs and Democrats had a general quarrel then and there. N. W. Edwards drew a pistol on Achilles Morris." But Gourly's account of this last scene is unsatisfactory, although the witness is willing; and we turn to Lincoln's colleague, Mr. Wilson, for a better one. "The Saturday evening preceding the election the candidates were addressing the people in the Court House at Springfield. Dr. Early, one of the candidates on the Democratic side, made some charge that N. W. Edwards, one of the candidates on the Whig side, deemed untrue. Edwards climbed on a table, so as to be seen by Early, and by every one in the house, and at the top of his voice told Early that the charge was false. The excitement that followed was intense,—so much so, that fighting men thought that a duel must settle the difficulty. Mr. Lincoln, by the programme, followed Early. He took up the subject in dispute, and handled it fairly, and with such ability that every one was astonished and pleased. So that difficulty ended there. Then, for the first time, developed by the excitement of the occasion, he spoke in that tenor intonation of voice that ultimately settled down into that clear, shrill monotone style of speaking that enabled his audience, however large, to hear distinctly the lowest sound of his voice."
"I heard Mr. Lincoln during the same campaign," Gourly continues. "It was at the Courthouse, where the State House now stands. The Whigs and Democrats were having a big argument right then and there. N. W. Edwards pulled a gun on Achilles Morris." But Gourly's description of this last scene is lacking, although the witness is willing; so we turn to Lincoln's colleague, Mr. Wilson, for a better account. "The Saturday evening before the election, the candidates were speaking to the crowd in the Courthouse in Springfield. Dr. Early, one of the Democratic candidates, made a claim that N. W. Edwards, one of the Whig candidates, thought was false. Edwards climbed on a table, so he could be seen by Early and everyone in the room, and shouted at the top of his lungs that Early's charge was untrue. The excitement that followed was intense—so much so that those inclined to fight thought a duel would settle things. Mr. Lincoln was scheduled to speak right after Early. He addressed the disputed topic fairly, and with such skill that everyone was shocked and pleased. So that conflict ended there. Then, for the first time, brought out by the tension of the situation, he spoke in that distinctive tone of voice that eventually settled into that clear, sharp monotone style of speaking that allowed his audience, no matter how large, to hear even the quietest sound of his voice."
It was during this campaign, possibly at the same meeting, that Mr. Speed heard him reply to George Forquer. Forquer had been a leading Whig, one of their foremost men in the Legislature of 1834, but had then recently changed sides, and thereupon was appointed Register of the Land Office at Springfield. Mr. Forquer was an astonishing man: he not only astonished the people by "changing his coat in politics," but by building the best frame-house in Springfield, and erecting over it the only lightning-rod the entire region could boast of. At this meeting he listened attentively to Mr. Lincoln's first speech, and was much annoyed by the transcendent power with which the awkward young man defended the principles he had himself so lately abandoned. "The speech" produced a profound impression, "especially upon a large number of Lincoln's friends and admirers, who had come in from the country" expressly to hear and applaud him.
It was during this campaign, probably at the same meeting, that Mr. Speed heard him respond to George Forquer. Forquer had been a prominent Whig, one of their top members in the Legislature of 1834, but had recently switched sides and was appointed Register of the Land Office in Springfield. Mr. Forquer was quite a character: he not only surprised people by "changing his coat in politics," but also by building the best frame house in Springfield and putting the only lightning rod in the entire area on it. At this meeting, he listened closely to Mr. Lincoln's first speech and was particularly frustrated by the remarkable way the awkward young man defended the principles he had just abandoned. "The speech" made a strong impact, especially on a large number of Lincoln's friends and admirers who had come from the countryside just to hear and cheer for him.
"At the conclusion of Lincoln's speech" (we quote from Mr. Speed), "the crowd was dispersing, when Forquer rose and asked to be heard. He commenced by saying that the young man would have to be taken down, and was sorry that the task devolved upon him. He then proceeded to answer Lincoln's speech in a style, which, while it was able and fair, yet, in his whole manner, asserted and claimed superiority. Lincoln stood near him, and watched him during the whole of his speech. When Forquer concluded, he took the stand again. I have often heard him since, in court and before the people, but never saw him appear so well as upon that occasion. He replied to Mr. Forquer with great dignity and force; but I shall never forget the conclusion of that speech. Turning to Mr. Forquer, he said, that he had commenced his speech by announcing that 'this young man would have to be taken down.' Turning then to the crowd, he said, 'It is for you, not for me, to say whether I am up or down. The gentleman has alluded to my being a young man: I am older in years than I am in the tricks and trades of politicians. I desire to live, and I desire place and distinction as a politician; but I would rather die now, than, like the gentleman, live to see the day that I would have to erect a lightning-rod to protect a guilty conscience from an offended God.'"
"At the end of Lincoln's speech" (we quote Mr. Speed), "the crowd was breaking up when Forquer stood up and asked to be heard. He started by saying that this young man would have to be taken down, and he regretted that the task fell to him. He then began to respond to Lincoln's speech in a way that, while competent and fair, nonetheless conveyed a sense of superiority. Lincoln stood nearby, observing him throughout his speech. When Forquer finished, Lincoln took the stage again. I've heard him speak many times since, in court and before audiences, but I've never seen him perform as well as he did that day. He responded to Mr. Forquer with great dignity and power; but I will never forget the end of that speech. Turning to Mr. Forquer, he said that Forquer had started his speech by claiming that 'this young man would have to be taken down.' Then addressing the crowd, he said, 'It's up to you, not me, to decide whether I’m up or down. The gentleman mentioned my youth: I may be younger in years, but I have more experience than many politicians out there. I want to live and aspire for honor and recognition in politics; but I would rather die now than, like the gentleman, see the day I would need to put up a lightning rod to shield a guilty conscience from an offended God.'"
He afterwards told Speed that the sight of that same rod "had led him to the study of the properties of electricity and the utility of the rod as a conductor."
He later told Speed that seeing that same rod "had inspired him to study the properties of electricity and how useful the rod is as a conductor."
Among the Democratic orators stumping the county at this time was Dick Taylor, a pompous gentleman, who went abroad in superb attire, ruffled shirts, rich vest, and immense watch-chains, with shining and splendid pendants. But Dick was a severe Democrat in theory, made much of "the hard-handed yeomanry," and flung many biting sarcasms upon the aristocratic pretensions of the Whigs,—the "rag barons" and the manufacturing "lords." He was one day in the midst of a particularly aggravating declamation of this sort, "when Abe began to feel devilish, and thought he would take the wind out of Dick's sails by a little sport." He therefore "edged" slyly up to the speaker, and suddenly catching his vest by the lower corner, and giving it a sharp pull upward, it opened wide, and out fell upon the platform, in full view of the astonished audience, a mass of ruffled shirt, gold watch, chains, seals, and glittering jewels. Jim Matheny was there, and nearly broke his heart with mirth. "The crowd couldn't stand it, but shouted uproariously." It must have been then that Abe delivered the following speech, although Ninian W. Edwards places it in 1840:—
Among the Democratic speakers campaigning in the county at this time was Dick Taylor, a flashy guy who dressed impeccably in fancy clothes, ruffled shirts, a stylish vest, and huge watch chains, complete with shiny and extravagant pendants. But Dick was a hardcore Democrat at heart, often praising "the hardworking farmers" and throwing sharp jabs at the aristocratic claims of the Whigs—the "rag barons" and the manufacturing "lords." One day, while he was in the middle of a particularly frustrating speech like this, Abe felt mischievous and decided to steal some of Dick's thunder with a little prank. He stealthily approached the speaker and suddenly tugged at the bottom corner of Dick's vest, pulling it upwards. It flew open wide, revealing to the astonished audience a tangle of ruffled shirt, gold watch, chains, seals, and sparkling jewels. Jim Matheny was there and nearly burst out laughing. The crowd couldn't contain themselves and erupted in loud shouts. It must have been then that Abe gave the following speech, although Ninian W. Edwards claims it happened in 1840:—
"While he [Col. Taylor] was making these charges against the Whigs over the country, riding in fine carriages, wearing ruffled shirts, kid gloves, massive gold watch-chains, with large gold seals, and flourishing a heavy gold-headed cane, he [Lincoln] was a poor boy, hired on a flatboat at eight dollars a month, and had only one pair of breeches to his back, and they were buckskin,—'and,' said Lincoln, 'if you know the nature of buckskin, when wet and dried by the sun, they will shrink,—and mine kept shrinking, until they left several inches of my legs bare between the tops of my socks and the lower part of my breeches; and, whilst I was growing taller, they were becoming shorter, and so much tighter, that they left a blue streak around my legs that can be seen to this day. If you call this aristocracy, I plead guilty to the charge.'" Hitherto Sangamon County had been uniformly Democratic; but at this election the Whigs carried it by an average majority of about four hundred, Mr. Lincoln receiving a larger vote than any other candidate. The result was in part due to a transitory and abortive attempt of the anti-Jackson and anti-Van-Buren men to build up a third party, with Judge White of Tennessee as its leader. This party was not supposed to be wedded to the "specie circular," was thought to be open to conviction on the bank question, clamored loudly about the business interests and general distress of the country, and was actually in favor of the distribution of the proceeds of the sales of the public lands. In the nomenclature of Illinois, its members might have been called "nominal Jackson men;" that is to say, men who continued to act with the Democratic party, while disavowing its cardinal principles,—traders, trimmers, cautious schismatics who argued the cause of Democracy from a brief furnished by the enemy. The diversion in favor of White was just to the hand of the Whigs, and they aided it in every practicable way. Always for an expedient when an expedient would answer, a compromise when a compromise would do, the "hand" Mr. Lincoln "showed" at the opening of the campaign contained the "White" card among the highest of its trumps. "If alive on the first Monday in November, I shall vote for Hugh L. White for President." A number of local Democratic politicians assisting him to play it, it won the game in 1836, and Sangamon County went over to the Whigs.
"While he [Col. Taylor] was accusing the Whigs across the country, riding in fancy carriages, wearing ruffled shirts, kid gloves, heavy gold watch chains with big gold seals, and waving around a heavy gold-headed cane, he [Lincoln] was just a poor kid working on a flatboat for eight dollars a month. He had only one pair of pants, made of buckskin—'and,' said Lincoln, 'if you understand how buckskin works, when it gets wet and then dries in the sun, it shrinks—and mine kept getting smaller, until they left several inches of my legs exposed between the tops of my socks and the bottoms of my pants; and as I was growing taller, they were getting shorter and tighter, leaving a blue mark around my legs that you can still see today. If you call this aristocracy, I admit I'm guilty of that charge.' Up until now, Sangamon County had always been Democratic; but in this election, the Whigs won by about a four hundred vote average, with Mr. Lincoln getting more votes than any other candidate. The outcome was partly due to a short-lived and failed effort by the anti-Jackson and anti-Van Buren supporters to form a third party, led by Judge White of Tennessee. This party wasn’t tied to the “specie circular,” was thought to be open to persuasion on the banking issue, made a lot of noise about the business interests and general struggles of the country, and actually supported distributing the proceeds from public land sales. In Illinois, its members could be considered "nominal Jackson men;" that is, they acted with the Democratic party while rejecting its core principles—self-serving moderates, cautious dissenters who argued for Democracy based on a playbook from the opposition. The support for White worked perfectly for the Whigs, and they backed it in every way possible. Always ready with a solution when needed, a compromise when one would work, the "hand" Mr. Lincoln "showed" at the start of the campaign included the "White" card among its top options. "If I’m alive on the first Monday in November, I’ll vote for Hugh L. White for President." With several local Democratic politicians helping him play this card, it won the game in 1836, and Sangamon County switched to the Whigs."
At this election Mr. Douglas was made a Representative from Morgan County, along with Col. Hardin, from whom he had the year before taken the State's attorneyship. The event is notable principally because Mr. Douglas was nominated by a convention, and not by the old system of self-announcement, which, under the influence of Eastern immigrants, like himself, full of party zeal, and attached to the customs of the places whence they came, was gradually but surely falling into disfavor. Mr. Douglas served only one session, and then became Register of the Land Office at Springfield. The next year he was nominated for Congress in the Peoria District, under the convention system, and in the same year Col. Stephenson was nominated for Governor in the same way. The Whigs were soon compelled to adopt the device which they saw marshalling the Democrats in a state of complete discipline; whilst they themselves were disorganized by a host of volunteer candidates and the operations of innumerable cliques and factions. At first "it was considered a Yankee contrivance," intended to abridge the liberties of the people; but the Whig "people" were as fond of victory, offices, and power as their enemies were, and in due time they took very kindly to this effectual means of gaining them. A speech of Ebenezer Peck of Chicago, "before a great meeting of the lobby, during the special session of 1835-6 at Vandalia," being a production of special ingenuity and power, is supposed to have contributed largely to the introduction of the convention system into the middle and southern parts of the State. Mr. Peck was then a fervent Democrat, whom the Whigs delighted to malign as a Canadian monarchist; but in after times he was the fast and able friend of their great leader, Abraham Lincoln.
At this election, Mr. Douglas became a Representative from Morgan County, alongside Col. Hardin, from whom he had taken the State's attorney position the year before. This event is significant mainly because Mr. Douglas was nominated by a convention rather than the old practice of self-announcement, which, influenced by Eastern immigrants like himself—who were full of party enthusiasm and loyal to the customs of their homelands—was gradually losing favor. Mr. Douglas served only one session before becoming the Register of the Land Office in Springfield. The following year, he was nominated for Congress in the Peoria District through the convention system, and that same year, Col. Stephenson was nominated for Governor in the same manner. The Whigs were soon forced to adopt a strategy that they saw effectively organizing the Democrats in a state of complete discipline, while they themselves were disorganized by numerous volunteer candidates and countless cliques and factions. Initially, it was seen as a "Yankee contrivance," meant to restrict the people's liberties; but the Whig "people" were just as eager for victory, jobs, and power as their opponents, and eventually, they embraced this effective method of achieving those goals. A speech by Ebenezer Peck of Chicago, delivered "before a great meeting of the lobby during the special session of 1835-6 at Vandalia," was crafted with notable creativity and influence and is believed to have significantly contributed to the adoption of the convention system in the central and southern regions of the State. Mr. Peck was a passionate Democrat at that time, one whom the Whigs liked to slander as a Canadian monarchist; however, later on, he became a loyal and capable ally of their great leader, Abraham Lincoln.
One of the first and worst effects of the stricter organization of parties in Illinois, as well as in other States, was the strong diversion of public attention from State to Federal affairs. Individual candidates were no longer required to "show their hands:" they accepted "platforms" when they accepted nominations; and without a nomination it was mere quixotism to stand at all. District, State, and national conventions, acting and re-acting upon one another, produced a concert of sentiment and conduct which overlaid local issues, and repressed independent proceedings. This improved party machinery supplied the readiest and most effective means of distributing the rapidly-increasing patronage of the Federal Executive; and those who did not wish to be cut off from its enjoyment could do no less than re-affirm with becoming fervor, in their local assemblages, the latest deliverance of the faith by the central authority. The promoters of heresies and schisms, the blind leaders who misled a county or a State convention, and seduced it into the declaration of principles of its own, had their seats contested in the next general council of the party, were solemnly sat upon, condemned, "delivered over to Satan to be buffeted," and cast out of the household of faith, to wander in the wilderness and to live upon husks. It was like a feeble African bishop imputing heresy to the Christian world, with Rome at its head. A man like Mr. Lincoln, who earnestly "desired place and distinction as a politician," labored without hope while his party affinities remained the subject of a reasonable doubt. He must be "a whole-hog man" or nothing, a Whig or a Democrat. Mr. Lincoln chose his company with commendable decision, and wasted no tender regrets upon his "nominal" Democratic friends. For White against Harrison, in November, 1836, he led the Whigs into action when the Legislature met in December; and when the hard-cider campaign of 1840 commenced, with its endless meetings and processions, its coon-skins and log-cabins, its intrigue, trickery, and fun, his musical voice rose loudest above the din for "Old Tippecanoe;" and no man did better service, or enjoyed those memorable scenes more, than he who was to be the beneficiary of a similar revival in 1860.
One of the first and worst effects of the stricter organization of parties in Illinois, as well as in other states, was the strong shift of public attention from state to federal affairs. Individual candidates no longer needed to "show their hands"; they accepted "platforms" when they accepted nominations, and without a nomination, it was just naive to stand at all. District, state, and national conventions, influencing each other, created a unified sentiment and behavior that overshadowed local issues and suppressed independent actions. This enhanced party machinery provided the fastest and most effective way to distribute the rapidly increasing patronage of the federal executive; and those who didn’t want to be cut off from its benefits had no choice but to reaffirm with appropriate enthusiasm, in their local groups, the latest statement of beliefs from the central authority. Those promoting heresies and splits, the misguided leaders who led a county or state convention astray and tempted it to declare its own principles, faced contested seats in the next general council of the party, were solemnly reprimanded, condemned, "delivered over to Satan to be buffeted," and expelled from the community, forced to wander in obscurity and survive on scraps. It was like a weak African bishop accusing the Christian world, with Rome at its head, of heresy. A man like Mr. Lincoln, who truly "desired position and recognition as a politician," worked without hope while his party affiliations were in doubt. He had to be "all in" or nothing, a Whig or a Democrat. Mr. Lincoln chose his allies with commendable decisiveness and felt no sentimental regrets for his "nominal" Democratic friends. For White against Harrison, in November 1836, he led the Whigs into action when the Legislature convened in December; and when the hard-cider campaign of 1840 kicked off, with its endless meetings and parades, its coon-skin hats and log cabins, its schemes, tricks, and fun, his strong voice rose the loudest above the noise for "Old Tippecanoe"; and no one contributed more or enjoyed those memorable moments as much as he who would benefit from a similar revival in 1860.
When this legislature met in the winter of 1836-7, the bank and internal-improvement infatuation had taken full possession of a majority of the people, as well as of the politicians. To be sure, "Old Hickory" had given a temporary check to the wild speculations in Western land by the specie circular, about the close of his administration, whereby gold and silver were made "land-office money;" and the Government declined to exchange any more of the public domain for the depreciated paper of rotten and explosive banks. Millions of notes loaned by the banks on insufficient security or no security at all were by this timely measure turned back into the banks, or converted to the uses of a more legitimate and less dangerous business. But, even if the specie circular had not been repealed, it would probably have proved impotent against the evils it was designed to prevent, after the passage of the Act distributing among the States the surplus (or supposed surplus) revenues of the Federal Government.
When this legislature met in the winter of 1836-7, the obsession with banks and internal improvements had completely taken over most people, as well as the politicians. To be fair, "Old Hickory" had temporarily slowed down the wild speculation in Western land with the specie circular toward the end of his term, which made gold and silver the only acceptable currency for land purchases; the Government stopped trading any more of the public land for the worthless paper from corrupt and unstable banks. Millions in banknotes issued on shaky or no security at all were, through this timely action, sent back to the banks or redirected toward more legitimate and less risky ventures. However, even if the specie circular hadn’t been repealed, it likely would have been ineffective against the problems it aimed to fix after the law was passed that distributed the surplus (or claimed surplus) revenues from the Federal Government to the States.
The last dollar of the old debt was paid in 1833. There were from time to time large unexpended and unappropriated balances in the treasury. What should be done with them? There was no sub-treasury as yet, and questions concerning the mere safe-keeping of these moneys excited the most tremendous political contests. The United States Bank had always had the use of the cash in the treasury in the form of deposits; but the bank abused its trust,—used its enormous power over the currency and exchanges of the country to achieve political results in its own interest, and, by its manifold sins and iniquities, compelled Gen. Jackson to remove the deposits. Ultimately the bank took shelter in Pennsylvania, where it began a new fraudulent life under a surreptitious clause tacked to the end of a road law on its passage through the General Assembly. In due time the "beast," as Col. Benton loved to call it, died in its chosen lair a shameful and ignominious death, cheating the public with a show of solvency to the end, and leaving a fine array of bill-holders and depositors to mourn one of the most remarkable delusions of modern times.
The last dollar of the old debt was paid in 1833. From time to time, there were large unspent and unallocated balances in the treasury. What should be done with them? There was no sub-treasury yet, and questions about simply keeping this money safe sparked intense political battles. The United States Bank had always accessed the cash in the treasury as deposits; however, the bank misused its trust—exploiting its immense power over the nation’s currency and exchange for its own political gain, which forced Gen. Jackson to withdraw the deposits. Eventually, the bank found refuge in Pennsylvania, where it started a new deceitful chapter under a hidden clause added to the end of a road law during its passage through the General Assembly. In time, the "beast," as Col. Benton liked to call it, met a shameful and disgraceful end in its chosen hideout, deceiving the public with an appearance of solvency until the last moment, and leaving a long line of bill-holders and depositors to lament one of the most extraordinary deceptions of modern times.
Withdrawn, or rather withheld (for they were never withdrawn), from the Bank of the United States, the revenues of the Federal Government were deposited as fast as they accrued in specie-paying State banks. They were paid in the notes of the thousand banks, good, bad, and indifferent, whose promises to pay constituted the paper currency of the day. It was this money which the Whigs, aided by Democratic recusants, proposed to give away to the States. They passed an Act requiring it to be deposited with the States,—ostensibly as a safe and convenient method of keeping it; but nobody believed that it would ever be called for, or paid if it was. It was simply an extraordinary largess; and pending the very embarrassment caused by itself, when the government had not a dollar wherewith to pay even a pension, and the temporary expedient was an issue of treasury notes against the better judgment of the party in power, the possibility of withdrawing these deposits was never taken into the account. The Act went into effect on the 1st of January, 1837, and was one of the immediate causes of the suspension and disasters of that year. "The condition of our deposit banks was desperate,—wholly inadequate to the slightest pressure on their vaults in the ordinary course of business, much less that of meeting the daily government drafts and the approaching deposit of near forty millions with the States." Nevertheless, the deposits began at the rate of ten millions to the quarter. The deposit banks "blew up;" and all the others, including that of the United States, closed their doors to customers and bill-holders, which gave them more time to hold public meetings, imputing the distress of the country to the hard-money policy of Jackson and Van Buren, and agitating for the re-charter of Mr. Biddle's profligate concern as the only remedy human ingenuity could devise.
Withdrawn, or more accurately withheld (since they were never actually taken out), from the Bank of the United States, the Federal Government's revenues were deposited as soon as they came in at state banks that paid in gold and silver. They were issued in the notes from thousands of banks—some reliable, some not—whose promises to pay formed the currency of the time. It was this money that the Whigs, supported by some Democrats, wanted to distribute to the States. They passed a law requiring it to be deposited with the States, supposedly as a safe and convenient way to manage it; however, no one believed it would ever be requested back or paid if it was. It was merely an extraordinary gift; and while dealing with the very crisis it created, when the government didn't have a dollar to pay even a pension, the temporary solution was to issue treasury notes against the better judgment of the ruling party, without considering the possibility of pulling back these deposits. The law took effect on January 1, 1837, and was one of the immediate factors leading to the collapse and disasters of that year. "The state of our deposit banks was dire—completely unable to handle even the slightest demands on their reserves in normal business, let alone meet the daily government withdrawals and the impending deposit of nearly forty million with the States." Despite this, the deposits began at a pace of ten million every three months. The deposit banks "blew up," and all the others, including the United States bank, shut their doors to customers and bill-holders, giving them more time to hold public meetings, blaming the nation’s distress on the hard-money policies of Jackson and Van Buren, and rallying for the re-charter of Mr. Biddle's extravagant institution as the only solution human creativity could come up with.
It was in the month previous to the first deposit with the States,—about the time when Gov. Ford says, "lands and town-lots were the only articles of export" from Illinois; when the counters of Western land-offices were piled high with illusory bank-notes in exchange for public lands, and when it was believed that the West was now at last about to bound forward in a career of unexampled prosperity, under the forcing process of public improvements by the States, with the aid and countenance of the Federal Government,—that Mr. Lincoln went up to attend the first session of the new Legislature at Vandalia. He was big with projects: his real public service was just now about to begin. In the previous Legislature he had been silent, observant, studious. He had improved the opportunity so well, that of all men in this new body, of equal age in the service, he was the smartest parliamentarian and the cunningest "log-roller." He was fully determined to identify himself conspicuously with the "liberal" legislation in contemplation, and dreamed of a fame very different from that which he actually obtained as an antislavery leader. It was about this time that he told his friend, Mr. Speed, that he aimed at the great distinction of being called "the De Witt Clinton of Illinois."
It was the month before the first deposit with the States—around the time when Gov. Ford said, "lands and town lots were the only things being exported" from Illinois; when the counters of Western land offices were stacked high with fake banknotes in exchange for public lands, and when everyone thought that the West was finally about to surge forward into unprecedented prosperity through state-funded public improvements, with support from the Federal Government—that Mr. Lincoln went to attend the first session of the new Legislature in Vandalia. He was filled with ideas: his real public service was just about to start. In the previous Legislature, he had been quiet, observant, and studious. He used that time well, so that among all the men in this new assembly of the same age and experience, he became the sharpest parliamentary strategist and the most skilled "log-roller." He was fully committed to making a noticeable mark on the "liberal" legislation being discussed and dreamed of a reputation very different from the one he ultimately earned as an antislavery leader. Around this time, he told his friend, Mr. Speed, that he aspired to the great distinction of being known as "the De Witt Clinton of Illinois."
Meetings with a view to this sort of legislation had been held in all, or nearly all, the counties in the State during the preceding summer and fall. Hard-money, strict-construction, no-monopoly, anti-progressive Democrats were in a sad minority. In truth, there was little division of parties about these matters which were deemed so essential to the prosperity of a new State. There was Mr. Lincoln, and there was Mr. Douglas, in perfect unison as to the grand object to be accomplished, but mortally jealous as to which should take the lead in accomplishing it. A few days before the Legislature assembled, "a mass convention" of the people of Sangamon County "instructed" their members "to vote for a general system of internal improvements." The House of Representatives organized in the morning; and in the evening its hall was surrendered to a convention of delegates from all parts of the State, which "devised and recommended to the Legislature a system of internal improvements, the chief feature of which was, that it should be commensurate with the wants of the people." This result was arrived at after two days of debate, with "Col. Thomas Mather, of the State Bank, as president."
Meetings to discuss this kind of legislation took place in almost all the counties in the state throughout the past summer and fall. Hard-money, strict-construction, no-monopoly, anti-progressive Democrats were sadly outnumbered. In reality, there wasn't much division among the parties on these issues, which were seen as essential for the prosperity of a new state. Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas were completely aligned on the main goal to achieve but were fiercely competitive about who would take the lead in making it happen. A few days before the Legislature came together, "a mass convention" of the people from Sangamon County "instructed" their members "to vote for a general system of internal improvements." The House of Representatives organized in the morning, and in the evening, its hall was handed over to a convention of delegates from across the state, which "developed and recommended to the Legislature a system of internal improvements, primarily focusing on meeting the needs of the people." This conclusion came after two days of debate, with "Col. Thomas Mather, of the State Bank, serving as president."
Mr. Lincoln served on the Committee on Finance, and was a most laborious member, instant in season and out of season, for the great measures of the Whig party. It was to his individual exertion that the Whigs were indebted in no small degree for the complete success of their favorite schemes at this session. A railroad from Galena to the mouth of the Ohio was provided for; another from Alton to Shawneetown; another from Alton to Mount Carmel; another from Alton to the eastern boundary of the State towards Terre Haute; another from Quincy by way of Springfield to the Wabash; another from Bloomington to Pekin; another from Peoria to Warsaw,—in all about thirteen hundred miles. But in this comprehensive "system," "commensurate with the wants of the people," the rivers were not to be overlooked; and accordingly the Kaskaskia, the Illinois, the Great Wabash, the Little Wabash, and the Rock rivers were to be duly improved. To set these little matters in motion, a loan of eight millions of dollars was authorized; and, to complete the canal from Chicago to Peru, another loan of four millions of dollars was voted at the same session,—two hundred thousand dollars being given as a gratuity to those counties which seemed to have no special interest in any of the foregoing projects. Work on all these roads was to commence, not only at the same time, but at both ends of each road, and at all the river-crossings. There were as yet no surveys of any route, no estimates, no reports of engineers, or even unprofessional viewers. "Progress" was not to wait on trifles; capitalists were supposed to be lying in wait to catch these precious bonds; the money would be raised in a twinkling, and being applied with all the skill of "a hundred De Witt Clintons,"—a class of gentlemen at that time extremely numerous and obtrusive,—the loan would build the railroads, the railroads would build cities, cities would create farms, foreign capital would rush to so inviting a field, the lands would be taken up with marvellous celerity, and the "land-tax" going into a sinking fund, that, with some tolls and certain sly speculations to be made by the State, would pay principal and interest of the debt without ever a cent of taxation upon the people. In short, everybody was to be enriched, while the munificence of the State in selling its credit and spending the proceeds would make its empty coffers overflow with ready money. It was a dark stroke of statesmanship, a mysterious device in finance, which, whether from being misunderstood, or from being mismanaged, bore from the beginning fruits the very reverse of those it had promised.
Mr. Lincoln served on the Finance Committee and was an incredibly dedicated member, always working hard for the key initiatives of the Whig party. The Whigs owed much of their success at this session to his personal efforts. Proposals were made for a railroad from Galena to the mouth of the Ohio, another from Alton to Shawneetown, another from Alton to Mount Carmel, one from Alton to the eastern state line toward Terre Haute, another from Quincy through Springfield to the Wabash, and one from Bloomington to Pekin, plus another from Peoria to Warsaw—totaling around thirteen hundred miles. But this extensive "system," meant to meet the people's needs, also included improvements to rivers like the Kaskaskia, Illinois, Great Wabash, Little Wabash, and Rock rivers. To kick off these projects, an eight-million-dollar loan was approved; additionally, to finish the canal from Chicago to Peru, another four-million-dollar loan was passed during the same session—two hundred thousand dollars was allocated as a bonus to those counties that had no specific stake in any of the above projects. Work on all these roads was set to start simultaneously, with crews working from both ends of each road and all river crossings. At that point, there were no surveys for any routes, no estimates, no engineering reports, or even unofficial inspections. "Progress" couldn't be held back by minor details; it was believed that investors were ready to snatch up these valuable bonds; funding would be secured quickly and managed with the expertise of "a hundred De Witt Clintons," a group of gentlemen who were quite numerous and prominent at that time. The loans would finance the railroads, those railroads would lead to the growth of cities, which would in turn cultivate farms, and foreign investors would flock to such an attractive opportunity. The land would be quickly claimed, and the "land-tax," along with some tolls and clever state speculations, would pay back both the principal and interest of the debt without imposing any tax burden on the public. In short, everyone was to benefit, while the State's generosity in selling its credit and spending the earnings would fill its empty coffers with cash. It was a risky move in statesmanship, a clever financial strategy that, whether due to misunderstanding or mismanagement, resulted in outcomes that were the exact opposite of what was promised from the start.
A Board of Canal Commissioners was already in existence; but now were established, as necessary parts of the new "system," a Board of Fund Commissioners and a Board of Commissioners of Public Works.
A Board of Canal Commissioners already existed; but now, as essential components of the new "system," a Board of Fund Commissioners and a Board of Commissioners of Public Works were established.
The capital stock of the Shawneetown Bank was increased to one million seven hundred thousand dollars, and that of the State Bank to three million one hundred thousand dollars. The State took the new stock, and proposed to pay for it "with the surplus revenues of the United States, and the residue by a sale of State bonds." The banks were likewise made fiscal agencies, to place the loans, and generally to manage the railroad and canal funds. The career of these banks is an extremely interesting chapter in the history of Illinois,—little less so than the rise and collapse of the great internal-improvement system. But, as it has already a place in a chronicle of wider scope and greater merit than this, it is enough to say that in due time they went the way of their kind,—the State lost by them, and they lost by the State, in morals as well as in money.
The capital stock of the Shawneetown Bank was raised to one million seven hundred thousand dollars, and the State Bank's stock was increased to three million one hundred thousand dollars. The State bought the new stock and planned to pay for it "with the surplus revenues of the United States, and the remainder by selling State bonds." The banks were also designated as fiscal agencies to manage loans and oversee the railroad and canal funds. The history of these banks is a very intriguing chapter in Illinois' past—almost as engaging as the rise and fall of the extensive internal improvement system. However, since it already appears in a broader and more significant chronicle, it's enough to mention that in due time, they followed the same path as others of their kind—the State suffered losses due to them, and they suffered losses because of the State, both in ethics and finances.
The means used in the Legislature to pass the "system" deserve some notice for the instruction of posterity. "First, a large portion of the people were interested in the success of the canal, which was threatened, if other sections of the State were denied the improvements demanded by them; and thus the friends of the canal were forced to log-roll for that work by supporting others which were to be ruinous to the country. Roads and improvements were proposed everywhere, to enlist every section of the State. Three or four efforts were made to pass a smaller system; and, when defeated, the bill would be amended by the addition of other roads, until a majority was obtained for it. Those counties which could not be thus accommodated were to share in the fund of two hundred thousand dollars. Three roads were appointed to terminate at Alton, before the Alton interest would agree to the system. The seat of government was to be removed to Springfield. Sangamon County, in which Springfield is situated, was then represented by two Senators and seven Representatives, called the 'Long Nine,' all Whigs but one. Amongst them were some dexterous jugglers and managers in politics, whose whole object was to obtain the seat of government for Springfield. This delegation, from the beginning of the session, threw itself as a unit in support of, or in opposition to, every local measure of interest, but never without a bargain for votes in return on the seat-of-government question. Most of the other counties were small, having but one Representative and many of them with but one for a whole representative district; and this gave Sangamon County a decided preponderance in the log-rolling system of those days. It is worthy of examination whether any just and equal legislation can ever be sustained where some of the counties are great and powerful, and others feeble. But by such means 'The Long-Nine' rolled along like a snowball, gathering accessions of strength at every turn, until they swelled up a considerable party for Springfield, which party they managed to take almost as a unit in favor of the internal-improvement system, in return for which the active supporters of that system were to vote for Springfield to be the seat of government. Thus it was made to cost the State about six millions of dollars to remove the seat of government from Vandalia to Springfield, half of which sum would have purchased all the real estate in that town at three prices; and thus by log-rolling on the canal measure; by multiplying railroads; by terminating three railroads at Alton, that Alton might become a great city in opposition to St. Louis; by distributing money to some of the counties to be wasted by the county commissioners; and by giving the seat of government to Springfield,—was the whole State bought up, and bribed to approve the most senseless and disastrous policy which ever crippled the energies of a growing country." 1
The way the Legislature passed the "system" is worth noting for future generations. A significant part of the population cared about the canal's success, which was at risk if other areas of the State were denied the improvements they wanted. As a result, the canal's supporters had to trade their support for its project with the backing of other projects that would harm the state. Proposals for roads and other improvements popped up everywhere to rally support from every part of the State. Several attempts were made to pass a smaller system; when those failed, the bill was modified to include additional roads until it gained majority support. Counties that couldn't benefit directly were supposed to share from a fund of two hundred thousand dollars. Three roads had to be planned to end in Alton before its interests would agree to the system. The government seat was to be moved to Springfield, where Sangamon County—home to Springfield—was represented by two Senators and seven Representatives known as the 'Long Nine,' almost all of whom were Whigs. Among them were skilled political operators whose main goal was to secure the government seat for Springfield. This group worked together from the session's start to support or oppose every local initiative, always negotiating for votes in return on the government seat matter. Most other counties were small, with only one Representative each, or even fewer for an entire district; this gave Sangamon County a notable advantage in the log-rolling practices of the time. It raises the question of whether any fair and equal legislation can truly exist when some counties are large and powerful while others are weak. However, through these tactics, 'The Long-Nine' rolled ahead like a snowball, gaining strength at every step until they formed a substantial party for Springfield, which they managed to align almost entirely in favor of the internal-improvement system. In exchange, those supporting the system were to vote for Springfield as the government seat. This arrangement ended up costing the State about six million dollars to move the government from Vandalia to Springfield, a sum that could have bought all the land in that town at three times its value. Thus, through log-rolling on the canal project, by adding railroads, by ensuring that three railroads terminated in Alton to make it a rival city to St. Louis, by distributing county funds that were mismanaged, and by relocating the government to Springfield, the entire State was essentially bought off and bribed to endorse a policy that was the most foolish and harmful that ever hindered the growth of a developing nation.
1 Ford's History of Illinois.
1 Ford's Illinois History.
Enumerating the gentlemen who voted for this combination of evils,—among them Stephen A. Douglas, John A. McClernand, James Shields, and Abraham Lincoln,—and reciting the high places of honor and trust to which most of them have since attained, Gov. Ford pronounces "all of them spared monuments of popular wrath, evincing how safe it is to a politician, but how disastrous it may be to the country, to keep along with the present fervor of the people."
Enumerating the gentlemen who voted for this mix of bad choices—among them Stephen A. Douglas, John A. McClernand, James Shields, and Abraham Lincoln—and listing the prestigious positions of honor and trust most of them have since achieved, Gov. Ford states, "all of them are living reminders of public anger, showing how safe it is for a politician, but how damaging it can be for the country, to align with the current passions of the people."
"It was a maxim with many politicians just to keep along even with the humor of the people, right or wrong;" and this maxim Mr. Lincoln held then, as ever since, in very high estimation. But the "humor" of his constituents was not only intensely favorable to the new scheme of internal improvements: it was most decidedly their "humor" to have the capital at Springfield, and to make a great man of the legislator who should take it there. Mr. Lincoln was doubtless thoroughly convinced that the popular view of all these matters was the right one; but, even if he had been unhappily afflicted with individual scruples of his own, he would have deemed it but simple duty to obey the almost unanimous voice of his constituency. He thought he never could serve them better than by giving them just what they wanted; and that to collect the will of his people, and register it by his own vote, was the first and leading obligation of a representative. It happened that on this occasion the popular feeling fell in very pleasantly with his young dream of rivalling the fame of Clinton; and here, also, was a fine opportunity of repeating, in a higher strain and on a loftier stage, the ingenious arguments, which, in the very outset of his career, had proved so hard for "Posey and Ewing," when he overthrew those worthies in the great debate respecting the improvement of the Sangamon River.
"It was a common belief among many politicians to go along with the feelings of the people, whether they were right or wrong;” and this belief Mr. Lincoln valued highly then, as he always had. However, the sentiment of his constituents was not only strongly in favor of the new plan for internal improvements; they were also very much in favor of having the capital in Springfield, and of elevating the legislator who would make it happen. Mr. Lincoln was undoubtedly convinced that the popular opinion on these issues was correct; but even if he had personal doubts, he would have felt it was simply his duty to listen to the almost unanimous voice of his voters. He believed he could serve them best by giving them exactly what they wanted, and that gathering the will of his people and reflecting it in his own vote was the primary responsibility of a representative. On this occasion, popular sentiment aligned nicely with his youthful ambition to rival Clinton's fame; and it also presented a great opportunity to reiterate, in a more elevated manner and on a grander stage, the clever arguments that had initially challenged "Posey and Ewing," when he defeated them in the important debate about improving the Sangamon River.
"The Internal-Improvement Bill," says Mr. Wilson (one of the "Long Nine"), "and a bill to permanently locate the seat of government of the State, were the great measures of the session of 1836-7. Vandalia was then the seat of government, and had been for a number of years. A new state house had just been built. Alton, Decatur, Peoria, Jacksonville, Illiapolis, and Springfield were the points seeking the location, if removed from Vandalia. The delegation from Sangamon were a unit, acting in concert in favor of the permanent location at Springfield. The bill was introduced at an early day in the session, to locate, by a joint vote of both Houses of the Legislature. The friends of the other points united to defeat the bill, as each point thought the postponement of the location to some future period would give strength to their location. The contest on this bill was long and severe. Its enemies laid it on the table twice,—once on the table to the fourth day of July, and once indefinitely postponed it. To take a bill from the table is always attended with difficulty; but when laid on the table to a day beyond the session, or when indefinitely postponed, it requires a vote of reconsideration, which always is an intense struggle. In these dark hours, when our bill to all appearances was beyond resuscitation, and all our opponents were jubilant over our defeat, and when friends could see no hope, Mr. Lincoln never for one moment despaired; but, collecting his colleagues to his room for consultation, his practical common sense, his thorough knowledge of human nature, then made him an overmatch for his compeers, and for any man that I have ever known."
"The Internal Improvement Bill," says Mr. Wilson (one of the "Long Nine"), "and a bill to permanently establish the state's seat of government were the major issues of the 1836-7 session. Vandalia was the seat of government at that time and had been for several years. A new state house had just been built. Alton, Decatur, Peoria, Jacksonville, Illiapolis, and Springfield were all vying for the location if it were moved from Vandalia. The delegation from Sangamon was unified, working together in favor of relocating it to Springfield. The bill was introduced early in the session to be determined by a joint vote of both Houses of the Legislature. Supporters of the other locations joined forces to defeat the bill, as each believed that delaying the decision would strengthen their chances. The struggle over this bill was long and intense. Its opponents managed to table it twice—once until July 4th, and then they indefinitely postponed it. Getting a bill off the table is always tough, but when it's postponed to a date after the session or indefinitely, it requires a vote to reconsider, which is always a considerable challenge. In these grim moments, when it seemed our bill was dead and our opponents were celebrating our defeat, and when even friends lost hope, Mr. Lincoln never gave up. Instead, he gathered his colleagues for a meeting, and his practical common sense and deep understanding of human nature made him more than a match for anyone else I've ever known."
"We surmounted all obstacles, passed the bill, and, by a joint vote of both Houses, located the seat of government of the State of Illinois at Springfield, just before the adjournment of the Legislature, which took place on the fourth day of March, 1837. The delegation acting during the whole session upon all questions as a unit, gave them strength and influence, that enabled them to carry through their measures and give efficient aid to their friends. The delegation was not only remarkable for their numbers, but for their length, most of them measuring six feet and over. It was said at the time that that delegation measured fifty-four feet high. Hence they were known as 'The Long Nine.' So that during that session, and for a number of years afterwards, all the bad laws passed at that session of the Legislature were chargeable to the management and influence of 'The Long Nine.'
"We overcame all challenges, passed the bill, and, with a joint vote from both Houses, established Springfield as the capital of Illinois, right before the Legislature adjourned on March 4, 1837. The delegation worked together as a unified group throughout the entire session, which gave them the strength and influence to push their initiatives and support their allies effectively. This delegation was notable not only for its size but also for their height, with most members standing six feet tall or more. It was said at the time that they measured a total of fifty-four feet tall. That's why they were known as 'The Long Nine.' As a result, during that session and for many years afterward, all the questionable laws passed that session were attributed to the actions and influence of 'The Long Nine.'
"He (Mr. Lincoln) was on the stump and in the halls of the Legislature a ready debater, manifesting extraordinary ability in his peculiar manner of presenting his subject. He did not follow the beaten track of other speakers and thinkers, but appeared to comprehend the whole situation of the subject, and take hold of its principles. He had a remarkable faculty for concentration, enabling him to present his subject in such a manner, as nothing but conclusions were presented."
"He (Mr. Lincoln) was active in public debates and in the halls of the Legislature, showcasing an exceptional talent in his unique way of discussing topics. He didn't stick to the conventional methods of other speakers and thinkers; instead, he seemed to understand the entire context of the subject and grasp its core principles. He had an incredible ability to focus, allowing him to present his topics in a way that only the conclusions were highlighted."
It was at this session of the Legislature, March 3, 1837, that Mr. Lincoln began that antislavery record upon which his fame through all time must chiefly rest. It was a very mild beginning; but even that required uncommon courage and candor in the day and generation in which it was done.
It was on March 3, 1837, during this session of the Legislature, that Mr. Lincoln started his antislavery record, which would become the foundation of his lasting fame. It was a very gentle start, but it still took remarkable courage and honesty for the time in which it happened.
The whole country was excited concerning the doctrines and the practices of the Abolitionists. These agitators were as yet but few in numbers: but in New England they comprised some of the best citizens, and the leaders were persons of high character, of culture and social influence; while, in the Middle States, they were, for the most part, confined to the Society of Friends, or Quakers. All were earnest, active, and uncompromising in the propagation of their opinions; and, believing slavery to be the "sum of all villanies," with the utmost pertinacity they claimed the unrestricted right to disseminate their convictions in any manner they saw fit, regardless of all consequences. They paid not the slightest heed to the wishes or the opinions of their opponents. They denounced all compromises with an unsparing tongue, and would allow no law of man to stand, in their eyes, above the law of God.
The whole country was buzzing about the beliefs and actions of the Abolitionists. These activists were still few in number, but in New England, they included some of the most respected citizens, and their leaders were people of great character, education, and social influence. In the Middle States, they were mostly part of the Society of Friends, or Quakers. They were all passionate, active, and unwavering in spreading their ideas. Believing that slavery was the "sum of all evils," they persistently insisted on their right to share their views in any way they chose, regardless of the consequences. They completely ignored the wishes or opinions of their opponents. They criticized all compromises harshly and would not accept any human law as superior to the law of God.
George Thompson, identified with emancipation in the British West Indies, had come and gone. For more than a year he addressed public meetings in New England, the Central States, and Ohio, and contributed not a little to the growing excitement by his fierce denunciations of the slave-holding class, in language with which his long agitation in England had made him familiar. He was denounced, insulted, and mobbed; and even in Boston he was once posted as an "infamous foreign scoundrel," and an offer was made of a hundred dollars to "snake him out" of a public meeting. In fact, Boston was not at all behind other cities and towns in its condemnation of the Abolitionists. A great meeting in Faneuil Hall, called by eighteen hundred leading citizens,—Whigs and Democrats,—condemned their proceedings in language as strong and significant as Richard Fletcher, Peleg Sprague, and Harrison Gray Otis could write it. But Garrison still continued to publish "The Liberator," filling it with all the uncompromising aggressiveness of his sect, and distributing it throughout the Southern States. It excited great alarm in the slaveholding communities where its secret circulation, in the minds of the slaveholders, tended to incite the slaves to insurrections, assassinations, and running away; but in the place where it was published it was looked upon with general contempt and disgust. When the Mayor of Baltimore wrote to the Mayor of Boston to have it suppressed, the latter (the eloquent Otis) replied, "that his officers had ferreted out the paper and its editor, whose office was an obscure hole; his only visible auxiliary a negro boy; his supporters a few insignificant persons of all colors."
George Thompson, known for his role in the emancipation movement in the British West Indies, had come and gone. For over a year, he spoke at public meetings in New England, the Central States, and Ohio, stirring excitement with his passionate attacks on slaveholders, using language he became familiar with during his long activism in England. He faced denunciation, insult, and even mob violence; in Boston, he was once labeled as an "infamous foreign scoundrel," and there was a bounty of a hundred dollars to "sneak him out" of a public gathering. In truth, Boston was just as critical of the Abolitionists as other cities and towns. A major meeting at Faneuil Hall, called by eighteen hundred prominent citizens—Whigs and Democrats alike—harshly condemned the Abolitionist movement in terms as strong and significant as those crafted by Richard Fletcher, Peleg Sprague, and Harrison Gray Otis. Despite this, Garrison continued to publish "The Liberator," filling it with the unyielding assertiveness characteristic of his movement, and distributing it throughout the Southern States. This created significant alarm among slaveholding communities, where its secret circulation fueled fears of slave insurrections, assassinations, and escapes, but in the city where it was published, it was met with widespread disdain and disgust. When the Mayor of Baltimore contacted the Mayor of Boston to request that it be suppressed, the latter (the eloquent Otis) responded that his officers had tracked down the paper and its editor, whose office was a small, hidden space; his only visible assistant was a Black boy, and his supporters were a few inconsequential individuals of various backgrounds.
At the close of the year 1835, President Jackson had called the attention of Congress to the doings of these people in language corresponding to the natural wrath with which he viewed the character of their proceedings. "I must also," said he, "invite your attention to the painful excitements in the South by attempts to circulate through the mails inflammatory appeals addressed to the passions of slaves, in prints and various sorts of publications calculated to stimulate them to insurrection, and to produce all the horrors of civil war. It is fortunate for the country that the good sense, the generous feeling, and deep-rooted attachment of the people of the non-slaveholding States to the Union and their fellow-citizens of the same blood in the South have given so strong and impressive a tone to the sentiments entertained against the proceedings of the misguided persons who have engaged in these unconstitutional and wicked attempts, and especially against the emissaries from foreign parts, who have dared to interfere in this matter, as to authorize the hope that these attempts will no longer be persisted in.... I would therefore call the special attention of Congress to the subject, and respectfully suggest the propriety of passing such a law as will prohibit, under severe penalties, the circulation in the Southern States, through the mail, of incendiary publications, intended to instigate the slaves to insurrection."
At the end of 1835, President Jackson drew Congress's attention to the actions of these people, expressing his anger about their behavior. "I must also," he said, "bring up the dangerous emotions in the South due to attempts to send inflammatory appeals through the mail aimed at inciting slaves, using various printed materials designed to provoke them into rebellion and risk the horrors of civil war. It is fortunate for the country that the common sense, generosity, and deep loyalty of the people in the non-slaveholding States to the Union and their fellow citizens in the South have created such strong feelings against the actions of those misguided individuals involved in these unconstitutional and immoral efforts, especially against the foreign agents who dared to interfere, giving us hope that these attempts will cease... Therefore, I urge Congress to focus on this issue and respectfully suggest that we should pass a law to severely penalize the distribution of incendiary publications through the mail in the Southern States that are aimed at inciting slaves to revolt."
Mr. Clay said the sole purpose of the Abolitionists was to array one portion of the Union against the other. "With that in view, in all their leading prints and publications, the alleged horrors of slavery are depicted in the most glowing and exaggerated colors, to excite the imaginations and stimulate the rage of the people of the Free States against the people of the slaveholding States.... Why are the Slave States wantonly and cruelly assailed? Why does the abolition press teem with publications tending to excite hatred and animosity on the part of the Free States against the Slave States?... Why is Congress petitioned? Is their purpose to appeal to our understanding, and actuate our humanity? And do they expect to accomplish that purpose by holding us up to the scorn and contempt and detestation of the people of the Free States and the whole civilized world?... Union on the one side will beget union on the other.... One section will stand in menacing, hostile array against another; the collision of opinion will be quickly followed by the clash of arms."
Mr. Clay said the only goal of the Abolitionists was to pit one part of the Union against the other. "With that in mind, in all their main articles and publications, the supposed horrors of slavery are portrayed in the most dramatic and exaggerated ways, to stir the imaginations and fuel the anger of the people in the Free States against those in the slaveholding States.... Why are the Slave States attacked so recklessly and cruelly? Why does the abolition press overflow with publications that aim to incite hatred and hostility from the Free States toward the Slave States?... Why is Congress being petitioned? Is their intent to appeal to our reason and inspire our compassion? And do they think they can achieve that by showcasing us as objects of scorn, contempt, and disgust to the people of the Free States and the entire civilized world?... Unity on one side will lead to unity on the other.... One section will face another in a threatening, hostile posture; the clash of opinions will soon be followed by the clash of arms."
Mr. Everett, then (1836) Governor of Massachusetts, informed the Legislature, for the admonition of these unsparing agitators against the peace of the South, that "every thing that tends to disturb the relations created by this compact [the Constitution] is at war with its spirit; and whatever, by direct and necessary operation, is calculated to excite an insurrection among the slaves, has been held by highly respectable legal authority an offence against the peace of this Commonwealth, which may be prosecuted as a misdemeanor at common law." It was proposed in the Legislature to pass an act defining the offence with more certainty, and attaching to it a severer penalty. The Abolitionists asked to be heard before the committee; and Rev. S. J. May, Ellis Gray Loring, Prof. Charles Follen, Samuel E. Sewell, and others of equal ability and character, spoke in their behalf. They objected to the passage of such an act in the strongest terms, and derided the value of a Union which could not protect its citizens in one of their most cherished rights. During the hearing, several bitter altercations took place between them and the chairman.
Mr. Everett, who was the Governor of Massachusetts in 1836, informed the Legislature, to caution these relentless agitators against the peace of the South, that "everything that disrupts the relationships established by this agreement [the Constitution] goes against its spirit; and anything that directly and necessarily aims to provoke a rebellion among the slaves is considered by respected legal authority as an offense against the peace of this Commonwealth, which can be prosecuted as a misdemeanor under common law." The Legislature proposed to pass a law that would define the offense more clearly and impose a harsher penalty. The Abolitionists requested to present their case before the committee, with Rev. S. J. May, Ellis Gray Loring, Prof. Charles Follen, Samuel E. Sewell, and other equally notable individuals advocating for them. They strongly opposed the passage of such a law and mocked the worth of a Union that couldn't defend its citizens in one of their most valued rights. During the hearing, several heated arguments broke out between them and the chairman.
In New York, Gov. Marcy called upon the Legislature "to do what may be done consistently with the great principles of civil liberty, to put an end to the evils which the Abolitionists are bringing upon us and the whole country." The "character" and the "interests" of the State were equally at stake, and both would be sacrificed unless these furious and cruel fanatics were effectually suppressed.
In New York, Governor Marcy urged the Legislature "to take action that aligns with the core principles of civil liberty, to stop the issues that the Abolitionists are causing for us and the entire country." The "reputation" and the "interests" of the State were both at risk, and both would suffer unless these aggressive and ruthless extremists were effectively controlled.
In May, 1836, the Federal House of Representatives resolved, by overwhelming votes, that Congress had no right to interfere with slavery in the States, or in the District of Columbia, and that henceforth all abolition petitions should be laid on the table without being printed or referred. And, one day later than the date of Mr. Lincoln's protest, Mr. Van Buren declared in his inaugural, that no bill abolishing slavery in the District of Columbia, or meddling with it in the States where it existed, should ever receive his signature. "There was no other form," says Benton, "at that time, in which slavery agitation could manifest itself, or place it could find a point to operate; the ordinance of 1787 and the compromise of 1820 having closed up the Territories against it. Danger to slave property in the States, either by direct action, or indirectly through the District of Columbia, were the only points of expressed apprehension."
In May 1836, the Federal House of Representatives, by a large majority, decided that Congress had no authority to interfere with slavery in the States or in the District of Columbia. They resolved that from now on, all petitions for abolition would be set aside without being printed or referred. One day after Mr. Lincoln's protest, Mr. Van Buren stated in his inaugural address that he would never sign a bill to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia or interfere with it in the States where it existed. "There was no other way," Benton remarked, "at that time for slavery agitation to show itself or find a place to operate; the ordinance of 1787 and the compromise of 1820 had closed the Territories against it. Concern for slave property in the States, whether through direct action or indirectly via the District of Columbia, were the only points of expressed worry."
Abolition agitations fared little better in the twenty-fifth Congress than in the twenty-fourth. At the extra session in September of 1837, Mr. Slade of Vermont introduced two petitions for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia; but, after a furious debate and a stormy scene, they were disposed of by the adoption of the following:—
Abolition movements had little success in the twenty-fifth Congress compared to the twenty-fourth. During the special session in September of 1837, Mr. Slade from Vermont presented two petitions to end slavery in the District of Columbia; however, after a heated debate and a chaotic scene, they were handled by adopting the following:—
"Resolved, That all petitions, memorials, and papers, touching the abolition of slavery, or the buying, selling, or transferring of slaves, in any State, District, or Territory, of the United States, be laid on the table, without being debated, printed, read, or referred; and that no further action whatever shall be had thereon."
"Resolved, That all petitions, memorials, and documents regarding the abolition of slavery, or the buying, selling, or transferring of slaves in any State, District, or Territory of the United States, be set aside without discussion, printing, reading, or referral; and that no further action of any kind shall be taken on them."
In Illinois, at the time we speak of (March, 1837), an Abolitionist was rarely seen, and scarcely ever heard of. In many parts of the State such a person would have been treated as a criminal. It is true, there were a few Covenanters, with whom hatred of slavery in any form and wherever found was an essential part of their religion. Up to 1824 they had steadily refused to vote, or in any other way to acknowledge the State government, regarding it as "an heathen and unbaptized institution," because the Constitution failed to recognize "Jesus Christ as the head of the government, and the Holy Scriptures as the only rule of faith and practice." It was only when it was proposed to introduce slavery into Illinois by an alteration of that "heathen" Constitution, that the Covenanters consented to take part in public affairs. The movement which drew them out proved to be a long and unusually bitter campaign, lasting full eighteen months, and ending in the fall of 1824, with a popular majority of several thousand against calling a convention for the purpose of making Illinois a Slave State. Many of the antislavery leaders in this contest—conspicuous among whom was Gov. Coles—were gentlemen from Slave States, who had emancipated their slaves before removal, and were opposed to slavery, not upon religious or moral grounds, but because they believed it would be a material injury to the new country. Practically no other view of the question was discussed; and a person who should have undertaken to discuss it from the "man and brother" stand-point of more modern times would have been set down as a lunatic. A clear majority of the people were against the introduction of slavery into their own State; but that majority were fully agreed with their brethren of the minority, that those who went about to interfere with slavery in the most distant manner in the places where it already existed were deserving of the severest punishment, as the common enemies of society. It was in those days a mortal offence to call a man an Abolitionist, for Abolitionist was synonymous with thief. Between a band of men who stole horses and a band of men who stole negroes, the popular mind made small distinctions in the degrees of guilt. They were regarded as robbers, disturbers of the peace, the instigators of arson, murder, poisoning, rape; and, in addition to all this, traitors to the government under which they lived, and enemies to the Union which gave us as a people liberty and strength. In testimony of these sentiments, Illinois enacted a "black code" of most preposterous and cruel severity,—a code that would have been a disgrace to a Slave State, and was simply an infamy in a free one. It borrowed the provisions of the most revolting laws known among men, for exiling, selling, beating, bedevilling, and torturing negroes, whether bond or free. Under this law Gov. Coles, the leader of the antislavery party, who had emancipated his slaves, and settled them around him in his new home, but had neglected to file a bond with the condition that his freedmen should behave well and never become a charge upon the public, was fined two hundred dollars in each case; and, so late as 1852, the writer of these pages very narrowly escaped the same penalty for the same offence.
In Illinois, during the time we’re talking about (March, 1837), an Abolitionist was rarely seen and almost never heard of. In many parts of the state, such a person would have been treated like a criminal. It’s true that there were a few Covenanters, who viewed hatred of slavery in any form and wherever found as a core part of their religion. Up until 1824, they had consistently refused to vote or acknowledge the state government in any way, seeing it as "a heathen and unbaptized institution" because the Constitution didn’t recognize "Jesus Christ as the head of the government and the Holy Scriptures as the only rule of faith and practice." It was only when there was a proposal to introduce slavery into Illinois by changing that "heathen" Constitution that the Covenanters agreed to participate in public affairs. The movement that drew them out turned out to be a long and extremely bitter campaign, lasting eighteen months, and ending in the fall of 1824, with a popular majority of several thousand against calling a convention to make Illinois a Slave State. Many of the antislavery leaders in this contest—prominently including Gov. Coles—were gentlemen from Slave States who had freed their slaves before moving and opposed slavery, not on religious or moral grounds, but because they believed it would be seriously damaging to the new territory. Practically no other view on the issue was discussed; and anyone who dared to approach it from the "man and brother" perspective of more modern times would have been seen as insane. A clear majority of the people were against introducing slavery into their state; but that majority also agreed with the minority that those who tried to interfere with slavery, even in the most remote way in places where it already existed, deserved the harshest punishment as the common enemies of society. In those days, calling someone an Abolitionist was a serious offense, as Abolitionist was synonymous with thief. The public made little distinction between a group of men who stole horses and those who stole enslaved people in terms of guilt. They were viewed as robbers, disturbances of peace, instigators of arson, murder, poisoning, rape; and in addition to all this, traitors to the government under which they lived and enemies to the Union that provided us as a people with liberty and strength. To demonstrate these sentiments, Illinois enacted a "black code" of absurd and cruel severity—a code that would have been shameful in a Slave State and was nothing short of disgraceful in a free one. It included the most revolting laws known for exiling, selling, beating, tormenting, and torturing Black people, whether enslaved or free. Under this law, Gov. Coles, the leader of the antislavery party who had freed his slaves and settled them around him in his new home, but had failed to file a bond ensuring that his freedmen would behave well and not become a public charge, was fined two hundred dollars in each case; and as late as 1852, the author of this text narrowly escaped the same penalty for the same offense.
In 1835-36 Rev. Elijah P. Lovejoy had been publishing a moderately antislavery paper at St. Louis. But the people of that city did not look with favor upon his enterprise; and, after meeting with considerable opposition, in the summer of 1836 he moved his types and press across the river to Alton, Ill. Here he found an opposition more violent than that from which he had fled. His press was thrown into the river the night after its arrival; and he was informed that no abolition paper would be allowed in the town. The better class of citizens, however, deprecated the outrage, and pledged themselves to reimburse Mr. Lovejoy, in case he would agree not to make his paper an abolition journal. Mr. Lovejoy assured them it was not his purpose to establish such a paper in Alton, but one of a religious character: at the same time he would not give up his right as an American citizen to publish whatever he pleased on any subject, holding himself answerable to the laws of his country in so doing. With this general understanding, he was permitted to go forward. He continued about a year, discussing in his paper the slavery question occasionally; not, however, in a violent manner, but with a tone of moderation. This policy, however, was not satisfactory: it was regarded as a violation of his pledge; and the contents of his office were again destroyed. Mr. Lovejoy issued an appeal for aid to re-establish his paper, which met with a prompt and generous response. He proposed to bring up another press, and announced that armed men would protect it: meantime, a committee presented him with some resolutions adopted at a large meeting of the citizens of Alton, reminding him that he had previously given a pledge that in his paper he would refrain from advocating abolitionism) and also censuring him for not having kept his promise, and desiring to know if he intended to continue the publication of such doctrines in the future. His response consisted of a denial of the right of any portion of the people of Acton to prescribe what questions he should or should not discuss in his paper. Great excitement followed: another press was brought up on the 21st of September, which shortly after followed the fate of its predecessors. Another arrived Nov. 7, 1837, and was conveyed to a stone warehouse by the riverside, where Mr. Lovejoy and a few friends (some of them not Abolitionists) resolved to defend it to the last. That night they were attacked. First there was a brief parley, then a volley of stones, then an attempt to carry the building by assault. At this juncture a shot was fired out of a second-story window, which killed a young man in the crowd. It was said to have been fired by Lovejoy; and, as the corpse was borne away, the wrath of the populace knew no bounds. It was proposed to get powder from the magazine, and blow the warehouse up. Others thought the torch would be a better agent; and, finally, a man ran up a ladder to fire the roof. Lovejoy came out of the door, and, firing one shot, retreated within, where he rallied the garrison for a sortie. In the mean time many shots were fired both by the assailants and the assailed. The house was once actually set on fire by one person from the mob, and saved by another. But the courage of Mr. Lovejoy's friends was gradually sinking, and they responded but faintly to his strong appeals for action. As a last resource, he rushed to the door with a single companion, gun in hand, and was shot dead on the threshold. The other man was wounded in the leg, the warehouse was in flames, the mob grew more ferocious over the blood that had been shed, and riddled the doors and windows with volleys from all sorts of fire-arms. The Abolitionists had fought a good fight; but seeing now nothing but death before them, in that dismal, bloody, and burning house, they escaped down the river-bank, by twos and threes, as best they could, and their press was tumbled after them, into the river. And thus ended the first attempt to establish an abolition paper in Illinois. The result was certainly any thing but encouraging, and indicated pretty clearly what must have been the general state of public feeling throughout the State in regard to slavery agitation.
In 1835-36, Rev. Elijah P. Lovejoy was publishing a moderately antislavery newspaper in St. Louis. However, the people of that city didn't support his efforts; after facing significant opposition, he moved his types and press across the river to Alton, Illinois, in the summer of 1836. There, he encountered even more violent opposition than he had left behind. His press was thrown into the river the night after its arrival, and he was told that no abolition paper would be allowed in the town. However, many of the town's citizens condemned the attack and promised to reimburse Mr. Lovejoy if he agreed not to make his newspaper an abolitionist one. Mr. Lovejoy assured them that he didn't plan to establish such a paper in Alton but one with a religious focus; at the same time, he insisted on his right as an American citizen to publish whatever he wanted on any topic, being accountable to the laws of his country. With this mutual understanding, he was allowed to proceed. He continued for about a year, occasionally discussing the slavery issue, but always in a moderate tone. This approach, however, didn't satisfy everyone; it was viewed as breaking his promise, and the contents of his office were destroyed again. Mr. Lovejoy called for help to restore his newspaper, which received a swift and generous response. He planned to bring in another press and announced that armed men would protect it. Meanwhile, a committee presented him with resolutions from a large meeting of Alton's citizens, reminding him of his earlier pledge to avoid advocating for abolitionism and reprimanding him for not keeping that promise, while seeking to know if he intended to continue publishing such views in the future. His response was to deny that any group of citizens had the right to dictate what he could discuss in his paper. This led to a lot of excitement: another press arrived on September 21, but shortly after, it met the same fate as its predecessors. A new press arrived on November 7, 1837, and was taken to a stone warehouse by the river, where Mr. Lovejoy and a few friends (some not even abolitionists) decided to defend it to the end. That night, they were attacked. There was a brief negotiation, followed by a barrage of stones, and then a charge to seize the building. At that moment, a shot was fired from a second-story window, killing a young man in the crowd. It was alleged that Lovejoy fired the shot, and as the body was carried away, the anger of the crowd escalated. They suggested getting gunpowder to blow up the warehouse, while others thought setting it on fire was better; ultimately, a man climbed a ladder to ignite the roof. Lovejoy came out the door, fired one shot, and then retreated inside to rally the defenders for a counterattack. In the meantime, shots were exchanged between both sides. The building was briefly set on fire by someone in the mob, but it was saved by another. However, the determination of Mr. Lovejoy’s supporters was fading, and they responded weakly to his urgent calls for action. As a last attempt, he charged out the door with a single companion, gun in hand, and was shot dead on the threshold. His companion was wounded in the leg, the warehouse was ablaze, the mob grew more violent over the blood that had been spilled, and they riddled the doors and windows with shots from various firearms. The abolitionists had fought valiantly, but seeing nothing but death before them in that grim, bloody, and burning house, they escaped down the riverbank, in small groups, as best they could, and their press was tossed into the river after them. Thus, the first attempt to establish an abolition newspaper in Illinois came to a disastrous end. The outcome was hardly encouraging and clearly reflected the general sentiment throughout the state concerning the issue of slavery agitation.
In fact, no State was more alive to the necessity of repressing the Abolitionists than Illinois; and accordingly it was proposed in the Legislature to take some action similar to that which had been already taken, or was actually pending, in the legislatures of sister Commonwealths, from Massachusetts through the list. A number of resolutions were reported, and passed with no serious opposition. The record does not disclose the precise form in which they passed; but that is of little consequence now. That they were extreme enough may be gathered from the considerate language of the protest, and from the fact that such a protest was considered necessary at all. The protest was undoubtedly the product of Mr. Lincoln's pen, for his adroit directness is seen in every word of it. He could get but one man—his colleague, Dan Stone—to sign with him.
In fact, no state was more aware of the need to control the Abolitionists than Illinois; accordingly, it was proposed in the legislature to take some action similar to what had already been done or was in progress in the legislatures of neighboring states, from Massachusetts down the list. A number of resolutions were reported and passed without serious opposition. The records don’t reveal the exact form in which they passed, but that’s not really important now. The fact that they were extreme enough can be inferred from the careful language of the protest and from the reality that such a protest was deemed necessary at all. The protest was undoubtedly written by Mr. Lincoln, as his skillful directness is evident in every word. He could only get one person—his colleague, Dan Stone—to sign it along with him.
March 3,1837.
March 3, 1837.
The following protest was presented to the House, which was read, and ordered to be spread on the journals, to wit:—
The following protest was submitted to the House, which was read and ordered to be recorded in the journals, namely:—
Resolutions upon the subject of domestic slavery having passed both branches of the General Assembly at its present session, the undersigned hereby protest against the passage of the same.
Resolutions regarding domestic slavery have been approved by both branches of the General Assembly during this session, and the undersigned hereby protest against their approval.
They believe that the institution of slavery is founded on both injustice and bad policy; but that the promulgation of abolition doctrines tends rather to increase than abate its evils.
They believe that slavery is based on both injustice and poor policy; however, they think that promoting abolitionist ideas tends to heighten rather than reduce its problems.
They believe that the Congress of the United States has no power, under the Constitution, to interfere with the institution of slavery in the different States.
They believe that the Congress of the United States has no authority, according to the Constitution, to interfere with slavery in the various States.
They believe that the Congress of the United States has the power, under the Constitution, to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia, but that the power ought not to be exercised, unless at the request of the people of the District.
They believe that the Congress of the United States has the authority, according to the Constitution, to end slavery in the District of Columbia, but that this power should only be used if the people of the District request it.
The difference between these opinions and those contained in the said resolutions is their reason for entering this protest.
The difference between these opinions and those in the mentioned resolutions is their reason for making this protest.
(Signed) Dan Stone,
(Signed) Dan Stone,
A. Lincoln, Representatives from the County of Sanqamon.
A. Lincoln, Representatives from the County of Sangamon.
Mr. Lincoln says nothing here about slavery in the Territories. The Missouri Compromise being in full force, and regarded as sacred by all parties, it was one of its chief effects that both sections were deprived of any pretext for the agitation of that question, from which every statesman, Federalist or Republican, Whig or Democratic, apprehended certain disaster to the Union. Neither would Mr. Lincoln suffer himself to be classed with the few despised Quakers, Covenanters, and Puritans, who were so frequently disturbing the peace of the country by abolition-memorials to Congress and other public bodies. Slavery, says the protest, is wrong in principle, besides being bad in economy; but "the promulgation of abolition doctrines" is still worse. In the States which choose to have it, it enjoys a constitutional immunity beyond the reach of any "higher law;" and Congress must not touch it, otherwise than to shield and protect it. Even in the District of Columbia, Mr. Lincoln and Dan Stone would leave it entirely to the will of the people. In fact, the whole paper, plain and simple as it is, seems to have been drawn with no object but to avoid the imputation of extreme views on either side. And from that day to the day of his inauguration, Mr. Lincoln never saw the time when he would have altered a word of it. He never sided with the Lovejoys. In his eyes their work tended "rather to increase than to abate" the evils of slavery, and was therefore unjust, as well as futile. Years afterwards he was the steady though quiet opponent of Owen Lovejoy, and declared that Lovejoy's nomination for Congress over Leonard Swett "almost turned him blind." When, in 1860, the Democrats called Mr. Lincoln an Abolitionist, and cited the protest of 1837 to support the charge, friends pointed to the exact language of the document as his complete and overwhelming refutation.
Mr. Lincoln doesn’t mention slavery in the Territories here. The Missouri Compromise was fully in place and considered sacred by all sides, and one of its main effects was that both sides lost any reason to stir up that debate, which every politician, whether Federalist or Republican, Whig or Democrat, feared would lead to disaster for the Union. Mr. Lincoln also didn’t want to be grouped with the few disliked Quakers, Covenanters, and Puritans who frequently disrupted the country's peace with abolition petitions to Congress and other public bodies. The protest states that slavery is wrong in principle and bad for the economy, but "the promotion of abolition ideas" is even worse. In states that choose to have slavery, it has constitutional protection that no "higher law" can override; Congress shouldn’t interfere with it except to support and protect it. Even in the District of Columbia, Mr. Lincoln and Dan Stone wanted to leave it entirely up to the people’s will. In fact, the whole document, straightforward as it is, seems designed solely to avoid being seen as radical on either side. From that day until his inauguration, Mr. Lincoln never thought he would change a word of it. He never supported the Lovejoys. To him, their efforts seemed "more likely to increase than to diminish" the problems of slavery, making them both unjust and pointless. Years later, he was a consistent but quiet opponent of Owen Lovejoy and said that Lovejoy’s nomination for Congress over Leonard Swett "almost drove him blind." When, in 1860, the Democrats labeled Mr. Lincoln an Abolitionist and referenced the 1837 protest to back up their claim, his supporters pointed to the exact wording of the document as his complete and compelling response.
On the 10th of May, the New York banks suspended specie payments, and two days afterwards the Bank of the United States and the Philadelphia banks did likewise. From these the stoppage and the general ruin, among business men and speculators alike, spread throughout the country. Nevertheless, the Fund Commissioners of Illinois succeeded in placing a loan during the summer, and before the end of the year work had begun on many railroads. "Money was as plenty as dirt. Industry, in place of being stimulated, actually languished. We exported nothing, and every thing was paid for by the borrowed money expended among us." And this money was bank-paper, such as a pensioner upon the Government of the United States scorned to take in payment of his gratuity, after the deposit banks had suspended or broken, with thirty-two millions of Government money in their possession.
On May 10th, the New York banks stopped accepting cash payments, and two days later, the Bank of the United States and the Philadelphia banks followed suit. This pause led to widespread financial ruin among both business people and speculators across the country. However, the Fund Commissioners of Illinois managed to secure a loan during the summer, and by the end of the year, construction had started on many railroads. "Money was as common as dirt. Instead of thriving, industries actually struggled. We exported nothing, and everything was paid for with borrowed money that was circulated among us." And this money was paper currency from the banks, which even a government pensioner would refuse to accept as payment for his benefits after the deposit banks had stopped operating or failed, holding thirty-two million dollars of government funds.
The banks which had received such generous legislation from the Legislature that devised the internal-improvement system were not disposed to see that batch of remarkable enterprises languish for want of their support. One of them took at par and sold nine hundred thousand dollars of bonds; while the other took one million seven hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars, which it used as capital, and expanded its business accordingly. But the banks were themselves in greater danger than the internal-improvement system. If the State Bank refused specie payments for sixty days, its charter was forfeited under the Act of Assembly. But they were the main-stay of all the current speculations, public and private; and having besides large sums of public money in their hands, the governor was induced to call a special session of the Legislature in July, 1837, to save them from impending dissolution. This was done by an act authorizing or condoning the suspension of specie payments. The governor had not directly recommended this, but he had most earnestly recommended the repeal or modification of the internal-improvement system; and that the Legislature positively refused. This wise body might be eaten by its own dogs, but it was determined not to eat them; and in this direction there was no prospect of relief for two years more. According to Gov. Ford, the cool, reflecting men of the State anxiously hoped that their rulers might be able to borrow no more money, but in this they were immediately and bitterly disappointed. The United States Bank took some of their bonds. Some were sold at par in this country, and others at nine per cent discount in Europe.
The banks that had received generous support from the Legislature that created the internal-improvement system were not willing to let that collection of impressive projects fail due to a lack of backing. One bank took at face value and sold nine hundred thousand dollars in bonds; another took one million seven hundred sixty-five thousand dollars for its capital and grew its business accordingly. However, the banks themselves were in greater danger than the internal-improvement system. If the State Bank refused to make cash payments for sixty days, its charter would be revoked under the Act of Assembly. Still, they were the backbone of all current speculations, both public and private; and with large amounts of public funds in their hands, the governor was prompted to call a special legislative session in July 1837 to save them from possible collapse. This was accomplished through an act that authorized or allowed the suspension of cash payments. The governor hadn’t directly suggested this, but he had strongly recommended the repeal or modification of the internal-improvement system; and that request was firmly rejected by the Legislature. This wise group might be taken down by its own mistakes, but they were determined not to be affected by those issues; and there was no chance of relief in that regard for two more years. According to Gov. Ford, the level-headed residents of the State anxiously hoped that their leaders wouldn’t be able to borrow more money, but they were quickly and painfully let down. The United States Bank purchased some of their bonds. Some were sold at face value in this country, while others were sold at a nine percent discount in Europe.
In 1838, a governor (Carlin) was elected who was thought by many to be secretly hostile to the "system;" and a new Legislature was chosen, from which it was thought something might be hoped. Mr. Lincoln was again elected, with a reputation so much enhanced by his activity and address in the last Legislature, that this time he was the candidate of his party for speaker. The nomination, however, was a barren honor, and known to be such when given. Col. Ewing was chosen by a plurality of one,—two Whigs and two Democrats scattering their votes. Mr. Lincoln kept his old place on the Finance Committee. At the first session the governor held his peace regarding the "system;" and, far from repealing it, the Legislature added a new feature to it, and voted another $800,000.
In 1838, a governor (Carlin) was elected who many believed was secretly against the "system;" and a new Legislature was chosen, from which there were hopes for change. Mr. Lincoln was elected again, with a reputation boosted by his activity and skills in the last Legislature, making him the candidate of his party for speaker this time. However, the nomination turned out to be a hollow honor, and it was recognized as such when it was given. Col. Ewing was elected by a margin of one vote, with two Whigs and two Democrats casting their votes elsewhere. Mr. Lincoln retained his position on the Finance Committee. During the first session, the governor stayed quiet about the "system;" and instead of repealing it, the Legislature added a new component to it and voted to allocate another $800,000.
But the Fund Commissioners were in deep water and muddy water: they had reached the end of their string. The credit of the State was gone, and already were heard murmurs of repudiation. Bond County had in the beginning pronounced the system a swindle upon the people; and Bond County began to have admirers. Some of the bonds had been lent to New York State banks to start upon; and the banks had presently failed. Some had been sold on credit. Some were scattered about in various places on special deposit. Others had been sent to London for sale, where the firm that was selling them broke with the proceeds of a part of them in their hands. No expedients sufficed any longer. There was no more money to be got, and nothing left to do, but to "wind up the system," and begin the work of common sense by providing for the interest on the sums already expended. A special session of the Legislature in 1838-9 did the "winding up," and thenceforth, for some years, there was no other question so important in Illinois State politics as how to pay the interest on the vast debt outstanding for this account. Many gentlemen discovered that De Witt Clintons were rare, and in certain contingencies very precious. Among these must have been Mr. Lincoln. But being again, elected to the Legislature in 1840, again the acknowledged leader and candidate of his party for speaker, he ventured in December of that year to offer an expedient for paying the interest on the debt; but it was only an expedient, and a very poor one, to avoid the obvious but unpopular resort of direct taxation.
But the Fund Commissioners were in serious trouble: they had run out of options. The state's credit was shot, and whispers of default were already circulating. Bond County had initially called the system a scam against the people, and now it began to gain followers. Some bonds had been given to banks in New York State to get things started, but those banks quickly failed. Some had been sold on credit. Others were scattered in various places on special deposit. And some had been sent to London for sale, where the firm handling them went broke, leaving them with some of the proceeds. No solutions worked anymore. There was no more money available, and all that was left was to "wrap up the system" and start approaching the issue logically by ensuring the interest on the money already spent was covered. A special session of the Legislature in 1838-9 handled the "wrapping up," and for several years after that, the biggest question in Illinois State politics was how to pay the interest on the massive debt owed. Many people realized that De Witt Clintons were rare and, in some situations, extremely valuable. Mr. Lincoln was likely among them. After being elected to the Legislature again in 1840 and recognized as his party's leader and speaker candidate, he had the audacity in December of that year to propose a plan for paying the interest on the debt; however, it was merely a stopgap and a poor one at that, aimed at avoiding the unpopular choice of direct taxation.
"Mr. Lincoln moved to strike out the bill and amendment, and insert the following:—
"Mr. Lincoln proposed to remove the bill and amendment and replace them with the following:—"
"An Act providing for the payment of interest on the State debt.
"An Act for paying interest on the State debt."
"Section 1.—Be it enacted by the people of the State of Illinois represented in the General Assembly, that the governor be authorized and required to issue, from time to time, such an amount of State bonds, to be called the 'Illinois Interest Bonds,' as may be absolutely necessary for the payment of the interest upon the lawful debt of the State, contracted before the passage of this Act.
"Section 1.—Be it enacted by the people of the State of Illinois represented in the General Assembly, that the governor is authorized and required to issue, from time to time, a necessary amount of State bonds, called the 'Illinois Interest Bonds,' to cover the interest payments on the lawful debt of the State, incurred before the passage of this Act."
"Section 2.—Said bonds shall bear interest at the rate of——per cent per annum, payable half-yearly at——, and be reimbursable in years from their respective issuings.
"Section 2.—These bonds will earn interest at a rate of——percent per year, paid semi-annually at——, and will be repayable in years from their respective issue dates."
"Section 3.—That the State's portion of the tax hereafter arising from all lands which were not taxable in the year one thousand eight hundred and forty is hereby set apart as an exclusive fund for the payment of interest on the said 'Illinois Interest Bonds;' and the faith of the State is hereby pledged that said fund shall be applied to that object, and no other, except at any time there should be a surplus; in which case such surplus shall became a part of the general funds of the treasury.
"Section 3.—The portion of the tax from all lands that were not taxable in the year 1840 is now set aside as a dedicated fund for paying the interest on the 'Illinois Interest Bonds.' The State commits to using this fund solely for that purpose, unless there happens to be a surplus; in that case, the surplus will become part of the general funds of the treasury."
"Section 4.—That hereafter the sum of thirty cents for each hundred dollars' worth of all taxable property shall be paid into the State treasury; and no more than forty cents for each hundred dollars' worth of such taxable property shall be levied and collected for county purposes."
"Section 4.—From now on, thirty cents for every hundred dollars' worth of all taxable property will be paid into the State treasury; and no more than forty cents for every hundred dollars' worth of that taxable property will be collected for county purposes."
It was a loose document. The governor was to determine the "amount" of bonds "necessary," and the sums for which they should be issued. Interest was to be paid only upon the "lawful" debt; and the governor was left to determine what part of it was lawful, and what unlawful. The last section lays a specific tax; but the proceeds are in no way connected with the "interest bonds."
It was a vague document. The governor was to decide the "amount" of bonds "needed," and the amounts for which they should be issued. Interest would only be paid on the "lawful" debt, and it was up to the governor to determine which part of it was lawful and which was not. The final section sets a specific tax, but the funds are not linked to the "interest bonds" in any way.
"Mr. Lincoln said he submitted this proposition with great diffidence. He had felt his share of the responsibility devolving upon us in the present crisis; and, after revolving in his mind every scheme which seemed to afford the least prospect of relief, he submitted this as the result of his own deliberations.
"Mr. Lincoln said he presented this proposal with considerable hesitation. He had felt the weight of the responsibility resting on us in this current crisis; and, after carefully considering every plan that seemed to offer even a slight chance for relief, he proposed this as the outcome of his own reflections."
"The details of the bill might be imperfect; but he relied upon the correctness of its general features.
"The details of the bill might not be perfect, but he trusted the accuracy of its overall aspects."
"By the plan proposed in the original bill of hypothecating our bonds, he was satisfied we could not get along more than two or three months before some other step would be necessary: another session would have to be called, and new provisions made.
"According to the plan suggested in the original bill to secure our bonds, he believed we would only manage for another two or three months before we needed to take additional action: another session would need to be convened, and new arrangements would have to be made."
"It might be objected that these bonds would not be salable, and the money could not be raised in time. He was no financier; but he believed these bonds thus secured would be equal to the best in market. A perfect security was provided for the interest; and it was this characteristic that inspired confidence, and made bonds salable. If there was any distrust, it could not be because our means of fulfilling promises were distrusted. He believed it would have the effect to raise our other bonds in market.
"It could be argued that these bonds wouldn’t sell and that the money couldn’t be raised in time. He wasn’t a financial expert, but he believed these secured bonds would be as good as the best on the market. A solid guarantee was in place for the interest, and it was this feature that built confidence and made the bonds sellable. If there was any skepticism, it couldn’t be due to doubts about our ability to keep our promises. He thought it would actually help increase the value of our other bonds in the market."
"There was another objection to this plan, which applied to the original bill; and that was as to the impropriety of borrowing money to pay interest on borrowed money,—that we are hereby paying compound interest. To this he would reply, that, if it were a fact that our population and wealth were increasing in a ratio greater than the increased interest hereby incurred, then this was not a good objection. If our increasing means would justify us in deferring to a future time the resort to taxation, then we had better pay compound interest than resort to taxation now. He was satisfied, that, by a direct tax now, money enough could not be collected to pay the accruing interest. The bill proposed to provide in this way for interest not otherwise provided for. It was not intended to apply to those bonds for the interest on which a security had already been provided.
There was another issue with this plan, which also applied to the original bill; it was about the inappropriateness of borrowing money to pay interest on borrowed money—essentially that we're paying compound interest. In response, he would argue that if our population and wealth are growing at a faster rate than the increased interest we're incurring, then this isn't a valid objection. If our growing resources allow us to delay tax implementation to a later time, then it's better to pay compound interest than to impose taxes now. He was confident that a direct tax at this moment wouldn’t bring in enough money to cover the accumulating interest. The bill aimed to address interest that wasn't covered by other means. It wasn't meant to apply to those bonds for which a security had already been established for the interest.
"He hoped the House would seriously consider the proposition. He had no pride in its success as a measure of his own, but submitted it to the wisdom of the House, with the hope, that, if there was any thing objectionable in it, it would be pointed out and amended."
"He hoped the House would seriously consider the proposal. He didn't take pride in its success as a reflection of himself, but put it forward to the wisdom of the House, hoping that if there was anything wrong with it, it would be identified and corrected."
Mr. Lincoln's measure did not pass. There was a large party in favor, not only of passing the interest on the State debt, which fell due in the coming January and July, but of repudiating the whole debt outright. Others thought the State ought to pay, not the full face of its bonds, but only the amount received for them; while others still contended that, whereas, many of the bonds had been irregularly, illegally, and even fraudulently disposed of, there ought to be a particular discrimination made against these, and these only. "At last Mr. Cavarly, a member from Green, introduced a bill of two sections, authorizing the Fund Commissioners to hypothecate internal-improvement bonds to the amount of three hundred thousand dollars, and which contained the remarkable provision, that the proceeds were to be applied by that officer to the payment of all interest legally due on the public debt; thus shifting from the General Assembly, and devolving on the Fund Commissioner, the duty of deciding on the legality of the debt. Thus, by this happy expedient, conflicting opinions were reconciled without direct action on the matter in controversy, and thus the two Houses were enabled to agree upon a measure to provide temporarily for the interest on the public debt. The Legislature further provided, at this session, for the issue of interest bonds, to be sold in the market at what they would bring; and an additional tax of ten cents on the hundred dollars' worth of property was imposed and pledged, to pay the interest on these bonds. By these contrivances, the interest for January and July, 1841, was paid. The Fund Commissioner hypothecated internal-improvement bonds for the money first due; and his successor in office, finding no sale for Illinois stocks, so much had the credit of the State fallen, was compelled to hypothecate eight hundred and four thousand dollars of interest bonds for the July interest. On this hypothecation he was to have received three hundred and twenty-one thousand six hundred dollars, but was never paid more than two hundred and sixty-one thousand five hundred dollars. These bonds have never been redeemed from the holders, though eighty of them were afterwards repurchased, and three hundred and fifteen thousand dollars of them were received from the Shawneetown Bank for State stock in that institution."1
Mr. Lincoln's proposal didn't pass. There was a large group supporting not just paying the interest on the State debt due in the coming January and July, but also fully rejecting the entire debt. Some believed the State should pay not the total amount of its bonds, but just what it originally received for them; others argued that since many bonds had been handled irregularly, illegally, and even fraudulently, there should be a specific exception made for those. "Finally, Mr. Cavarly, a member from Green, introduced a two-section bill allowing the Fund Commissioners to use internal-improvement bonds worth three hundred thousand dollars, with the notable provision that the proceeds were to be used by that officer to pay all interest that was legally due on the public debt. This shifted the responsibility of determining the legality of the debt from the General Assembly to the Fund Commissioner. This clever solution reconciled differing opinions without directly addressing the contentious issue, allowing both Houses to agree on a temporary measure for paying interest on the public debt. The Legislature also made provisions at this session for issuing interest bonds to be sold in the market at their going rate; additionally, a tax of ten cents per hundred dollars of property was imposed and dedicated to covering the interest on these bonds. Thanks to these arrangements, the interest due in January and July 1841 was paid. The Fund Commissioner used internal-improvement bonds to cover the first payment due, and his successor, finding no market for Illinois stocks due to the State's poor credit, had to use eight hundred and four thousand dollars' worth of interest bonds for the July payment. On this transaction, he was supposed to receive three hundred and twenty-one thousand six hundred dollars, but ultimately got only two hundred and sixty-one thousand five hundred dollars. These bonds have never been redeemed by their holders, although eighty of them were later repurchased, and three hundred and fifteen thousand dollars of them were exchanged with the Shawneetown Bank for State stock in that institution."1
1 Ford's History of Illinois.
1 Ford's History of Illinois.
This session (the session of 1840-1) had been called two weeks earlier than usual, to provide for the January interest on the debt. But the banks had important business of their own in view, and proceeded to improve the occasion. In 1837, and every year since then, the banks had succeeded in getting acts of the Legislature which condoned their suspension of specie payments. But, by the terms of the last act, their charters were forfeited unless they resumed before the adjournment of the next session. The Democrats, however, maintained that the present special session was a session in the sense of the law, and that, before its adjournment, the banks must hand out "the hard," or die. On the other hand, the Whigs held this session, and the regular session which began on the first Monday in December, to be one and the same, and proposed to give the banks another winter's lease upon life and rags. But the banks were a power in the land, and knew how to make themselves felt. They were the depositories of the State revenues. The auditor's warrants were drawn upon them, and the members of the Legislature paid in their money. The warrants were at a discount of fifty per cent; and, if the banks refused to cash them, the members would be compelled to go home more impecunious than they came. The banks, moreover, knew how to make "opportune loans to Democrats;" and, with all these aids, they organized a brilliant and eventually a successful campaign. In the eyes of the Whigs they were "the institutions of the country," and the Democrats were guilty of incivism in attacking them. But the Democrats retorted with a string of overwhelming slang about rag barons, rags, printed lies, bank vassals, ragocracy, and the "British-bought, bank, blue-light, Federal, Whig party." It was a fierce and bitter contest; and, witnessing it, one might have supposed that the very existence of the State, with the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, depended upon the result. The Democrats were bent upon carrying an adjournment sine die; which, according to their theory, killed the banks. To defeat this, the Whigs resorted to every expedient of parliamentary tactics, and at length hit upon one entirely unknown to any of the standard manuals: they tried to absent themselves in sufficient numbers to leave no quorum behind. "If the Whigs absented themselves," says Mr. Gillespie, a Whig member, "there would not be a quorum left, even with the two who should be deputed to call the ayes and noes. The Whigs immediately held a meeting, and resolved that they would all stay out, except Lincoln and me, who were to call the ayes and noes. We appeared in the afternoon: motion to adjourn sine die was made, and we called the ayes and noes. The Democrats discovered the game, and the sergeant-at-arms was sent out to gather up the absentees. There was great excitement in the House, which was then held in a church at Springfield. We soon discovered that several Whigs had been caught and brought in, and that the plan had been spoiled; and we—Lincoln and I—determined to leave the hall, and, going to the door, found it locked, and then raised a window and jumped out, but not until the Democrats had succeeded in adjourning. Mr. Grid-ley of McLean accompanied us in our exit.... I think Mr. Lincoln always regretted that he entered into that arrangement, as he deprecated every thing that savored of the revolutionary."
This session (the session of 1840-1) was called two weeks earlier than usual to handle the January interest on the debt. However, the banks had their own important business to address and took advantage of the situation. Since 1837, and every year after that, the banks had managed to secure legislative acts that allowed them to suspend their specie payments. But according to the last act, their charters would be lost unless they resumed payments before the next session ended. The Democrats argued that this special session was a legitimate session under the law, meaning the banks needed to pay up in cash, or face closure. On the flip side, the Whigs contended that this session, along with the regular session starting on the first Monday in December, was one and the same, and they wanted to grant the banks another winter to survive. The banks were a powerful force, and they knew how to assert their influence. They held the state’s revenue deposits, and auditor's warrants were issued against them, with legislative members relying on their funds. Those warrants were being discounted by fifty percent; if the banks refused to redeem them, the members would leave poorer than when they arrived. The banks also knew how to provide "timely loans to Democrats," and leveraging these advantages, they mounted a successful campaign. The Whigs considered them "the institutions of the country," claiming that the Democrats were being uncivil for their criticisms. But the Democrats shot back with a barrage of insults about rag barons, rags, lies, banks' servitude, ragocracy, and labeled the Whigs as "British-bought, bank-affiliated, blue-light Federalists." It was an intense and bitter struggle; one might think it was a fight for the very existence of the state and the fundamental rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The Democrats aimed to secure a sine die adjournment, which they believed would spell doom for the banks. In response to this, the Whigs employed every parliamentary trick they could think of and eventually came up with a tactic not found in any official manuals: they attempted to leave the chamber in such numbers that no quorum would remain. "If the Whigs leave," said Mr. Gillespie, a Whig member, "there wouldn’t be a quorum left, even counting the two who should call the ayes and noes. The Whigs quickly convened a meeting and decided that everyone would stay out except Lincoln and me, who would call the votes. We showed up in the afternoon; a motion to adjourn sine die was proposed, and we called for the votes. The Democrats caught on to what we were doing, and the sergeant-at-arms was sent out to round up the absentees. There was a lot of excitement in the House, which was then located in a church in Springfield. Soon we discovered several Whigs had been rounded up and brought in, ruining our strategy; so Lincoln and I decided to leave the hall, only to find the door locked. We ended up climbing out of a window, but not before the Democrats managed to adjourn the session. Mr. Gridley from McLean joined us in making our exit... I believe Mr. Lincoln always regretted agreeing to that plan, as he was against anything that smelled revolutionary."
In the course of the debate on the Apportionment Bill, Mr. Lincoln had occasion to address the House in defence of "The Long Nine," who were especially obnoxious to the Democrats. The speech concluded with the following characteristic passage:—
In the debate on the Apportionment Bill, Mr. Lincoln had a chance to speak to the House in defense of "The Long Nine," who were particularly unpopular with the Democrats. His speech ended with the following memorable passage:—
"The gentleman had accused old women of being partial to the number nine; but this, he presumed, was without foundation. A few years since, it would be recollected by the House, that the delegation from this county were dubbed by way of eminence 'The Long Nine,' and, by way of further distinction, he had been called 'The Longest of the Nine.' Now," said Mr. Lincoln, "I desire to say to my friend from Monroe (Mr. Bissell), that if any woman, old or young, ever thought there was any peculiar charm in this distinguished specimen of number nine, I have as yet been so unfortunate as not to have discovered it." (Loud applause.)
"The gentleman had accused older women of having a preference for the number nine; but he thought that claim was unfounded. A few years ago, as the House might remember, the delegation from this county was famously referred to as 'The Long Nine,' and I was distinguished as 'The Longest of the Nine.' Now," said Mr. Lincoln, "I want to tell my friend from Monroe (Mr. Bissell) that if any woman, young or old, ever saw anything special about this particular number nine, I, unfortunately, have not been able to see it." (Loud applause.)
But this Legislature was full of excitements. Besides the questions about the public debt and the bank-charters, the Democrats proposed to legislate the Circuit judges out of office, and reconstruct the Supreme Court to suit themselves. They did this because the Supreme judges had already decided one question of some political interest against them, and were now about to decide another in the same way. The latter was a question of great importance; and, in order to avoid the consequences of such a decision, the Democrats were eager for the extremest measures.
But this Legislature was full of excitement. Besides the issues surrounding the public debt and bank charters, the Democrats aimed to remove the Circuit judges from their positions and reshape the Supreme Court to their advantage. They did this because the Supreme judges had already ruled against them on one politically significant issue and were now about to make another decision in the same direction. The latter issue was very important; to prevent the fallout from such a ruling, the Democrats were pushing for the most drastic measures.
The Constitution provided that all free white male inhabitants should vote upon six months' residence. This, the Democrats held, included aliens; while the Whigs held the reverse. On this grave judicial question, parties were divided precisely upon the line of their respective interests. The aliens numbered about ten thousand, and nine-tenths of them voted steadily with the Democracy. Whilst a great outcry concerning it was being made from both sides, and fierce disputes raged in the newspapers and on the stump, two Whigs at Galena got up an amicable case, to try it in a quiet way before a Whig judge, who held the Circuit Courts in their neighborhood. The judge decided for his friends, like a man that he was. The Democrats found it out, and raised a popular tumult about it that would have put Demetrius the silversmith to shame. They carried the case to the Supreme Court, where it was argued before the Whig majority, in December, 1889, by able and distinguished counsellors,—Judge Douglas being one of them; but the only result was a continuance to the next June. In the mean time Judge Smith, the only Democrat on the bench, was seeking favor with his party friends by betraying to Douglas the secrets of the consultation-room.
The Constitution stated that all free white male inhabitants should be able to vote after six months of residency. The Democrats argued that this included immigrants, while the Whigs argued the opposite. On this serious legal issue, the parties were split right along the lines of their own interests. There were about ten thousand immigrants, and nine out of ten of them consistently voted with the Democrats. As both sides made a big fuss about it, and fierce arguments erupted in the newspapers and on the campaign trail, two Whigs in Galena created a friendly case to address the issue quietly before a Whig judge who presided over the local Circuit Courts. The judge ruled in favor of his allies, as you might expect. The Democrats caught wind of it and stirred up a public uproar that would have embarrassed Demetrius the silversmith. They took the case to the Supreme Court, where it was argued in December 1889 before the Whig majority by skilled and notable lawyers, including Judge Douglas; however, the only outcome was a postponement until the following June. In the meantime, Judge Smith, the only Democrat on the bench, was trying to gain favor with his party friends by leaking the details of their discussions to Douglas.
With his aid, the Democrats found a defect in the record, which sent the case over to December, 1840, and adroitly secured the alien vote for the great elections of that memorable year. The Legislature elected then was overwhelmingly Democratic; and, having good reason to believe that the aliens had small favor to expect from this court, they determined forthwith to make a new one that would be more reasonable. There were now nine Circuit judges in the State, and four Supreme judges, under the Act of 1835. The offices of the Circuit judges the Democrats concluded to abolish, and to create instead nine Supreme judges, who should perform circuit duties. This they called "reforming the judiciary;" and "thirsting for vengeance," as Gov. Ford says, they went about the work with all the zeal, but with very little of the disinterested devotion, which reformers are generally supposed to have. Douglas, counsel for one of the litigants, made a furious speech "in the lobby," demanding the destruction of the court that was to try his cause; and for sundry grave sins which he imputed to the judges he gave Smith—his friend Smith—as authority. It was useless to oppose it: this "reform" was a foregone conclusion. It was called the "Douglas Bill;" and Mr. Douglas was appointed to one of the new offices created by it. But Mr. Lincoln, E. D. Baker, and other Whig members, entered upon the journal the following protest:—
With his help, the Democrats discovered a flaw in the records, which pushed the case to December 1840, and skillfully secured the alien vote for the major elections of that significant year. The Legislature that was elected then was overwhelmingly Democratic; and, knowing that the aliens had little chance of receiving favor from this court, they decided to create a new one that would be more accommodating. At that time, there were nine Circuit judges in the State and four Supreme judges, under the Act of 1835. The Democrats resolved to eliminate the Circuit judges and replace them with nine Supreme judges who would handle circuit duties. They referred to this as "reforming the judiciary;" and, "thirsting for vengeance," as Gov. Ford puts it, they approached the task with great enthusiasm, but with little of the selfless commitment typically associated with reformers. Douglas, representing one of the parties in the case, made an angry speech "in the lobby," demanding the abolition of the court set to hear his case. He blamed the judges for several serious offenses and cited Smith—his friend Smith—as his source. It was pointless to oppose it: this "reform" was a done deal. It became known as the "Douglas Bill;" and Mr. Douglas was appointed to one of the new positions created by it. However, Mr. Lincoln, E. D. Baker, and other Whig members filed the following protest in the journal:—
"For the reasons thus presented, and for others no less apparent, the undersigned cannot assent to the passage of the bill, or permit it to become a law without this evidence of their disapprobation; and they now protest against the re-organization of the judiciary: Because,
"For the reasons mentioned above, and for other clear reasons, the undersigned cannot agree to the passage of the bill, nor allow it to become law without showing their disapproval; and they now object to the reorganization of the judiciary: Because,"
"1st. It violates the great principles of free government by subjecting the judiciary to the Legislature.
"1st. It goes against the fundamental principles of free government by putting the judiciary under the control of the Legislature."
"2d. It is a fatal blow at the independence of the judges and the constitutional term of their offices.
"2d. It is a serious attack on the independence of judges and the constitutional duration of their terms."
"3d. It is a measure not asked for, or wished for, by the people.
"3d. It is a measure that the people did not request or desire."
"4th. It will greatly increase the expense of our courts, or else greatly diminish their utility.
"4th. It will significantly raise the costs of our courts, or it will greatly reduce their usefulness."
"5th. It will give our courts a political and partisan character, thereby impairing public confidence in their decisions.
"5th. It will make our courts political and biased, which will reduce public trust in their decisions."
"6th. It will impair our standing with other States and the world.
"6th. It will hurt our reputation with other states and the world."
"7th. It is a party measure for party purposes, from which no practical good to the people can possibly arise, but which may be the source of immeasurable evils.
"7th. This is a party action aimed at party goals, which won’t result in any real benefits for the people, but could lead to countless harms."
"The undersigned are well aware that this protest will be altogether unavailing with the majority of this body. The blow has already fallen; and we are compelled to stand by, the mournful spectators of the ruin it will cause."
"The undersigned realize that this protest will have no effect on the majority of this group. The damage has already been done; we are left as sad witnesses to the destruction it will bring."
Mr. Lincoln was elected in 1840, to serve, of course, until the next election in August, 1842; but for reasons of a private nature, to be explained hereafter, he did not appear during the session of 1841-2.
Mr. Lincoln was elected in 1840 to serve until the next election in August 1842. However, for personal reasons, which will be explained later, he did not attend during the 1841-2 session.
In concluding this chapter, taking leave of New Salem, Vandalia, and the Legislature, we cannot forbear another quotation from Mr. Wilson, Lincoln's colleague from Sangamon, to whom we are already so largely in debt:—
In wrapping up this chapter and saying goodbye to New Salem, Vandalia, and the Legislature, we can't help but include another quote from Mr. Wilson, Lincoln's colleague from Sangamon, to whom we already owe so much:—
"In 1838 many of the Long Nines were candidates for re-election to the Legislature. A question of the division of the county was one of the local issues. Mr. Lincoln and myself, among others, residing in the portion of the county sought to be organized into a new county, and opposing the division, it became necessary that I should make a special canvass through the north-west part of the county, then known as Sand Ridge. I made the canvass; Mr. Lincoln accompanied me; and, being personally well acquainted with every one, we called at nearly every house. At that time it was the universal custom to keep some whiskey in the house, for private use and to treat friends. The subject was always mentioned as a matter of etiquette, but with the remark to Mr. Lincoln, 'You never drink, but maybe your friend would like to take a little.' I never saw Mr. Lincoln drink. He often told me he never drank; had no desire for drink, nor the companionship of drinking men. Candidates never treated anybody in those times unless they wanted to do so.
"In 1838, many of the Long Nines were running for re-election to the Legislature. A local issue was the division of the county. Mr. Lincoln and I, along with others living in the part of the county that was being considered for a new county, opposed the division. It was necessary for me to campaign specifically in the northwest part of the county, known as Sand Ridge at the time. I conducted the campaign, and Mr. Lincoln joined me. Since I was personally familiar with almost everyone, we visited nearly every home. Back then, it was common to keep some whiskey at home for personal use and to offer to friends. The topic always came up as a matter of etiquette, with the note to Mr. Lincoln, 'You never drink, but maybe your friend would like to have a little.' I never saw Mr. Lincoln drink. He often told me he had no interest in drinking and did not want to associate with people who did. Candidates typically didn’t treat anyone in those days unless they genuinely wanted to."
"Mr. Lincoln remained in New Salem until the spring of 1837, when he went to Springfield, and went into the law-office of John T. Stuart as a partner in the practice of law, and boarded with William Butler.
"Mr. Lincoln stayed in New Salem until the spring of 1837, when he moved to Springfield and became a partner in John T. Stuart's law office while boarding with William Butler."
"During his stay in New Salem he had no property other than what was necessary to do his business, until after he stopped in Springfield. He was not avaricious to accumulate property, neither was he a spendthrift. He was almost always during those times hard up. He never owned land.
"While he was in New Salem, he had no belongings besides what he needed for his work until he settled in Springfield. He wasn’t greedy for wealth, nor was he reckless with money. He was often short on cash during that time. He never owned any land."
"The first trip he made around the circuit after he commenced the practice of law, I had a horse, saddle, and bridle, and he had none. I let him have mine. I think he must have been careless, as the saddle skinned the horse's back.
"The first trip he took around the circuit after starting his law practice, I had a horse, saddle, and bridle, and he had none. I let him use mine. I think he must have been careless because the saddle ended up rubbing the horse's back raw."
"While he lived in New Salem he visited me often. He would stay a day or two at a time: we generally spent the time at the stores in Athens. He was very fond of company: telling or hearing stories told was a source of great amusement to him. He was not in the habit of reading much,—never read novels. Whittling pine boards and shingles, talking and laughing, constituted the entertainment of the days and evenings.
"While he lived in New Salem, he visited me often. He would stay a day or two at a time; we usually spent that time at the stores in Athens. He really enjoyed being around others; sharing or listening to stories brought him a lot of joy. He didn’t usually read much—never touched novels. Carving pine boards and shingles, chatting, and laughing made up the fun of our days and evenings."
"In a conversation with him about that time, he told me, that, although he appeared to enjoy life rapturously, still he was the victim of terrible melancholy. He sought company, and indulged in fun and hilarity without restraint, or stint as to time; but when by himself, he told me that he was so overcome by mental depression that he never dared carry a knife in his pocket; and as long as I was intimately acquainted with him, previous to his commencement of the practice of the law, he never carried a pocket-knife. Still he was not misanthropic: he was kind and tender-hearted in his treatment to others.
"In a conversation with him about that time, he told me that, even though he seemed to enjoy life to the fullest, he was actually struggling with deep sadness. He looked for company and engaged in fun and laughter without holding back or worrying about the time; but when he was alone, he said he was so overwhelmed by depression that he never dared to keep a knife in his pocket. Throughout the time I knew him, before he started practicing law, he never carried a pocket knife. Still, he wasn't a misanthrope; he was kind and compassionate in how he treated others."
"In the summer of 1837 the citizens of Athens and vicinity gave the delegation then called the 'Long Nine' a public dinner, at which Mr. Lincoln and all the others were present. He was called out by the toast, 'Abraham Lincoln, one of Nature's noblemen.' I have often thought, that, if any man was entitled to that compliment, it was he."
"In the summer of 1837, the people of Athens and the surrounding area hosted a public dinner for the delegation known as the 'Long Nine,' which included Mr. Lincoln and everyone else. He was honored with the toast, 'Abraham Lincoln, one of Nature's noblemen.' I've often thought that if anyone deserved that compliment, it was him."
CHAPTER XI
UNDER the Act of Assembly, due in great part to Mr. Lincoln's exertions, the removal of the archives and other public property of the State from Vandalia to Springfield began on the fourth day of July, 1839, and was speedily completed. At the time of the passage of the Act, in the winter of 1836-7, Mr. Lincoln determined to follow the capital, and establish his own residence at Springfield. The resolution was natural and necessary; for he had been studying law in all his intervals of leisure, and wanted a wider field than the justice's court at New Salem to begin the practice. Henceforth Mr. Lincoln might serve in the Legislature, attend to his private business, and live snugly at home. In addition to the State courts, the Circuit and District Courts of the United States sat here. The eminent John McLean of Ohio was the justice of the Supreme Court who sat in this circuit, with Judge Pope of the District Court, from 1839 to 1849, and after that with Judge Drummond. The first terms of these courts, and the first session of the Legislature at Springfield, were held in December, 1839. The Senate sat in one church, and the House in another.
Under the Act of Assembly, largely thanks to Mr. Lincoln's efforts, the relocation of the state's archives and other public property from Vandalia to Springfield started on July 4, 1839, and was completed quickly. When the Act was passed during the winter of 1836-37, Mr. Lincoln decided to follow the capital and make Springfield his home. This decision was both natural and necessary; he had been studying law during his free time and wanted a broader opportunity than the justice's court at New Salem to begin his practice. From that point on, Mr. Lincoln could serve in the Legislature, manage his personal business, and comfortably live at home. In addition to the state courts, both the Circuit and District Courts of the United States were held there. The notable John McLean from Ohio was the Supreme Court justice for this circuit, along with Judge Pope of the District Court from 1839 to 1849, and later with Judge Drummond. The first sessions of these courts and the inaugural session of the Legislature in Springfield took place in December 1839. The Senate met in one church, and the House met in another.
Mr. Lincoln got his license as an attorney early in 1837, "and commenced practice regularly as a lawyer in the town of Springfield in March" of that year. His first case was that of Hawthorne vs. Wooldridge, dismissed at the cost of the plaintiff, for whom Mr. Lincoln's name was entered. There were then on the list of attorneys at the Springfield bar many names of subsequent renown. Judge Stephen T. Logan was on the bench of the Circuit Court under the Act of 1835. Stephen A. Douglas had made his appearance as the public prosecutor at the March term of 1836; and at the same term E. D. Baker had been admitted to practice. Among the rest were John T. Stuart, Cyrus Walker, S. H. Treat, Jesse B. Thomas, George Forquer, Dan Stone, Ninian W. Edwards, John J. Hardin, Schuyler Strong, A. T. Bledsoe, and Josiah Lamborn.
Mr. Lincoln received his attorney's license early in 1837 and started practicing law regularly in Springfield in March of that year. His first case was Hawthorne vs. Wooldridge, which was dismissed with costs awarded to the plaintiff, with Mr. Lincoln listed as their attorney. At that time, the Springfield bar included many future notable attorneys. Judge Stephen T. Logan served on the Circuit Court under the 1835 Act. Stephen A. Douglas had appeared as the public prosecutor during the March term of 1836, and E. D. Baker was admitted to practice at the same term. Other attorneys included John T. Stuart, Cyrus Walker, S. H. Treat, Jesse B. Thomas, George Forquer, Dan Stone, Ninian W. Edwards, John J. Hardin, Schuyler Strong, A. T. Bledsoe, and Josiah Lamborn.
By this time Mr. Lincoln enjoyed considerable local fame as a politician, but none, of course, as a lawyer. He therefore needed a partner, and got one in the person of John T. Stuart, an able and distinguished Whig, who had relieved his poverty years before by the timely loan of books with which to study law, and who had from the first promoted his political fortunes with zeal as disinterested as it was effective. The connection promised well for Mr. Lincoln, and no doubt did well during the short period of its existence. The courtroom was in Hoffman's Row; and the office of Stuart & Lincoln was in the second story above the court-room. It was a "little room," and generally a "dirty one." It contained "a small dirty bed,"—on which Lincoln lounged and slept,—a buffalo-robe, a chair, and a bench. Here the junior partner, when disengaged from the cares of politics and the Legislature, was to be found pretty much all the time, "reading, abstracted and gloomy." Springfield was a small village, containing between one and two thousand inhabitants. There were no pavements: the street-crossings were made of "chunks," stones, and sticks. Lincoln boarded with Hon. William Butler, a gentleman who possessed in an eminent degree that mysterious power which guides the deliberations of party conventions and legislative bodies to a foregone conclusion. Lincoln was very poor, worth nothing, and in debt,—circumstances which are not often alleged in behalf of the modern legislator; but "Bill Butler" was his friend, and took him in with little reference to board-bills and the settlement of accounts. According to Dr. Jayne, he "fed and clothed him for years;" and this signal service, rendered at a very critical time, Mr. Lincoln forgot wholly when he was in Congress, and Butler wanted to be Register of the Land Office, as well as when he was President of the United States, and opportunities of repayment were multitudinous. It is doubtless all true; but the inference of personal ingratitude on the part of Mr. Lincoln will not bear examination. It will be shown at another place that Mr. Lincoln regarded all public offices within his gift as a sacred trust, to be administered solely for the people, and as in no sense a fund upon which he could draw for the payment of private accounts. He never preferred his friends to his enemies, but rather the reverse, as if fearful that he might by bare possibility be influenced by some unworthy motive. He was singularly cautious to avoid the imputation of fidelity to his friends at the expense of his opponents.
By this time, Mr. Lincoln had gained quite a bit of local fame as a politician, but none as a lawyer. He needed a partner and found one in John T. Stuart, a capable and respected Whig who had helped him out of poverty years earlier by lending him books to study law. Stuart had also actively supported Lincoln's political ambitions from the beginning with genuine enthusiasm. This partnership looked promising for Lincoln and likely served him well during its brief duration. The courtroom was located in Hoffman's Row, and the office of Stuart & Lincoln was situated on the second floor above the courtroom. It was a "small room," and generally a "dirty one." It contained "a small dirty bed," where Lincoln lounged and slept, a buffalo robe, a chair, and a bench. The junior partner could often be found there, when not occupied with political affairs and the Legislature, “reading, lost in thought and gloomy.” Springfield was a small village with about one to two thousand residents. There were no sidewalks, and the street crossings were made of "chunks," stones, and sticks. Lincoln boarded with Hon. William Butler, a man who had an exceptional knack for influencing the decisions of party conventions and legislative bodies to reach a predetermined outcome. Lincoln was very poor, had no wealth, and was in debt—circumstances that are rarely cited as typical for modern legislators; however, "Bill Butler" was his friend and took him in with little concern for board bills or settling accounts. According to Dr. Jayne, he "fed and clothed him for years," and this significant assistance, provided at a crucial time, was completely forgotten by Lincoln when he was in Congress and Butler sought to be Register of the Land Office, as well as during his presidency when there were many chances to repay that kindness. While that may all be true, the assumption of personal ingratitude on Lincoln's part doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. It will be shown elsewhere that Lincoln viewed all public offices at his disposal as a sacred trust, meant to be used solely for the people, and not as a resource for settling private debts. He never favored his friends over his enemies; in fact, he seemed to prefer the opposite, as if worried that he might be unintentionally swayed by some unworthy motive. He was particularly careful to avoid any appearance of loyalty to his friends at the expense of his opponents.
In Coke's and Blackstone's time the law was supposed to be "a jealous mistress;" but in Lincoln's time, and at Springfield, she was any thing but exacting. Politicians courted her only to make her favor the stepping-stone to success in other employments. Various members of that bar have left great reputations to posterity, but none of them were earned solely by the legitimate practice of the law. Douglas is remembered as a statesman, Baker as a political orator, Hardin as a soldier, and some now living, like Logan and Stuart, although eminent in the law, will be no less known to the history of the times as politicians than as lawyers. Among those who went to the law for a living, and to the people for fame and power, was Mr. Lincoln. He was still a member of the Legislature when he settled at Springfield, and would probably have continued to run for a seat in that body as often as his time expired, but for the unfortunate results of the "internal-improvement system," the hopeless condition of the State finances, and a certain gloominess of mind, which arose from private misfortunes that befell him about the time of his retirement. We do not say positively that these were the reasons why Mr. Lincoln made no effort to be re-elected to the Legislature of 1840; but a careful study of all the circumstances will lead any reasonable man to believe that they were. He was intensely ambitious, longed ardently for place and distinction, and never gave up a prospect which seemed to him good when he was in a condition to pursue it with honor to himself and fairness to others. Moreover State politics were then rapidly ceasing to be the high-road to fame and fortune. Although the State of Illinois was insolvent, unable to pay the interest on her public debt, and many were talking about repudiating the principal, the great campaign of 1840 went off upon national issues, and little or nothing was said about questions of State policy. Mr. Lincoln felt and obeyed this tendency of the public mind, and from 1837 onward his speeches—those that were printed and those that were not—were devoted chiefly, if not exclusively, to Federal affairs.
In Coke's and Blackstone's era, the law was thought to be "a jealous mistress," but during Lincoln's time in Springfield, it was far from demanding. Politicians sought her favor only to use it as a stepping-stone for success in other areas. Many members of the bar have built significant reputations for future generations, but none achieved theirs solely through legitimate legal practice. Douglas is remembered as a statesman, Baker as a political speaker, Hardin as a soldier, and some who are still alive, like Logan and Stuart, though prominent in law, will be equally recognized in history as politicians rather than just lawyers. Among those who pursued law for a living and sought fame and power from the people was Mr. Lincoln. He was still a member of the Legislature when he moved to Springfield and likely would have continued to run for a seat as each term ended, if not for the unfortunate consequences of the "internal-improvement system," the dire state of the finances, and a certain gloom that stemmed from personal misfortunes he faced around the time he stepped down. We won't assert definitively that these were the reasons Mr. Lincoln made no effort to be re-elected to the Legislature in 1840, but a careful look at all the circumstances leads any reasonable person to believe that they were. He was fiercely ambitious, yearned for status and recognition, and never abandoned a promising opportunity when he could pursue it honorably and fairly. Additionally, state politics were quickly losing their status as the main path to fame and success. Even though Illinois was bankrupt and unable to pay the interest on its public debt, with many discussing the possibility of not repaying the principal, the major campaign of 1840 centered on national issues, with little to no discussion on state policy. Mr. Lincoln sensed and followed this public sentiment, and from 1837 onward, his speeches—both those that were published and those that weren't—focused primarily, if not solely, on federal matters.
In January, 1837, he delivered a lecture before the Springfield Lyceum on the subject of the "Perpetuation of our Free Institutions." As a mere declamation, it is unsurpassed in the annals of the West. Although delivered in mid-winter, it is instinct with the peculiar eloquence of the most fervid Fourth of July.
In January 1837, he gave a lecture at the Springfield Lyceum on the topic of the "Perpetuation of our Free Institutions." As a speech, it is unmatched in the history of the West. Even though it was delivered in the dead of winter, it carries the unique eloquence of the most passionate Fourth of July.
"In the great journal of things," began the orator, "happening under the sun, we, the American People, find our account running under date of the nineteenth century of the Christian era. We find ourselves in the peaceful possession of the fairest portion of the earth, as regards extent of territory, fertility of soil, and salubrity of climate. We find ourselves under the government of a system of political institutions conducing more essentially to the ends of civil and religious liberty than any of which the history of former times tells us. We, when mounting the stage of existence, found ourselves the legal inheritors of these fundamental blessings. We toiled not in the acquisition or establishment of them: they are a legacy bequeathed us by a once hardy, brave, and patriotic, but now lamented and departed race of ancestors. Theirs was the task (and nobly they performed it) to possess themselves, and, through themselves, us, of this goodly land, and to uprear upon its hills and valleys a political edifice of liberty and equal rights: 'tis ours only to transmit these—the former unprofaned by the foot of an invader, the latter undecayed by the lapse of time and untorn by usurpation—to the latest generation that fate shall permit the world to know. This task, gratitude to our fathers, justice to ourselves, duty to posterity,—all imperatively require us faithfully to perform.
"In the grand story of everything happening under the sun," the speaker started, "we, the American People, find ourselves in the nineteenth century of the Christian era. We are peacefully enjoying the most beautiful part of the earth, considering the size of our territory, the richness of our soil, and the healthiness of our climate. We are governed by a system of political institutions that promotes civil and religious liberty more effectively than any from the history of the past. As we enter this stage of existence, we discover that we are the legal inheritors of these essential blessings. We did not labor to acquire or establish them: they are a legacy left to us by a once hardy, brave, and patriotic, but now dearly missed, race of ancestors. Their duty (which they nobly fulfilled) was to claim this good land for themselves and for us, and to build a political structure of liberty and equal rights on its hills and valleys: it is our responsibility only to pass these on—the former untouched by an invader's foot, the latter uncorrupted by the passage of time and untorn by usurpation—to the last generation that fate allows the world to see. This responsibility, demanded by our gratitude to our fathers, justice to ourselves, and duty to future generations, requires us to fulfill it faithfully."
"How, then, shall we perform it? At what point shall we expect the approach of danger? Shall we expect some transatlantic military giant to step the ocean and crush us at a blow? Never! All the armies of Europe, Asia, and Africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth (our own excepted) in their military chest, with a Bonaparte for a commander, could not, by force, take a drink from the Ohio, or make a track on the Blue Ridge, in a trial of a thousand years!
"How are we going to do this? When should we expect danger to come? Are we really expecting some massive military power from across the ocean to come and destroy us in one go? Absolutely not! Even if all the armies of Europe, Asia, and Africa teamed up, with all the wealth of the world (except for our own) at their disposal, and with a Bonaparte leading them, they still wouldn’t be able to take a drink from the Ohio or make a mark on the Blue Ridge, even after a thousand years of trying!"
"At what point, then, is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.
"At what point should we expect danger to arrive? I say, if it ever comes to us, it must arise from within. It can't come from outside. If destruction is our fate, we are the ones who must bring it upon ourselves. As a nation of free people, we must either thrive through all time or perish by our own hand."
"I hope I am not over-wary; but, if I am not, there is even now something of ill-omen amongst us. I mean the increasing disregard for law which pervades the country, the growing disposition to substitute the wild and furious passions in lieu of the sober judgment of courts, and the worse than savage mobs for the executive ministers of justice. This disposition is awfully fearful in any community, and that it now exists in ours, though grating to our feelings to admit it, it would be a violation of truth and an insult to our intelligence to deny. Accounts of outrages committed by mobs form the every-day news of the times. They have pervaded the country from New England to Louisiana; they are neither peculiar to the eternal snows of the former, nor the burning sun of the latter. They are not the creature of climate; neither are they confined to the slaveholding or non-slaveholding States. Alike they spring up among the pleasure-hunting masters of Southern slaves and the order-loving citizens of the land of steady habits. Whatever, then, their cause may be, it is common to the whole country."
"I hope I'm not being overly cautious; but if I'm not, there's definitely something ominous happening around us. I’m talking about the growing disrespect for the law that’s spreading across the country, the increasing tendency to let wild and angry emotions replace the careful judgment of our courts, and the dangerously savage mobs taking the place of those responsible for enforcing justice. This attitude is incredibly alarming for any community, and the fact that it exists in ours, even though it’s hard to admit, would be a denial of reality and an insult to our intelligence to ignore. Reports of mob violence make up our daily news now. These incidents are happening all over the country, from New England to Louisiana; they're not unique to the lasting winters of one region or the scorching heat of another. They’re not caused by climate, nor are they limited to states with or without slavery. They arise just as easily among the pleasure-seeking owners of Southern slaves as they do among the law-abiding citizens of the areas with stable traditions. Whatever the reason behind them may be, it’s a shared issue for the entire country."
The orator then adverts to the doings of recent mobs in various parts of the country, and insists, that, if the spirit that produced them continues to increase, the laws and the government itself must fall before it: bad citizens will be encouraged, and good ones, having no protection against the lawless, will be glad to receive an individual master who will be able to give them the peace and order they desire. That will be the time when the usurper will put down his heel on the neck of the people, and batter down the "fair fabric" of free institutions. "Many great and good men," he says, "sufficiently qualified for any task they should undertake, may ever be found, whose ambition would aspire to nothing beyond a seat in Congress, a gubernatorial or a presidential chair; but such belong not to the family of the lion or the tribe of the eagle.1 What! Think you these places would satisfy an Alexander, a Cæsar, or a Napoleon? Never! Towering genius disdains a beaten path. It seeks regions hitherto unexplored. It sees no distinction in adding story to story upon the monuments of fame erected to the memory of others. It denies that it is glory enough to serve under any chief. It scorns to tread in the footsteps of any predecessor, however illustrious. It thirsts and burns for distinction; and, if possible, it will have it, whether at the expense of emancipating slaves or enslaving freemen.... Another reason which once was, but which, to the same extent, is now no more, has done much in maintaining our institutions thus far. I mean the powerful influence which the interesting scenes of the Revolution had upon the passions of the people as distinguished from their judgment." This influence, the lecturer maintains, was kept alive by the presence of the surviving soldiers of the Revolution, who were in some sort "living histories," and concludes with this striking peroration:—
The speaker then points to the actions of recent mobs in different parts of the country and insists that if the spirit fueling them continues to grow, the laws and the government itself will collapse under it: bad citizens will feel empowered, and good ones, lacking protection from the lawless, will welcome an individual master who can provide the peace and order they seek. That will be the time when the usurper will crush the people and destroy the "fair fabric" of free institutions. "Many great and good men," he says, "who are more than qualified for any role they take on, might be found, whose ambition stops at a seat in Congress, a governorship, or a presidential position; but such belong not to the family of the lion or the tribe of the eagle.1 What? Do you think these positions would satisfy an Alexander, a Cæsar, or a Napoleon? Never! Towering genius rejects a worn path. It explores uncharted territory. It sees no difference in piling one achievement onto the monuments of fame built for others. It believes that serving under any leader isn’t enough glory. It refuses to follow in any predecessor's footsteps, no matter how illustrious. It yearns for distinction and, if necessary, will seek it at the cost of freeing slaves or enslaving free people.... Another reason that once was, but which is not as strong now, has significantly helped maintain our institutions up to this point. I’m talking about the strong influence that the compelling events of the Revolution had on the passions of the people, as opposed to their judgment." This influence, the speaker argues, was kept alive by the presence of the surviving soldiers of the Revolution, who were somewhat "living histories," and ends with this powerful conclusion:—
"But those histories are gone. They can be read no more forever. They were a fortress of strength; but what invading foeman could never do, the silent artillery of time has done,—the levelling of its walls. They are gone. They were a forest of giant oaks; but the all-resistless hurricane has swept over them, and left only here and there a lonely trunk, despoiled of its verdure, shorn of its foliage, unshading and unshaded, to murmur in a few more gentle breezes, and to combat with its mutilated limbs a few more rude storms, then to sink and be no more. They were the pillars of the temple of liberty; and now that they have crumbled away, that temple must fall, unless we, the descendants, supply their places with other pillars hewn from the same solid quarry of sober reason. Passion has helped us, but can do so no more. It will in future be our enemy. Reason—cold, calculating, unimpassioned reason—must furnish all the materials for our future support and defence. Let those materials be moulded into general intelligence, sound morality, and, in particular, a reverence for the Constitution and the laws; and that we improved to the last, that we revered his name to the last, that during his long sleep we permitted no hostile foot to pass or desecrate his resting-place, shall be that which to learn the last trump shall awaken our Washington. Upon these let the proud fabric of freedom rest as the rock of its basis, and as truly as has been said of the only greater institution, 'The gates of hell shall not prevail against it."'
"But those histories are gone. They can never be read again. They were a stronghold of strength; but what invaders could never achieve, the silent force of time has done—it has brought down its walls. They are gone. They were a forest of towering oaks; but the unstoppable hurricane has swept through them, leaving only a few lonely trunks, stripped of their greenery, bare of their leaves, unshading and unshaded, to whisper in a few more gentle breezes, and to struggle against a few more fierce storms, before sinking and disappearing. They were the pillars of the temple of liberty; and now that they have crumbled away, that temple must fall, unless we, their descendants, replace them with other pillars carved from the same solid foundation of reason. Passion has assisted us, but can do so no more. It will be our enemy in the future. Reason—cold, calculating, unimpassioned reason—must provide all the materials for our future support and defense. Let those materials be shaped into general intelligence, sound morality, and, in particular, a reverence for the Constitution and the laws; and that we improved it to the end, that we honored his name to the end, that during his long rest we allowed no hostile foot to pass or desecrate his resting place, will be what makes it so that when the final call comes, our Washington will awaken. Let the proud structure of freedom rest upon these as the solid foundation, and as surely as it has been said of the only greater institution, 'The gates of hell shall not prevail against it.'"
1 The italics are the orator's.
1 The italics indicate the speaker's words.
These extracts from a lecture carefully composed by Mr. Lincoln at the mature age of twenty-eight, and after considerable experience in the public service, are worthy of attentive perusal. To those familiar with his sober and pure style at a later age, these sophomoric passages will seem incredible. But they were thought "able and eloquent" by the "Young Men's Lyceum" of Springfield: he was "solicited to furnish a copy for publication," and they were duly printed in "The Sangamon Journal." In the mere matter of rhetoric, they compare favorably with some of his other productions of nearly the same date. This was what he would have called his "growing time;" and it is intensely interesting to witness the processes of such mental growth as his. In time, gradually, but still rapidly, his style changes completely: the constrained and unnatural attempts at striking and lofty metaphor disappear, and the qualities which produced the Gettysburg address—that model of unadorned eloquence—begin to be felt. He finds the people understand him better when he comes down from his stilts, and talks to them from their own level.
These excerpts from a lecture carefully crafted by Mr. Lincoln at the age of twenty-eight, after gaining significant experience in public service, deserve close attention. For those familiar with his serious and clear style in later years, these youthful passages may seem surprising. However, they were considered "able and eloquent" by the "Young Men's Lyceum" in Springfield; he was "asked to provide a copy for publication," and they were eventually printed in "The Sangamon Journal." In terms of rhetoric, they hold up well against some of his other works from around the same time. He would describe this period as his "growing time," and it's fascinating to observe his mental development. Over time, gradually but still quickly, his style changes dramatically: the awkward and forced attempts at grand metaphor fade away, and the qualities that shaped the Gettysburg address—an example of straightforward eloquence—begin to emerge. He discovers that people understand him better when he speaks plainly and connects with them on their own level.
Political discussions at Springfield were apt to run into heated and sometimes unseemly personal controversies. When Douglas and Stuart were candidates for Congress in 1838, they fought like tigers in Herndon's grocery, over a floor that was drenched with slops, and gave up the struggle only when both were exhausted. Then, as a further entertainment to the populace, Mr. Stuart ordered out a "barrel of whiskey and wine."
Political discussions in Springfield often turned heated and sometimes crossed the line into personal conflicts. When Douglas and Stuart were running for Congress in 1838, they collided fiercely in Herndon’s grocery store, on a floor covered in slop, and only stopped fighting when they were completely worn out. Then, for the entertainment of the crowd, Mr. Stuart ordered a "barrel of whiskey and wine."
On the election-day in 1840, it was reported to Mr. Lincoln that one Radford, a contractor on the railroad, had brought up his men, and taken full possession of one of the polling-places. Lincoln started off to the precinct on a slow trot. Radford knew him well, and a little stern advice reversed proceedings without any fighting. Among other remarks, Lincoln said, "Radford, you'll spoil and blow if you live much longer." He wanted to hit Radford, but could get no chance to do so, and contented himself with confiding his intentions to Speed. "I intended just to knock him down, and leave him kicking."
On election day in 1840, Mr. Lincoln was informed that a contractor named Radford had brought his workers and taken over one of the polling places. Lincoln set off for the precinct at a slow trot. Radford knew him well, and a bit of stern advice changed things without any conflict. Among other things, Lincoln said, "Radford, you'll ruin yourself if you keep this up." He wanted to hit Radford, but didn't get the chance, so he just shared his intentions with Speed. "I was planning to just knock him down and leave him writhing."
The same year, Col. Baker was making a speech to a promiscuous audience in the court-room,—"a rented room in Hoffman's Row." It will be remembered that Lincoln's office was just above, and he was listening to Baker through a large hole or trap-door in the ceiling. Baker warmed with his theme, and, growing violent and personally offensive, declared at length, "that wherever there was a land-office, there was a Democratic newspaper to defend its corruptions." "This," says John B. Webber, "was a personal attack on my brother, George Webber. I was in the Court House, and in my anger cried, 'Pull him down!'" A scene of great confusion ensued, threatening to end in a general riot, in which Baker was likely to suffer. But just at the critical moment Lincoln's legs were seen coming through the hole; and directly his tall figure was standing between Baker and the audience, gesticulating for silence. "Gentlemen," said he, "let us not disgrace the age and country in which we live. This is a land where freedom of speech is guaranteed. Mr Baker has a right to speak, and ought to be permitted to do so. I am here to protect him, and no man shall take him from this stand if I can prevent it." Webber only recollects that "some one made some soothing, kind remarks," and that he was properly "held until the excitement ceased," and the affair "soon ended in quiet and peace."
The same year, Col. Baker was giving a speech to a mixed audience in the courtroom—“a rented room in Hoffman's Row.” It’s worth noting that Lincoln's office was just above, and he was listening to Baker through a large hole or trap-door in the ceiling. As Baker got more passionate about his topic, he became heated and personally insulting, eventually stating, “that wherever there was a land-office, there was a Democratic newspaper to defend its corruptions.” “This,” John B. Webber recalls, “was a personal attack on my brother, George Webber. I was in the courthouse, and in my anger shouted, 'Pull him down!'" A scene of great chaos followed, which almost turned into a general riot where Baker could have been harmed. But just at that critical moment, Lincoln's legs appeared through the hole; and soon his tall figure stood between Baker and the audience, waving his arms for silence. "Gentlemen," he said, "let us not disgrace the age and country we live in. This is a place where freedom of speech is assured. Mr. Baker has the right to speak, and he should be allowed to do so. I am here to protect him, and no one shall take him from this stand if I can help it." Webber only remembers that "someone made some soothing, kind remarks," and that he was properly "held until the excitement died down," with the situation "soon ending in quiet and peace."
In 1838, or 1840, Jesse B. Thomas made an intemperate attack upon the "Long Nine," and especially upon Mr. Lincoln, as the longest and worst of them. Lincoln was not present at the meeting; but being sent for, and informed of what had passed, he ascended the platform, and made a reply which nobody seems to remember, but which everybody describes as a "terrible skinning" of his victim. Ellis says, that, at the close of a furious personal denunciation, he wound up by "mimicking" Thomas, until Thomas actually cried with vexation and anger. Edwards, Speed, Ellis, Davis, and many others, refer to this scene, and, being asked whether Mr. Lincoln could not be vindictive upon occasion, generally respond, "Remember the Thomas skinning."
In 1838 or 1840, Jesse B. Thomas launched a harsh attack on the "Long Nine," particularly targeting Mr. Lincoln as the longest and worst of them all. Lincoln wasn't at the meeting, but after being called and told what happened, he took to the stage and delivered a response that nobody seems to recall, though everyone describes it as a "terrible skinning" of Thomas. Ellis notes that, after a furious personal tirade, Lincoln ended by "mimicking" Thomas so effectively that Thomas actually cried out of frustration and anger. Edwards, Speed, Ellis, Davis, and many others reference this incident, and when asked if Mr. Lincoln could be vindictive at times, they usually reply, "Remember the Thomas skinning."
The most intimate friend Mr. Lincoln ever had, at this or any other time, was probably Joshua F. Speed. In 1836 he settled himself in Springfield, and did a thriving business as a merchant. Ellis was one of his clerks, and so also was William H. Herndon, Mr. Lincoln's future partner. This store was for years Lincoln's familiar haunt. There he came to while away the tedious evenings with Speed and the congenial company that naturally assembled around these choice spirits. He even slept in the store room as often as he slept at home, and here made to Speed the most confidential communications he ever made to mortal man. If he had on earth "a bosom crony," it was Speed, and that deep and abiding attachment subsisted unimpaired to the day of Mr. Lincoln's death. In truth, there were good reasons why he should think of Speed with affection and gratitude, for through life no man rendered him more important services.
The closest friend Mr. Lincoln ever had, at this time or any other, was probably Joshua F. Speed. In 1836, he settled in Springfield and ran a successful business as a merchant. Ellis was one of his clerks, as was William H. Herndon, who would later become Mr. Lincoln's partner. This store was Lincoln's favorite hangout for years. He would often spend his evenings there with Speed and the friendly company that naturally gathered around these special friends. He even slept in the storeroom just as often as he slept at home, and here he shared his most confidential thoughts with Speed. If he had a truly close friend, it was Speed, and that strong bond remained intact until the day of Mr. Lincoln's death. In fact, there were solid reasons for him to think of Speed with love and gratitude, as no one did more important things for him throughout his life.
One night in December, 1839, Lincoln, Douglas, Baker, and some other gentlemen of note, were seated at Speed's hospitable fire in the store. They got to talking politics, got warm, hot, angry. Douglas sprang up and said, "Gentlemen, this is no place to talk politics: we will discuss the questions publicly with you," and much more in a high tone of banter and defiance. A few days afterwards the Whigs had a meeting, at which Mr. Lincoln reported a resolution challenging the Democrats to a joint debate. The challenge was accepted; and Douglas, Calhoun, Lamborn, and Jesse B. Thomas were deputed by the Democrats to meet Logan, Baker, Browning, and Lincoln on the part of the Whigs. The intellectual encounter between these noted champions is still described by those who witnessed it as "the great debate." It took place in the Second Presbyterian Church, in the hearing of as many people as could get into the building, and was adjourned from night to night. When Mr. Lincoln's turn came, the audience was very thin; but, for all that, his speech was by many persons considered the best one of the series. To this day, there are some who believe he had assistance in the preparation of it. Even Mr. Herndon accused Speed of having "had a hand in it," and got a flat denial for his answer. At all events, the speech was a popular success, and was written out, and published in "The Sangamon Journal," of March 6, 1840. The exordium was a sort of complaint that must have had a very depressing effect upon both the speaker and his hearers:—
One night in December 1839, Lincoln, Douglas, Baker, and some other prominent gentlemen were gathered by the warm fire at Speed’s store. They started discussing politics, getting increasingly passionate, heated, and even angry. Douglas stood up and said, “Gentlemen, this isn’t the place for political discussions; let’s talk about these issues openly with you,” along with a lot more in a teasing and confrontational tone. A few days later, the Whigs held a meeting, where Mr. Lincoln proposed a resolution inviting the Democrats to a joint debate. The challenge was accepted, and the Democrats appointed Douglas, Calhoun, Lamborn, and Jesse B. Thomas to meet Logan, Baker, Browning, and Lincoln on behalf of the Whigs. The intellectual clash among these notable figures is still referred to by those who witnessed it as “the great debate.” It took place in the Second Presbyterian Church, attended by as many people as could fit in the building, and was adjourned from night to night. When it was Mr. Lincoln’s turn to speak, the audience was quite small; however, many considered his speech to be the best of the series. Even today, some believe he had help preparing it. Mr. Herndon even claimed that Speed “had a hand in it,” but received a flat denial in response. Regardless, the speech was a hit and was written down and published in "The Sangamon Journal" on March 6, 1840. The introduction was somewhat of a complaint that likely had a downbeat effect on both the speaker and the audience:—
"Fellow-Citizens,—It is peculiarly embarrassing to me to attempt a continuance of the discussion, on this evening, which has been conducted in this hall on several preceding ones. It is so, because on each of these evenings there was a much fuller attendance than now, without any reason for its being so, except the greater interest the community feel in the speakers who addressed them then, than they do in him who is to do so now. I am, indeed, apprehensive that the few who have attended have done so more to spare me of mortification, than in the hope of being interested in any thing I may be able to say. This circumstance casts a damp upon my spirits which I am sure I shall be unable to overcome during the evening.
"Fellow Citizens, — It's especially awkward for me to continue the discussion tonight that has taken place in this hall on several previous occasions. This is because each of those nights had a much larger crowd than we have now, and the only reason seems to be that the community had a greater interest in the speakers from before than in me tonight. I’m honestly worried that the few people who did come were more trying to spare me from embarrassment than looking forward to anything I might say. This situation really brings down my mood, and I don’t think I’ll be able to shake it off this evening."
"The subject heretofore and now to be discussed is the Sub-Treasury scheme of the present administration, as a means of collecting, safe-keeping, transferring, and disbursing the revenues of the nation, as contrasted with a National Bank for the same purposes. Mr. Douglas has said that we (the Whigs) have not dared to meet them (the Locos) in argument on this question. I protest against this assertion. I say we have again and again, during this discussion, urged facts and arguments against the Sub-Treasury which they have neither dared to deny nor attempted to answer. But lest some may be led to believe that we really wish to avoid the question, I now propose, in my humble way, to urge these arguments again; at the same time begging the audience to mark well the positions I shall take, and the proofs I shall offer to sustain them, and that they will not again allow Mr. Douglas or his friends to escape the force of them by a round and groundless assertion that we dare not meet them in argument.
"The topic we’re about to discuss is the Sub-Treasury plan put forth by the current administration for collecting, safeguarding, transferring, and spending the nation’s revenue, compared to a National Bank for the same functions. Mr. Douglas claims that we (the Whigs) haven't had the courage to engage in a debate with them (the Locos) on this issue. I strongly object to this statement. I assert that we have repeatedly presented facts and arguments against the Sub-Treasury during this debate that they haven’t dared to deny or respond to. To ensure no one thinks we want to avoid the topic, I’ll now, in my modest way, reiterate these arguments; and I ask the audience to pay close attention to the points I’ll make and the evidence I’ll provide to support them, ensuring that Mr. Douglas and his supporters can’t simply dismiss them with unfounded claims that we refuse to debate them."
"Of the Sub-Treasury, then, as contrasted with a National Bank, for the before-enumerated purposes, I lay down the following propositions, to wit:—
"Regarding the Sub-Treasury, especially in comparison to a National Bank, for the previously mentioned purposes, I present the following statements:—"
"1st. It will injuriously affect the community by its operation on the circulating medium.
"1st. It will negatively impact the community through its effect on the circulating medium."
"2d. It will be a more expensive fiscal agent.
"2d. It will be a costlier financial agent."
"3d. It will be a less secure depository for the public money."
"3d. It will be a less secure place to hold public funds."
Mr. Lincoln's objections to the Sub-Treasury were those commonly urged by its enemies, and have been somewhat conclusively refuted by the operation of that admirable institution from the hour of its adoption to the present. "The extravagant expenditures" of Mr. Van Buren's administration, however, was a standard topic of the Whigs in those days, and, sliding gracefully off from the Sub-Treasury, Mr. Lincoln dilated extensively upon this more attractive subject. This part of his speech was entirely in reply to Mr. Douglas. But, when he came to answer Mr. Lamborn's remarks, he "got in a hard hit" that must have brought down the house.
Mr. Lincoln's objections to the Sub-Treasury were typical of its critics, and have been mostly disproven by how well that great institution has worked since it was established. "The excessive spending" during Mr. Van Buren's administration was a frequent topic for the Whigs back then, and moving smoothly away from the Sub-Treasury, Mr. Lincoln elaborated a lot on this more appealing subject. This part of his speech was completely in response to Mr. Douglas. However, when he addressed Mr. Lamborn's comments, he made a strong point that surely resonated with the audience.
"Mr. Lamborn insists that the difference between the Van Buren party and the Whigs is, that, although the former sometimes err in practice, they are always correct in principle, whereas the latter are wrong in principle; and, the better to impress this proposition, he uses a figurative expression in these words: 'The Democrats are vulnerable in the heel, but they are sound in the heart and head.' The first branch of the figure,—that is, that the Democrats are vulnerable in the heel,—I admit is not merely figuratively but literally true. Who that looks but for a moment at their Swartwouts, their Prices, their Harringtons, and their hundreds of others, scampering away with the public money to Texas, to Europe, and to every spot of the earth where a villain may hope to find refuge from justice, can at all doubt that they are most distressingly affected in their heels with a species of 'running itch.' It seems that this malady of their heels operates on the sound-headed and honest-hearted creatures very much like the cork-leg in the comic song did on its owner, which, when he had once got started on it, the more he tried to stop it, the more it would run away. At the hazard of wearing this point threadbare, I will relate an anecdote which seems to be too strikingly in point to be omitted. A witty Irish soldier who was always boasting of his bravery when no danger was near, but who invariably retreated without orders at the first charge of the engagement, being asked by his captain why he did so, replied, 'Captain, I have as brave a heart as Julius Cæsar ever had, but somehow or other, whenever danger approaches, my cowardly legs will run away with it.' So with Mr. Lamborn's party. They take the public money into their hands for the most laudable purpose that wise heads and honest hearts can dictate; but, before they can possibly get it out again, their rascally vulnerable heels will run away with them."
"Mr. Lamborn argues that the main difference between the Van Buren party and the Whigs is that, while the former may sometimes make mistakes in practice, they are always right in principle. In contrast, the Whigs are wrong in principle. To make this point more impactful, he uses a figurative expression: 'The Democrats are vulnerable in the heel, but they are sound in the heart and head.' I admit that the first part of this metaphor—that the Democrats are vulnerable in the heel—is not just figurative but also literally true. Who can look for just a moment at their Swartwouts, their Prices, their Harringtons, and countless others, scampering away with public funds to Texas, to Europe, and to every corner of the earth where a criminal might find refuge from justice, without seeing that they are severely affected in their heels by a type of 'running itch'? It seems that this ailment operates on the clear-headed and honest-hearted individuals much like the cork leg in a funny song that, once started, runs away the more the owner tries to stop it. At the risk of overusing this point, I will share an anecdote that seems too relevant to ignore. A clever Irish soldier, who always boasted about his bravery when there was no danger around but would retreat without orders at the first sign of battle, was asked by his captain why he did this. He replied, 'Captain, I have as brave a heart as Julius Cæsar ever had, but somehow, whenever danger approaches, my cowardly legs just run away with it.' The same goes for Mr. Lamborn's party. They take the public funds with the best of intentions that smart people with good hearts can have; but before they can even get it back out, their treacherous vulnerable heels will run away with them."
But, as in the lecture before the Lyceum, Mr. Lincoln reserved his most impressive passage, his boldest imagery, and his most striking metaphor, for a grand and vehement peroration.
But, like in the lecture before the Lyceum, Mr. Lincoln saved his most powerful lines, his boldest imagery, and his most striking metaphor for a dramatic and passionate conclusion.
"Mr. Lamborn refers to the late elections in the States, and, from their results, confidently predicts every State in the Union will vote for Mr. Van Buren at the next presidential election. Address that argument to cowards and knaves: with the free and the brave it will affect nothing. It may be true: if it must, let it. Many free countries have lost their liberty, and ours may lose hers; but, if she shall, be it my proudest plume, not that I was the last to desert, but that I never deserted her. I know that the great volcano at Washington, aroused and directed by the evil spirit that reigns there, is belching forth the lava of political corruption in a current broad and deep, which is sweeping with frightful velocity over the whole length and breadth of the land, bidding fair to leave unscathed no green spot or living thing; while on its bosom are riding, like demons on the wave of hell, the imps of that evil spirit, and fiendishly taunting all those who dare to resist its destroying course with the hopelessness of their efforts; and, knowing this, I cannot deny that all may be swept away. Broken by it, I, too, may be; bow to it, I never will. The probability that we may fall in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just. It shall not deter me. If ever I feel the soul within me elevate and expand to those dimensions, not wholly unworthy of its almighty Architect, it is when I contemplate the cause of my country, deserted by all the world beside, and I standing up boldly, alone, hurling defiance at her victorious oppressors. Here, without contemplating consequences, before Heaven and in face of the world, I swear eternal fealty to the just cause, as I deem it, of the land of my life, my liberty, and my love. And who that thinks with me will not fearlessly adopt that oath that I take? Let none falter who thinks he is right, and we may succeed. But if, after all, we shall fail, be it so: we still shall have the proud consolation of saying to our consciences, and to the departed shade of our country's freedom, that the cause approved of our judgment and adored of our hearts, in disaster, in chains, in torture, in death, we never faltered in defending."
"Mr. Lamborn talks about the recent elections in the States and confidently predicts that every State in the Union will vote for Mr. Van Buren in the next presidential election based on those results. That argument might work on cowards and dishonest people, but it won’t affect the brave and free. It might be true; if that's how it has to be, so be it. Many free countries have lost their liberty, and ours might lose hers too. But if that happens, it will be my proudest achievement—not that I was the last to give up, but that I never gave her up. I know that the huge political turmoil in Washington, fueled by the corrupt forces at play there, is spewing out the lava of political corruption in a broad and deep wave, rushing with terrifying speed across the land, likely leaving no green space or living thing untouched; and riding on that wave, like demons from hell, are the agents of that evil force, cruelly mocking anyone who dares to stand against its destructive path with the futility of their efforts. Knowing this, I can't deny that everything might be swept away. I might be broken by it too, but I will never bow to it. The chance that we might fail in this struggle shouldn’t stop us from supporting a cause we believe is right. It won’t deter me. If I ever feel my spirit rise and expand to the heights fitting for its mighty Creator, it’s when I think of my country’s cause, abandoned by the rest of the world, while I stand boldly alone, defiantly confronting her oppressors. Here, without thinking of the consequences, before God and in front of the world, I pledge my eternal loyalty to the cause I believe is just, to the land of my life, my liberty, and my love. And who among us that agrees with me won’t boldly take the same oath I take? Let no one waver who believes he is right, and we may succeed. But if, in the end, we fail, so be it: we will still have the proud comfort of saying to our consciences, and to the spirit of our country’s freedom, that we never wavered in defending the cause we believed in and cherished, even in disaster, in chains, in torture, and in death."
Considering that the times were extremely peaceful, and that the speaker saw no bloodshed except what flowed from the noses of belligerents in the groceries about Springfield, the speech seems to have been unnecessarily defiant.
Considering that the times were very peaceful, and that the speaker saw no bloodshed except for the occasional nosebleed from fighters in the grocery stores around Springfield, the speech seems to have been overly confrontational.
In 1840 Mr. Lincoln was a candidate for presidential elector on the Harrison ticket, and stumped a large part of the State. He and Douglas followed Judge Treat's court all around the circuit, "and spoke in the afternoons." The Harrison club at Springfield became thoroughly familiar with his voice. But these one-sided affairs were not altogether suited to his temper: through his life he preferred a joint discussion, and the abler the man pitted against him, the better he liked it. He knew he shone in retort, and sought every opportunity to practise it. From 1838 to 1858, he seems to have followed up Douglas as a regular business during times of great political excitement, and only on one or two occasions did he find the "Little Giant" averse to a conflict. Here, in 1840, they came in collision, as they did in 1839, and as they continued to do through twenty or more years, until Lincoln became President of the United States, and Douglas's disappointments were buried with his body. Once during this Harrison campaign they had a fierce discussion before a meeting assembled in the market-house. In the course of his speech, Lincoln imputed to Van Buren the great sin of having voted in the New York State Convention for negro suffrage with a property qualification. Douglas denied the fact; and Lincoln attempted to prove his statement by reading a certain passage from Holland's "Life of Van Buren," containing a letter from Van Buren to one Mr. Fithian. Whereupon "Douglas got mad," snatched up the book, and, tossing it into the crowd, remarked sententiously, although not conclusively, "Damn such a book!"
In 1840, Mr. Lincoln was a candidate for presidential elector on the Harrison ticket and traveled around a large part of the state to promote it. He and Douglas followed Judge Treat's court all around the circuit and spoke in the afternoons. The Harrison club in Springfield became very familiar with his voice. However, these one-sided events didn't really suit his temperament; throughout his life, he preferred having discussions where he could debate with others, and the better the opponent, the more he enjoyed it. He knew he excelled in rebuttal and looked for every chance to practice it. From 1838 to 1858, he seemed to pursue Douglas regularly during times of significant political tension, and only on one or two occasions did he find the "Little Giant" unwilling to engage in a debate. In 1840, they clashed like they did in 1839, and continued to do so for over twenty years, until Lincoln became President of the United States, and Douglas's disappointments were buried with him. Once during this Harrison campaign, they had a heated debate in front of a crowd gathered at the market-house. During his speech, Lincoln accused Van Buren of the serious offense of voting in the New York State Convention for Black suffrage with a property requirement. Douglas denied it, and Lincoln tried to back up his claim by reading a passage from Holland's "Life of Van Buren," which included a letter from Van Buren to a Mr. Fithian. At that point, "Douglas got mad," grabbed the book, and threw it into the crowd, proclaiming, although not convincingly, "Damn such a book!"
"He was very sensitive," says Mr. Gillespie, "where he thought he had failed to come up to the expectations of his friends. I remember a case. He was pitted by the Whigs, in 1840, to debate with Mr. Douglas, the Democratic champion. Lincoln did not come up to the requirements of the occasion. He was conscious of his failure; and I never saw any man so much distressed. He begged to be permitted to try it again, and was reluctantly indulged; and in the next effort he transcended our highest expectations. I never heard, and never expect to hear, such a triumphant vindication as he then gave of Whig measures or policy. He never after, to my knowledge, fell below himself."
"He was really sensitive," says Mr. Gillespie, "especially when he felt he had let his friends down. I remember one instance. He was set up by the Whigs, in 1840, to debate Mr. Douglas, the Democratic champion. Lincoln didn't meet the expectations of the event. He knew he had failed; and I’ve never seen anyone so upset. He asked to be allowed to try again, and we reluctantly agreed; and in his next attempt, he far exceeded our highest hopes. I’ve never heard, and probably never will hear, such a powerful defense of Whig policies as he presented then. To my knowledge, he never fell short of himself again."
It must by this time be clear to the reader that Mr. Lincoln was never agitated by any passion more intense than his wonderful thirst for distinction. There is good evidence that it furnished the feverish dreams of his boyhood; and no man that knew him well can doubt that it governed all his conduct, from the hour when he astonished himself by his oratorical success against Posey and Ewing, in the back settlements of Macon County, to the day when the assassin marked him as the first hero of the restored Union, re-elected to his great office, surrounded by every circumstance that could minister to his pride, or exalt his sensibilities,—a ruler whose power was only less wide than his renown. He never rested in the race he had determined to run; he was ever ready to be honored; he struggled incessantly for place. There is no instance where an important office seemed to be within his reach, and he did not try to get it. Whatsoever he did in politics, at the bar, in private life, had more or less reference to this great object of his life. It is not meant to be said that he was capable of any shameful act, any personal dishonor, any surrender or concealment of political convictions. In these respects, he was far better than most men. It was not in his nature to run away from the fight, or to desert to the enemy; but he was quite willing to accept his full share of the fruits of victory.
By now, it should be clear to the reader that Mr. Lincoln was never driven by any passion more intense than his strong desire for recognition. There’s ample evidence that this fueled the ambitions of his youth; and anyone who knew him well can agree that it guided all his actions, from the moment he surprised himself with his speaking success against Posey and Ewing in the backwoods of Macon County to the day when the assassin marked him as the first hero of the restored Union, re-elected to his high office, surrounded by every circumstance that could feed his pride or elevate his feelings—a leader whose influence was only slightly less broad than his fame. He never slowed down in the pursuit he had set for himself; he was always ready to be honored; he constantly worked hard for position. There is no instance where an important role seemed within his reach, and he didn’t attempt to obtain it. Everything he did in politics, at the bar, and in his personal life had some connection to this major goal of his life. It should not be implied that he was capable of any disgraceful act, any personal dishonor, or any compromise or hiding of his political beliefs. In these respects, he was far better than most people. It wasn’t in his nature to back down from a fight or to switch sides; but he was more than willing to accept his fair share of the rewards that came with victory.
Born in the humblest circumstances, uneducated, poor, acquainted with flatboats and groceries, but a stranger to the drawing-room, it was natural that he should seek in a matrimonial alliance those social advantages which he felt were necessary to his political advancement. This was, in fact, his own view of the matter; but it was strengthened and enforced by the counsels of those whom he regarded as friends.
Born into very modest circumstances, uneducated and poor, familiar with flatboats and grocery work but unfamiliar with formal social settings, it was only natural for him to look for a marriage that could provide the social advantages he believed necessary for his political progress. This was, in fact, his own perspective, but it was reinforced by the advice of those he considered friends.
[Miss Mary Lincoln. Wife of the President 270]
[Miss Mary Lincoln. Wife of the President 270]
In 1839 Miss Mary, daughter of Hon. Robert S. Todd of Lexington, Ky., came to live with her sister, Mrs. Ninian W. Edwards, at Springfield. Like Miss Owens, Miss Todd had a stepmother, with whom she failed to "agree," and for that reason the Edwardses offered her a home with them. She was young,—just twenty-one,—her family was of the best, and her connections in Illinois among the most refined and distinguished people. Her mother having died when she was a little girl, she had been educated under the care of a French lady, "opposite Mr. Clay's." She was gifted with rare talents, had a keen sense of the ridiculous, a ready insight into the weaknesses of individual character, and a most fiery and ungovernable temper. Her tongue and her pen were equally sharp. High-bred, proud, brilliant, witty, and with a will that bent every one else to her purpose, she took Mr. Lincoln captive the very moment she considered it expedient to do so.
In 1839, Miss Mary, daughter of Hon. Robert S. Todd from Lexington, KY, moved in with her sister, Mrs. Ninian W. Edwards, in Springfield. Like Miss Owens, Miss Todd had a stepmother with whom she didn’t get along, which is why the Edwards family offered her a place to stay. She was young—just twenty-one—her family was well-respected, and she had connections in Illinois among some of the most refined and distinguished people. Her mother had passed away when she was a little girl, so she was educated by a French lady who lived “opposite Mr. Clay’s.” She had exceptional talents, a sharp sense of humor, a keen insight into people's flaws, and an incredibly fiery and uncontrollable temper. Her words, whether spoken or written, were equally incisive. With her high breeding, pride, brilliance, wit, and a determination that influenced everyone around her, she captured Mr. Lincoln's attention the moment she decided it was time to do so.
Mr. Lincoln was a rising politician, fresh from the people, and possessed of great power among them: Miss Todd was of aristocratic and distinguished family, able to lead through the awful portals of "good society" whomsoever they chose to countenance. It was thought that a union between them could not fail of numerous benefits to both parties. Mr. Edwards thought so; Mrs. Edwards thought so; and it was not long before Mary Todd herself thought so. She was very ambitious, and even before she left Kentucky announced her belief that she was "destined to be the wife of some future President." For a little while she was courted by Douglas as well as by Lincoln; but she is said to have refused the "Little Giant," "on account of his bad morals." Being asked which of them she intended to have, she answered, "The one that has the best chance of being President." She decided in favor of Lincoln, and, in the opinion of some of her husband's friends, aided to no small extent in the fulfilment of the prophecy which the bestowal of her hand implied. A friend of Miss Todd was the wife of an elderly but wealthy gentleman; and being asked by one of the Edwards coterie why she had married "such an old, dried-up husband, such a withered-up old buck," she answered that "He had lots of horses and gold." But Mary Todd spoke up in great surprise, and said, "Is that true? I would rather marry a good man, a man of mind, with hope and bright prospects ahead for position, fame, and power, than to marry all the horses, gold, and bones in the world."
Mr. Lincoln was an up-and-coming politician, connected to the people, and held significant influence among them. Miss Todd came from an aristocratic and distinguished family, capable of guiding anyone they chose into the elite circles of "high society." It was believed that a partnership between them would bring many advantages to both. Mr. Edwards believed this; Mrs. Edwards believed this; and it wasn’t long before Mary Todd herself came to believe it. She was very ambitious, and even before leaving Kentucky, she declared her conviction that she was "destined to be the wife of some future President." For a short time, she was courted by both Douglas and Lincoln; however, she reportedly turned down the "Little Giant" due to his "bad morals." When asked which one she would choose, she replied, "The one that has the best chance of being President." She decided on Lincoln, and in the view of some of her husband’s friends, she significantly contributed to the realization of the prophecy her marriage implied. A friend of Miss Todd was married to an older but wealthy man, and when one of the Edwards group asked her why she married "such an old, dried-up husband, such a withered-up old buck," she replied that "He had lots of horses and gold." But Mary Todd interjected in disbelief, saying, "Is that true? I would rather marry a good man, a man of intellect, with hope and bright prospects for position, fame, and power, than to marry all the horses, gold, and bones in the world."
Mrs. Edwards, Miss Todd's sister, tells us that Mr. Lincoln "was charmed with Mary's wit and fascinated with her quick sagacity, her will, her nature and culture." "I have happened in the room," she says, "where they were sitting often and often, and Mary led the conversation. Lincoln would listen, and gaze on her as if drawn by some superior power,—irresistibly so: he listened, but never scarcely said a word.... Lincoln could not hold a lengthy conversation with a lady,—was not sufficiently educated and intelligent in the female line to do so."
Mrs. Edwards, Miss Todd's sister, tells us that Mr. Lincoln "was charmed by Mary's wit and fascinated by her quick insight, determination, character, and upbringing." "I have often found myself in the room," she says, "where they were sitting together, and Mary led the conversation. Lincoln would listen and look at her as if pulled by some stronger force—irresistibly so: he listened, but hardly ever said a word.... Lincoln couldn't hold a long conversation with a woman—he wasn't educated or informed enough in that area to do so."
Mr. Lincoln and Mary were engaged, and their marriage was only a question of time. But Mr. Lincoln's love-affairs were destined never to run smoothly, and now one Miss Matilda Edwards made her "sweet appearance," and brought havoc in her train. She was the sister of Ninian W. Edwards, and came to spend a year with her brother. She was very fair, and soon was the reigning belle. No sooner did Lincoln know her than he felt his heart change. The other affair, according to the Edwardses, according to Stuart, according to Herndon, according to Lincoln and everybody else, was a "policy match;" but this was love. For a while he evidently tried hard to go on as before, but his feelings were too strong to be concealed. Mr. Edwards endeavored to reconcile matters by getting his sister to marry Speed; but the rebellious beauty refused Speed incontinently (as she did Douglas too), and married Mr. Schuyler Strong. Poor Lincoln never whispered a word of his passion to her: his high sense of honor prevented that, and perhaps she would not have listened to him if it had been otherwise.
Mr. Lincoln and Mary were engaged, and their marriage was just a matter of time. However, Mr. Lincoln's romantic life was never smooth, and then Miss Matilda Edwards made her "sweet appearance," causing chaos. She was the sister of Ninian W. Edwards and came to spend a year with her brother. She was very pretty and soon became the town's sweetheart. As soon as Lincoln met her, he felt his heart change. The other relationship, according to the Edwardses, Stuart, Herndon, Lincoln, and everyone else, was a "policy match," but this was real love. For a while, he tried hard to continue as before, but his feelings were too strong to hide. Mr. Edwards tried to resolve things by getting his sister to marry Speed, but the headstrong beauty refused Speed outright (just like she did Douglas), and married Mr. Schuyler Strong instead. Poor Lincoln never mentioned his feelings to her: his strong sense of honor stopped him, and maybe she wouldn’t have listened even if he had spoken up.
At length, after long reflection, in great agony of spirit, Mr. Lincoln concluded that duty required him to make a candid statement of his feelings to the lady who was entitled to his hand. He wrote her a letter, and told her gently but plainly that he did not love her. He asked Speed to deliver it; but Speed advised him to burn it. "Speed," said Mr. Lincoln, "I always knew you were an obstinate man. If you won't deliver it, I'll get some one else to do it." But Speed now had the letter in his hand; and, emboldened by the warm friendship that existed between them, replied, "I shall not deliver it, nor give it to you to be delivered. Words are forgotten, misunderstood, passed by, not noticed in a private conversation; but once put your words in writing, and they stand as a living and eternal monument against you. If you think you have will and manhood enough to go and see her, and speak to her what you say in that letter, you may do that." Lincoln went to see her forthwith, and reported to Speed. He said, that, when he made his somewhat startling communication, she rose and said, "'The deceiver shall be deceived: woe is me!' alluding to a young man she had fooled." Mary told him she knew the reason of his change of heart, and released him from his engagement. Some parting endearments took place between them, and then, as the natural result of those endearments, a reconciliation.
After a lot of thinking and feeling really torn, Mr. Lincoln decided it was time to be honest with the woman he was supposed to marry. He wrote her a letter where he gently but clearly stated that he didn’t love her. He asked Speed to deliver it, but Speed advised him to burn it. "Speed," Mr. Lincoln said, "I’ve always known you were stubborn. If you won’t take it, I’ll find someone else to do it." But Speed now held the letter and, feeling confident about their close friendship, replied, "I won’t deliver it, nor will I give it to you to send. Words can be forgotten, misunderstood, or overlooked in a conversation, but once you put them in writing, they become a lasting record against you. If you think you have enough will and courage to go see her and say what you wrote in that letter, then go ahead." Lincoln went to see her right away and reported back to Speed. He told Speed that when he shared his shocking news, she stood up and exclaimed, "'The deceiver shall be deceived: woe is me!' referring to a young man she had tricked." Mary told him she understood why he had changed his mind and released him from their engagement. They exchanged some affectionate words, which led to them making up.
We quote again from Mrs. Edwards:—
We quote again from Mrs. Edwards:—
"Lincoln and Mary were engaged; every thing was ready and prepared for the marriage, even to the supper. Mr. Lincoln failed to meet his engagement. Cause, insanity!
"Lincoln and Mary were engaged; everything was ready and prepared for the marriage, even the dinner. Mr. Lincoln didn't show up for his commitment. Reason: insanity!"
"In his lunacy he declared he hated Mary and loved Miss Edwards. This is true, yet it was not his real feelings. A crazy man hates those he loves when at himself. Often, often, is this the case. The world had it that Mr. Lincoln backed out, and this placed Mary in a peculiar situation; and to set herself right, and free Mr. Lincoln's mind, she wrote a letter to Mr. Lincoln, stating that she would release him from his engagement.... The whole of the year was a crazy spell. Miss Edwards was at our house, say a year. I asked Miss Edwards if Mr. Lincoln ever mentioned the subject of his love to her. Miss Edwards said, 'On my word, he never mentioned such a subject to me: he never even stooped to pay me a compliment.'"
"In his madness, he claimed he hated Mary and loved Miss Edwards. This is true, but it wasn’t how he really felt. A crazy person often hates the ones they love when they're in that state. This happens frequently. People believed that Mr. Lincoln backed out, which put Mary in a difficult position. To clear her name and free Mr. Lincoln from any obligation, she wrote him a letter saying she would release him from their engagement... The entire year was a chaotic time. Miss Edwards was at our house for about a year. I asked Miss Edwards if Mr. Lincoln ever talked to her about his feelings for her. Miss Edwards replied, 'Honestly, he never brought up that topic with me: he never even bothered to give me a compliment.'"
In the language of Mr. Edwards, "Lincoln went as crazy as a loon," and was taken to Kentucky by Speed, who kept him "until he recovered." He "did not attend the Legislature in 1841-2 for this reason."
In Mr. Edwards' words, "Lincoln went totally crazy," and was taken to Kentucky by Speed, who kept him "there until he got better." He "did not attend the Legislature in 1841-2 for this reason."
Mr. Herndon devoutly believes that Mr. Lincoln's insanity grew out of a most extraordinary complication of feelings,—aversion to the marriage proposed, a counter-attachment to Miss Edwards, and a new access of unspeakable tenderness for the memory of Ann Rutledge,—the old love struggling with a new one, and each sending to his heart a sacrificial pang as he thought of his solemn engagement to marry a third person. In this opinion Mr. Speed appears to concur, as shown by his letter below. At all events, Mr. Lincoln's derangement was nearly, if not quite, complete. "We had to remove razors from his room," says Speed, "take away all knives, and other dangerous things. It was terrible." And now Speed determined to do for him what Bowlin Greene had done on a similar occasion at New Salem. Having sold out his store on the 1st of January, 1841, he took Mr. Lincoln with him to his home in Kentucky, and kept him there during most of the summer and fall, or until he seemed sufficiently restored to be given his liberty again at Springfield, when he was brought back to his old quarters. During this period, "he was at times very melancholy," and, by his own admission, "almost contemplated self-destruction." It was about this time that he wrote some gloomy lines under the head of "Suicide," which were published in "The Sangamon Journal." Mr. Herndon remembered something about them; but, when he went to look for them in the office-file of the "Journal," he found them neatly cut out,—"supposed to have been done," says he, "by Lincoln." Speed's mother was much pained by the "deep depression" of her guest, and gave him a Bible, advising him to read it, to adopt its precepts, and pray for its promises. He acknowledged this attempted service, after he became President, by sending her a photograph of himself, with this inscription: "To my very good friend, Mrs. Lucy G. Speed, from whose pious hands I received an Oxford Bible twenty years ago." But Mrs. Speed's medicine, the best ever offered for a mind diseased, was of no avail in this case. Among other things, he told Speed, referring probably to his inclination to commit suicide, "that he had done nothing to make any human being remember that he had lived, and that to connect his name with the events transpiring in his day and generation, and so impress himself upon them as to link his name with something that would redound to the interest of his fellow-man, was what he desired to live for." Of this conversation he pointedly reminded Speed at the time, or just before the time, he issued the Emancipation Proclamation.
Mr. Herndon firmly believes that Mr. Lincoln's mental instability came from an incredibly complicated mix of emotions—his dislike for the proposed marriage, his growing feelings for Miss Edwards, and a sudden surge of intense affection for the memory of Ann Rutledge. The conflict between his old love and his new feelings caused him deep emotional pain as he thought about his serious promise to marry someone else. Mr. Speed seems to agree with this view, as indicated by his letter below. In any case, Mr. Lincoln's condition was nearly, if not completely, dire. "We had to take razors out of his room," Speed says, "remove all knives and other sharp objects. It was awful." Now Speed was determined to help Lincoln the way Bowlin Greene had helped in a similar situation in New Salem. After selling his store on January 1, 1841, he took Mr. Lincoln to his home in Kentucky and kept him there for most of the summer and fall until he appeared to be well enough to return to Springfield, where he went back to his old place. During this time, "he was often very down," and he admitted that he "almost thought about ending it all." Around this time, he wrote some dark lines titled "Suicide," which were published in "The Sangamon Journal." Mr. Herndon remembered something about them, but when he went to look for them in the office archive of the "Journal," he found them neatly cut out—"supposedly done," he said, "by Lincoln." Speed's mother was really troubled by the "deep depression" of her guest and gave him a Bible, encouraging him to read it, follow its teachings, and pray for its promises. He acknowledged this gesture later, after he became President, by sending her a photograph of himself with this inscription: "To my very good friend, Mrs. Lucy G. Speed, from whose pious hands I received an Oxford Bible twenty years ago." However, Mrs. Speed's remedy, the best medicine for a troubled mind, didn't help in this case. Among other things, he told Speed—probably referencing his suicidal thoughts—that he hadn't done anything to make anyone remember that he had existed. He wanted to connect his name with significant events of his time and make a meaningful impact on his fellow man, which was why he wished to keep living. He pointedly reminded Speed of this conversation right around the time he issued the Emancipation Proclamation.
What took place after his return to Springfield cannot be better told than in the words of the friends of both parties. "Mr. Edwards and myself," says Mrs. Edwards, "after the first crash of things, told Mary and Lincoln that they had better not ever marry; that their natures, minds, education, raising, &c., were so different, that they could not live happy as man and wife; had better never think of the subject again. All at once we heard that Mr. Lincoln and Mary had secret meetings at Mr. S. Francis's, editor of 'The Springfield Journal.' Mary said the reason this was so, the cause why it was, was that the world, woman and man, were uncertain and slippery, and that it was best to keep the secret courtship from all eyes and ears. Mrs. Lincoln told Mr. Lincoln, that, though she had released him in the letter spoken of, yet she would hold the question an open one,—that is, that she had not changed her mind, but felt as always.... The marriage of Mr. Lincoln and Mary was quick and sudden,—one or two hours' notice." How poor Mr. Lincoln felt about it, may be gathered from the reminiscences of his friend, J. H. Matheny, who says, "that Lincoln and himself, in 1842, were very friendly; that Lincoln came to him one evening and said, 'Jim, I shall have to marry that girl.'" He was married that evening, but Matheny says, "he looked as if he was going to the slaughter," and that Lincoln "had often told him, directly and individually, that he was driven into the marriage; that it was concocted and planned by the Edwards family; that Miss Todd—afterwards Mrs. Lincoln—was crazy for a week or so, not knowing what to do; and that he loved Miss Edwards, and went to see her, and not Mrs. Lincoln."
What happened after his return to Springfield is best described in the words of their friends. "Mr. Edwards and I," says Mrs. Edwards, "after everything calmed down, advised Mary and Lincoln that they should never marry. Their personalities, minds, education, upbringing, etc., were so different that they wouldn't be happy as a married couple; it was better for them to never think about it again. Suddenly, we heard that Mr. Lincoln and Mary were having secret meetings at Mr. S. Francis's, the editor of 'The Springfield Journal.' Mary explained that the reason for this was that the world, both men and women, could be unpredictable and deceptive, and that it was best to keep their courtship hidden from everyone. Mrs. Lincoln told Mr. Lincoln that, although she had released him in the mentioned letter, she still considered the issue open — meaning she hadn't changed her mind and felt the same as always... The marriage of Mr. Lincoln and Mary was quick and sudden — just one or two hours' notice." How Mr. Lincoln felt about this can be understood from the memories of his friend, J. H. Matheny, who says, "that Lincoln and he were quite close in 1842; Lincoln came to him one evening and said, 'Jim, I have to marry that girl.'" He got married that same evening, but Matheny noted, "he looked like he was heading to his execution," and that Lincoln "often told him directly that he felt pressured into the marriage; that it was arranged and orchestrated by the Edwards family; that Miss Todd — later Mrs. Lincoln — was frantic for a week, not knowing what to do; and that he loved Miss Edwards and went to see her, not Mrs. Lincoln."
The license to marry was issued on the 4th of November, 1842, and on the same day the marriage was celebrated by Charles Dresser, "M.G." With this date carefully borne in mind, the following letters are of surpassing interest. They are relics, not only of a great man, but of a great agony.
The marriage license was issued on November 4, 1842, and on that same day, the ceremony was conducted by Charles Dresser, "M.G." Keeping this date in mind, the following letters are incredibly significant. They are remnants, not only of a remarkable individual but also of profound suffering.
The first is from Mr. Speed to Mr. Herndon, and explains the circumstances under which the correspondence took place. Although it is in part a repetition of what the reader already knows, it is of such peculiar value, that we give it in full:—
The first is from Mr. Speed to Mr. Herndon, explaining the circumstances that led to the correspondence. While it repeats some information the reader already knows, it holds such special value that we present it in full:—
W. H. Herndon, Esq.
W. H. Herndon, Esq.
Dear Sir,—I enclose you copies of all the letters of any interest from Mr. Lincoln to me.
Dear Sir,—I’m enclosing copies of all the interesting letters from Mr. Lincoln to me.
Some explanation may be needed, that you may rightly understand their import.
Some explanation might be necessary so that you can fully grasp their significance.
In the winter of 1840 and 1841 he was unhappy about his engagement to his wife,—not being entirely satisfied that his heart was going with his hand. How much he suffered then on that account, none know so well as myself: he disclosed his whole heart to me.
In the winter of 1840 and 1841, he was unhappy about his engagement to his wife, feeling that his heart wasn't in it despite his commitment. No one knows how much he suffered during that time better than I do; he opened up to me completely.
In the summer of 1841 I became engaged to my wife. He was here on a visit when I courted her; and, strange to say, something of the same feeling which I regarded as so foolish in him took possession of me, and kept me very unhappy from the time of my engagement until I was married.
In the summer of 1841, I got engaged to my wife. He was visiting when I was dating her; and, oddly enough, I started to feel the same emotions that I once thought were silly in him, and it made me quite unhappy from the time I got engaged until I got married.
This will explain the deep interest he manifested in his letters on my account.
This will explain the strong interest he showed in his letters about me.
Louisville, Nov. 30, 1866.
Louisville, Nov. 30, 1866.
If you use the letters (and some of them are perfect gems) do it care fully, so as not to wound the feelings of Mrs. Lincoln.
If you use the letters (and some of them are real treasures), be careful not to hurt Mrs. Lincoln's feelings.
One thing is plainly discernible: if I had not been married and happy,—far more happy than I ever expected to be,—he would not have married.
One thing is clear: if I hadn't been married and happy—way happier than I ever thought I would be—he wouldn’t have married.
I have erased a name which I do not wish published. If I have failed to do it anywhere, strike it out when you come to it. That is the word———.
I have removed a name that I don't want published. If I missed it somewhere, please cross it out when you see it. That is the word———.
I thank you for your last lecture. It is all new to me, but so true to my appreciation of Lincoln's character, that, independent of my knowledge of you, I would almost swear to it.
I appreciate your last lecture. It's all new to me, but it really resonates with my understanding of Lincoln's character that, even without knowing you, I would almost swear by it.
Lincoln wrote a letter (a long one, which he read to me) to Dr. Drake, of Cincinnati, descriptive of his case. Its date would be in December, 1840, or early in January, 1841. I think that he must have informed Dr. D. of his early love for Miss Rutledge, as there was a part of the letter which he would not read.
Lincoln wrote a letter (a long one, which he read to me) to Dr. Drake, of Cincinnati, describing his situation. It was dated either December 1840 or early January 1841. I believe he must have told Dr. D. about his early feelings for Miss Rutledge, since there was a part of the letter he chose not to read.
It would be worth much to you, if you could procure the original.
It would be very valuable to you if you could get the original.
Charles D. Drake, of St. Louis, may have his father's papers. The date which I give you will aid in the search.
Charles D. Drake from St. Louis might have his father's documents. The date I provided will help in the search.
I remember Dr. Drake's reply, which was, that he would not undertake to prescribe for him without a personal interview. I would advise you to make some effort to get the letter.
I remember Dr. Drake's response, which was that he wouldn't agree to prescribe for him without meeting in person. I suggest you try to get the letter.
Your friend, &c.,
Your friend, etc.,
J. F. Speed.
J.F. Speed.
The first of the papers from Mr. Lincoln's pen is a letter of advice and consolation to his friend, for whom he apprehends the terrible things through which, by the help of that friend, he has himself just passed.
The first of the papers written by Mr. Lincoln is a letter offering advice and comfort to his friend, as he fears the awful experiences that he has just gone through with that friend's help.
My dear Speed,—Feeling, as you know I do, the deepest solicitude for the success of the enterprise you are engaged in, I adopt this as the last method I can invent to aid you, in case (which God forbid) you shall need any aid. I do not place what I am going to say on paper, because I can say it better in that way than I could by word of mouth; but, were I to say it orally before we part, most likely you would forget it at the very time when it might do you some good. As I think it reasonable that you will feel very badly sometime between this and the final consummation of your purpose, it is intended that you shall read this just at such a time. Why I say it is reasonable that you will feel very badly yet, is because of three special causes added to the general one which I shall mention.
My dear Speed, — As you know, I care deeply about the success of the project you’re working on, so I’m using this as my final way to help you in case (which I hope doesn’t happen) you need assistance. I’m not writing this down because I could express it better in person; but if I were to say it out loud before we go our separate ways, you might forget it just when it could be helpful. I think it’s likely that you will feel quite upset at some point between now and the completion of your goal, so I want you to read this during that time. The reason I believe you’ll feel upset is due to three specific reasons in addition to the general one that I will mention.
The general cause is, that you are naturally of a nervous temperament, and this I say from what I have seen of you personally, and what you have told me concerning your mother at various times, and concerning your brother William at the time his wife died. The first special cause is your exposure to bad weather on your journey, which my experience clearly proves to be very severe on defective nerves. The second is the absence of all business and conversation of friends, which might divert your mind, give it occasional rest from the intensity of thought which will sometimes wear the sweetest idea threadbare, and turn it to the bitterness of death.
The main issue is that you naturally have a nervous temperament. I can tell this from my observations of you and what you’ve shared about your mother over time, as well as your brother William when his wife passed away. The first specific reason is your exposure to bad weather during your trip, which I've seen can be really tough on sensitive nerves. The second reason is the lack of any business or conversations with friends that could take your mind off things, giving you a break from the intense thoughts that can sometimes turn even the sweetest ideas into something bitter.
The third is the rapid and near approach of that crisis on which all your thoughts and feelings concentrate.
The third is the quick and imminent arrival of that crisis that all your thoughts and feelings are focused on.
If from all these causes you shall escape, and go through triumphantly, without another "twinge of the soul," I shall be most happily but most egregiously deceived. If, on the contrary, you shall, as I expect you will at some time, be agonized and distressed, let me, who have some reason to speak with judgment on such a subject, beseech you to ascribe it to the causes I have mentioned, and not to some false and ruinous suggestion of the Devil.
If you manage to get through all these challenges without feeling another "twinge of the soul," I will be very happy but completely misled. However, if you do end up feeling distressed and tormented, as I expect you might at some point, please consider, as someone who has a valid perspective on this, that it’s due to the reasons I’ve mentioned, and not because of some misleading and destructive notion from the Devil.
"But," you will say, "do not your causes apply to every one engaged in a like undertaking?" By no means. The particular causes, to a greater or less extent, perhaps, do apply in all cases; but the general one,—nervous debility, which is the key and conductor of all the particular ones, and without which they would be utterly harmless, though it does pertain to you,—does not pertain to one in a thousand. It is out of this that the painful difference between you and the mass of the world springs.
"But," you might say, "don't your reasons apply to everyone doing a similar thing?" Not at all. The specific reasons, to some degree, might apply in every case; however, the general one—nervous weakness, which is the main factor and driver of all the specific ones, and without which they would be completely harmless—while it does relate to you, does not relate to one in a thousand. This is where the painful difference between you and most of the world comes from.
I know what the painful point with you is at all times when you are unhappy: it is an apprehension that you do not love her as you should. What nonsense! How came you to court her? Was it because you thought she deserved it, and that you had given her reason to expect it? If it was for that, why did not the same reason make you court Ann Todd, and at least twenty others of whom you can think, and to whom it would apply with greater force than to her? Did you court her for her wealth? Why, you know she had none. But you say you reasoned yourself into it. What do you mean by that? Was it not that you found yourself unable to reason yourself out of it? Did you not think, and partly form the purpose, of courting her the first time you ever saw her or heard of her? What had reason to do with it at that early stage? There was nothing at that time for reason to work upon. Whether she was moral, amiable, sensible, or even of good character, you did not, nor could then know, except, perhaps, you might infer the last from the company you found her in.
I always know what bothers you when you're unhappy: it's the fear that you don't love her like you should. What nonsense! Why did you pursue her in the first place? Was it because you thought she deserved it and you had given her a reason to expect it? If that was the case, then why didn’t the same reasoning lead you to pursue Ann Todd and at least twenty other women you can think of, for whom it would apply even more strongly than to her? Did you go after her for her money? Come on, you know she didn’t have any. But you say you talked yourself into it. What do you mean by that? Was it that you just couldn't convince yourself to back out of it? Didn't you think, and partly resolve, to pursue her the first time you saw or heard about her? What did reasoning have to do with it back then? There was nothing for reason to work with at that early stage. You couldn't know whether she was moral, kind, sensible, or even had a good reputation, except maybe you could guess the last one based on the company she was with.
All you then did or could know of her was her personal appearance and deportment; and these, if they impress at all, impress the heart, and not the head.
All you could know about her was her personal appearance and behavior; and these, if they make any impression at all, touch the heart, not the mind.
Say candidly, were not those heavenly black eyes the whole basis of all your early reasoning on the subject? After you and I had once been at the residence, did you not go and take me all the way to Lexington and back, for no other purpose but to get to see her again, on our return on that evening to take a trip for that express object?
Say honestly, weren't those stunning black eyes the main reason for all your initial thoughts on the matter? After we had been to the place, didn't you take me all the way to Lexington and back, just to see her again, on our return that evening specifically for that purpose?
What earthly consideration would you take to find her scouting and despising you, and giving herself up to another? But of this you have no apprehension; and therefore you cannot bring it home to your feelings.
What reason on earth would you have to think about her looking down on you and giving herself to someone else? But you don't seem worried about this at all; that's why you can't connect it to how you feel.
I shall be so anxious about you, that I shall want you to write by every mail. Your friend,
I’ll be so worried about you that I’ll want you to write with every mail. Your friend,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Springfield, Ill., Feb. 3, 1842.
Springfield, IL, Feb. 3, 1842.
Dear Speed,—Your letter of the 25th January came to hand to-day. You well know that I do not feel my own sorrows much more keenly than I do yours, when I know of them; and yet I assure you I was not much hurt by what you wrote me of your excessively bad feeling at the time you wrote. Not that I am less capable of sympathizing with you now than ever, not that I am less your friend than ever, but because I hope and believe that your present anxiety and distress about her health and her life must and will forever banish those horrid doubts which I know you sometimes felt as to the truth of your affection for her. If they can once and forever be removed (and I almost feel a presentiment that the Almighty has sent your present affliction expressly for that object), surely, nothing can come in their stead to fill their immeasurable measure of misery. The death-scenes of those we love are surely painful enough; but these we are prepared for and expect to see: they happen to all, and all know they must happen. Painful as they are, they are not an unlooked-for sorrow. Should she, as you fear, be destined to an early grave, it is indeed a great consolation to know that she is so well prepared to meet it.. Her religion, which you once disliked so much, I will venture you now prize most highly.
Dear Speed,—I got your letter from January 25th today. You know I feel your sorrows just as deeply as my own when I hear about them. Still, I have to say that I wasn’t too affected by what you wrote about feeling really down when you wrote to me. It’s not that I can’t sympathize with you now or that I’m any less of a friend—it’s just that I hope and believe your current worries about her health and life will drive away those awful doubts you've sometimes had about your love for her. If those doubts can be completely removed (and I really believe that maybe God has sent you this current struggle for that reason), then surely nothing can take their place in terms of unbearable misery. The moments of death for our loved ones are painful enough; we expect them and know they’re part of life. As hard as they are, they’re not a surprise. If, as you fear, she is meant to die soon, it’s truly comforting to know she is so well prepared for it. The faith you once dismissed is something I bet you now value deeply.
But I hope your melancholy bodings as to her early death are not well founded. I even hope that ere this reaches you, she will have returned with improved and still-improving health, and that you will have met her, and forgotten the sorrows of the past in the enjoyment of the present. I would say more if I could, but it seems that I have said enough. It really appears to me that you yourself ought to rejoice, and not sorrow, at this indubitable evidence of your undying affection for her.
But I hope your worries about her dying young aren't true. I even hope that by the time this letter gets to you, she has come back with better and still-improving health, and that you have seen her and forgotten the pains of the past while enjoying the present. I’d say more if I could, but it seems I’ve said enough. It honestly seems to me that you should feel happy, not sad, about this clear sign of your lasting love for her.
Why, Speed, if you did not love her, although you might not wish her death, you would most certainly be resigned to it. Perhaps this point is no longer a question with you, and my pertinacious dwelling upon it is a rude intrusion upon your feelings. If so, you must pardon me. You know the hell I have suffered on that point, and how tender I am upon it. You know I do not mean wrong. I have been quite clear of hypo since you left, even better than I was along in the fall. I have seen———but once. She seemed very cheerful, and so I said nothing to her about what we spoke of.
Why, Speed, if you didn't love her, even if you didn’t wish her any harm, you would definitely be okay with her not being around. Maybe you’ve already made up your mind about this, and my insistence on it is just a rude interruption of your feelings. If that’s the case, I hope you can forgive me. You know the torment I've gone through regarding this, and how sensitive I am about it. You know I don’t mean any harm. I've been completely clear-headed since you left, even better than I was last fall. I’ve only seen her once. She seemed really happy, so I didn’t bring up what we talked about.
Old Uncle Billy Herndon is dead, and it is said this evening that Uncle Ben Ferguson will not live. This, I believe, is all the news, and enough at that, unless it were better.
Old Uncle Billy Herndon has passed away, and it's being said tonight that Uncle Ben Ferguson won't survive. I think that's all the news, and it's plenty unless it could be better.
Write me immediately on the receipt of this.
Write to me as soon as you get this.
Your friend as ever,
Your friend always,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Springfield, Ill., Feb. 13, 1842.
Springfield, IL, Feb. 13, 1842.
Dear Speed,—Yours of the 1st inst. came to hand three or four days ago. When this shall reach you, you will have been Fanny's husband several days. You know my desire to befriend you is everlasting; that I will never cease while I know how to do any thing.
Dear Speed,—I received your letter from the 1st a few days ago. By the time you get this, you will have been Fanny's husband for several days. You know that my wish to help you is constant; I will never stop as long as I’m able to do anything.
But you will always hereafter be on ground that I have never occupied, and consequently, if advice were needed, I might advise wrong. I do fondly hope, however, that you will never again need any comfort from abroad. But, should I be mistaken in this, should excessive pleasure still be accompanied with a painful counterpart at times, still let me urge you, as I have ever done, to remember, in the depth and even agony of despondency, that very shortly you are to feel well again. I am now fully convinced that you love her as ardently as you are capable of loving. Your ever being happy in her presence, and your intense anxiety about her health, if there were nothing else, would place this beyond all dispute in my mind. I incline to think it probable that your nerves will fail you occasionally for a while; but once you get them firmly graded now, that trouble is over forever.
But from now on, you’ll always be on ground that I’ve never been on, and because of that, if you need advice, I might lead you astray. I really hope, though, that you’ll never need comfort from someone else again. But if I’m wrong about this, and if your happiness still comes with some painful moments, let me remind you, as I always have, that even in the depths of despair, you’ll soon feel better again. I’m now completely convinced that you love her as deeply as you’re able to love. Your constant happiness when you’re with her, and your intense worry about her health, would make this clear to me even without anything else. I think it’s likely that your nerves will get to you sometimes for a bit; but once you get them under control now, that problem will be gone for good.
I think if I were you, in case my mind were not exactly right, I would avoid being idle. I would immediately engage in some business, or go to making preparations for it, which would be the same thing.
I think if I were you, and my mind wasn't completely right, I would avoid being idle. I would start working on something right away, or begin getting ready for it, which would be the same thing.
If you went through the ceremony calmly, or even with sufficient composure not to excite alarm in any present, you are safe beyond question, and in two or three months, to say the most, will be the happiest of men.
If you went through the ceremony calmly, or even with enough composure not to raise any alarms among those present, you're definitely safe, and in two or three months at most, you'll be the happiest of men.
I would desire you to give my particular respects to Fanny; but perhaps you will not wish her to know you have received this, lest she should desire to see it. Make her write me an answer to my last letter to her; at any rate, 1 would set great value upon a note or letter from her.
I would like you to send my regards to Fanny; but maybe you won't want her to know you got this, in case she wants to see it. Have her write me back to my last letter to her; either way, I would really appreciate a note or letter from her.
Write me whenever you have leisure.
Write to me whenever you have free time.
Yours forever,
Yours always,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
P. S.—I have been quite a man since you left.
P. S.—I've been doing really well since you left.
Springfield, Feb. 25, 1842.
Springfield, Feb 25, 1842.
Dear Speed,—Yours of the 16th inst., announcing that Miss Fanny and you are "no more twain, but one flesh," reached me this morning. I have no way of telling how much happiness I wish you both, though I believe you both can conceive it. I feel somewhat jealous of both of you now: you will be so exclusively concerned for one another, that I shall be forgotten entirely. My acquaintance with Miss Fanny (I call her this, lest you should think I am speaking of your mother) was too short for me to reasonably hope to long be remembered by her; and still I am sure I shall not forget her soon. Try if you cannot remind her of that debt she owes me,—and be sure you do not interfere to prevent her paying it.
Dear Speed, — I received your letter from the 16th, letting me know that you and Miss Fanny are "no longer two, but one." I can't express how much happiness I wish for both of you, although I believe you can understand it. I'm feeling a bit jealous of you both now: you’ll be so focused on each other that I’ll be completely forgotten. My time spent with Miss Fanny (I call her that so you don't think I'm talking about your mother) was too short for me to expect her to remember me for long; still, I’m sure I won’t forget her anytime soon. Please see if you can remind her of that favor she owes me — and make sure you don’t stop her from returning it.
I regret to learn that you have resolved to not return to Illinois. I shall be very lonesome without you. How miserable things seem to be arranged in this world! If we have no friends, we have no pleasure; and, if we have them, we are sure to lose them, and be doubly pained by the loss. I did hope she and you would make your home here; but I own I have no right to insist. You owe obligations to her ten thousand times more sacred than you can owe to others, and in that light let them be respected and observed. It is natural that she should desire to remain with her relatives and friends. As to friends, however, she could not need them anywhere: she would have them in abundance here.
I'm sorry to hear that you've decided not to return to Illinois. I'll feel really lonely without you. Things in this world seem so messed up! Without friends, we can't find joy; and when we do have friends, we inevitably lose them and feel even worse about it. I had hoped that she and you would make your home here; but I realize I don't have the right to push that. You have responsibilities to her that are far more important than any you might owe to others, and that should be respected. It's only natural that she would want to stay with her family and friends. However, when it comes to friends, she wouldn't need them anywhere else: she would have plenty here.
Give my kind remembrance to Mr. Williamson and his family, particularly Miss Elizabeth; also to your mother, brother, and sisters. Ask little Eliza Davis if she will ride to town with me if I come there again.
Give my best regards to Mr. Williamson and his family, especially Miss Elizabeth; also to your mom, brother, and sisters. Ask little Eliza Davis if she would like to ride to town with me if I go there again.
And, finally, give Fanny a double reciprocation of all the love she sent me. Write me often, and believe me
And, finally, send Fanny back twice the love she gave me. Write to me often, and trust me
Yours forever,
Love you always,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
P. S.—Poor Easthouse is gone at last. He died a while before day this morning. They say he was very loath to die.
P. S.—Poor Easthouse is finally gone. He passed away shortly before dawn this morning. They say he was reluctant to let go.
Springfield, Feb. 25, 1842.
Springfield, Feb 25, 1842.
Dear Speed,—I received yours of the 12th, written the day you went down to William's place, some days since, but delayed answering it till I should receive the promised one of the 16th, which came last night. I opened the letter with intense anxiety and trepidation; so much, that, although it turned out better than I expected, I have hardly yet, at the distance of ten hours, become calm.
Dear Speed,—I got your letter from the 12th, written on the day you went down to William's place, a few days ago, but I held off replying until I received the one from the 16th that you promised, which arrived last night. I opened the letter with a lot of anxiety and nervousness; so much so that, even though it was better than I expected, I still haven't calmed down, even after ten hours.
I tell you, Speed, our forebodings (for which you and I are peculiar) are all the worst sort of nonsense. I fancied, from the time I received your letter of Saturday, that the one of Wednesday was never to come, and yet it did come, and, what is more, it is perfectly clear, both from its tone and handwriting, that you were much happier, or, if you think the term preferable, less miserable, when you wrote it, than when you wrote the last one before. You had so obviously improved at the very time I so much fancied you would have grown worse. You say that something indescribably horrible and alarming still haunts you. You will not say that three months from now, I will venture. When your nerves once get steady now, the whole trouble will be over forever. Nor should you become impatient at their being even very slow in becoming steady. Again you say, you much fear that that Elysium of which you have dreamed so much is never to be realized. Weil, if it shall not, I dare swear it will not be the fault of her who is now your wife. I now have no doubt, that it is the peculiar misfortune of both you and me to dream dreams of Elysium far exceeding all that any thing earthly can realize. Far short of your dreams as you may be, no woman could do more to realize them than that same black-eyed Fanny. If you could but contemplate her through my imagination, it would appear ridiculous to you that any one should for a moment think of being unhappy with her. My old father used to have a saying, that, "If you make a bad bargain, hug it all the tighter;" and it occurs to me, that, if the bargain you have just closed can possibly be called a bad one, it is certainly the most pleasant one for applying that maxim to which my fancy can by any effort picture.
I have to tell you, Speed, our worries (which you and I are both prone to) are really just nonsense. Ever since I got your letter on Saturday, I thought the one from Wednesday would never show up, but it did arrive, and what's more, it's totally clear from how you wrote it and the tone that you were much happier, or if you'd prefer, less miserable, when you wrote it than when you wrote the last one. You clearly improved just when I thought you’d be feeling worse. You say that something indescribably horrible and frightening still haunts you. I'm betting you won't feel that way three months from now. Once your nerves settle down, the whole issue will be behind you for good. And you shouldn't get impatient if it takes time for them to calm down. You also say you're really afraid that the paradise you've dreamed about so much will never happen. Well, if it doesn’t, I’m sure it won't be because of her who is now your wife. I have no doubt that both you and I have the unfortunate tendency to dream of paradise that far exceeds what anything earthly can provide. No matter how far off your dreams may seem, no woman could do more to make them real than that same black-eyed Fanny. If you could see her through my perspective, it would seem absurd to think anyone could be unhappy with her for even a moment. My father used to say, “If you make a bad deal, hold onto it even tighter,” and it strikes me that if the deal you just made can be considered a bad one, it’s definitely the most enjoyable one to apply that saying to that I can imagine.
I write another letter, enclosing this, which you can show her, if she desires it. I do this because she would think strangely, perhaps, should you tell her that you received no letters from me, or, telling her you do, refuse to let her see them. I close this, entertaining the confident hope that every successive letter I shall have from you (which I here pray may not be few, nor far between) may show you possessing a more steady hand and cheerful heart than the last preceding it.
I’m writing another letter and including this one, which you can share with her if she wants to see it. I’m doing this because she might think it’s odd if you tell her that you haven't received any letters from me, or if you say you have but won’t let her read them. I’m ending this letter with the hopeful expectation that every letter I get from you (and I really hope there are many and they come often) will show that you’re feeling more steady and cheerful than in the last one.
As ever, your friend,
As always, your friend,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Springfield, March 27, 1842.
Springfield, March 27, 1842.
Dear Speed,—Yours of the 10th inst. was received three or four days since. You know I am sincere when I tell you the pleasure its contents gave me was and is inexpressible. As to your farm matter, I have no sympathy with you. I have no farm, nor ever expect to have, and consequently have not studied the subject enough to be much interested with it. I can only say that I am glad you are satisfied and pleased with it.
Dear Speed,—I got your letter from the 10th a few days ago. You know I mean it when I say that I can’t express how much joy its contents brought me. As for your farming situation, I can’t relate to you. I don’t have a farm, nor do I plan to have one, so I haven’t thought about the topic enough to be very interested in it. I can only say that I’m glad you’re happy with it.
But on that other subject, to me of the most intense interest whether in joy or sorrow, I never had the power to withhold my sympathy from you. It cannot be told how it now thrills me with joy to hear you say you are "far happier than you ever expected to be." That much I know is enough. I know you too well to suppose your expectations were not, at least, sometimes extravagant, and, if the reality exceeds them all, I say, Enough, dear Lord. I am not going beyond the truth when I tell you, that the short space it took me to read your last letter gave me more pleasure than the total sum of all I have enjoyed since that fatal 1st of January, 1841. Since then it seems to me I should have been entirely happy, but for the never-absent idea that there is one still unhappy whom I have contributed to make so. That still kills my soul. I cannot but reproach myself for even wishing to be happy while she is otherwise. She accompanied a large party on the railroad cars to Jacksonville last Monday, and on her return spoke, so that I heard of it, of having enjoyed the trip exceedingly. God be praised for that.
But on that other topic, which holds intense significance for me whether in joy or sorrow, I could never keep my sympathy from you. It’s hard to explain how thrilled I am to hear you say you are "far happier than you ever expected to be." That alone is enough for me. I know you well enough to assume your expectations were, at least, sometimes overly ambitious, and if reality has surpassed them all, I say, that’s enough, dear Lord. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that the brief time it took me to read your last letter brought me more joy than everything I've felt since that fateful January 1st, 1841. Since then, I believe I would have been entirely happy, if it weren’t for the constant thought that there is one person still unhappy because of me. That thought still weighs heavily on my soul. I can’t help but feel guilty for even wanting to be happy while she is not. She traveled with a large group on the train to Jacksonville last Monday, and upon her return, I heard she said she really enjoyed the trip. Thank God for that.
You know with what sleepless vigilance I have watched you ever since the commencement of your affair; and, although I am almost confident it is useless, I cannot forbear once more to say, that I think it is even yet possible for your spirits to flag down and leave you miserable. If they should, don't fail to remember that they cannot long remain so. One thing I can tell you which I know you will be glad to hear, and that is that I have seen———and scrutinized her feelings as well as I could, and am fully convinced she is far happier now than she has been for the last fifteen months past.
You know how closely I've watched you since your relationship started, and even though I'm pretty sure it won’t help, I can't help but say again that it's still possible for your mood to drop and leave you feeling down. If that happens, don't forget that it won't last forever. There's one thing I can share that I know you'll be happy to hear: I've seen—and examined her feelings as well as I could—and I'm convinced she's much happier now than she has been in the last fifteen months.
You will see by the last "Sangamon Journal" that I have made a temperance speech on the 22d of February, which I claim that Fanny and you shall read as an act of charity to me; for I cannot learn that anybody else has read it, or is likely to. Fortunately, it is not very long, and I shall deem it a sufficient compliance with my request if one of you listens while the other reads it.
You can see from the latest "Sangamon Journal" that I gave a speech on temperance on February 22nd, and I ask that you and Fanny read it as a favor to me since I don’t think anyone else has read it or probably will. Thankfully, it’s not very long, and I'd appreciate it if one of you listens while the other reads it aloud.
As to your Lockridge matter, it is only necessary to say that there has been no court since you left, and that the next commences to-morrow morning, during which I suppose we cannot fail to get a judgment.
As for your Lockridge case, I just need to mention that there hasn't been any court since you left, and the next one starts tomorrow morning, during which I believe we will definitely get a judgment.
I wish you would learn of Everett what he would take, over and above a discharge, for all trouble we have been at, to take his business out of our hands and give it to somebody else. It is impossible to collect money on that or any other claim here now, and, although you know I am not a very petulant man, I declare I am almost out of patience with Mr. Everett's endless importunity. It seems like he not only writes all the letters he can himself, but gets everybody else in Louisville and vicinity to be constantly writing to us about his claim. I have always said that Mr. Everett is a very clever fellow, and I am very sorry he cannot be obliged; but it does seem to me he ought to know we are interested to collect his claim, and therefore would do it if we could.
I wish you could find out from Everett what he would want, on top of a discharge, to take his business away from us and hand it over to someone else. Right now, it's impossible to collect money on that or any other claim here, and even though you know I'm not usually an impatient person, I have to say I'm almost out of patience with Mr. Everett's constant pestering. It feels like he writes as many letters as he can himself and gets everyone else in Louisville and the surrounding area to keep messaging us about his claim. I've always said that Mr. Everett is a smart guy, and I'm really sorry he can't be helped; but it seems to me he should realize we're interested in collecting his claim, so we would do it if we could.
I am neither joking nor in a pet when I say we would thank him to transfer his business to some other, without any compensation for what we have done, provided he will see the court cost paid, for which we are security.
I’m not joking or messing around when I say we’d appreciate it if he could move his business elsewhere, without compensating us for what we’ve done, as long as he takes care of the court costs, for which we are responsible.
The sweet violet you enclosed came safely to hand, but it was so dry, and mashed so flat, that it crumbled to dust at the first attempt to handle it. The juice that mashed out of it stained a place in the letter, which I mean to preserve and cherish for the sake of her who procured it to be sent. My renewed good wishes to her in particular, and generally to all such of your relations who know me.
The sweet violet you sent arrived safely, but it was so dry and crushed flat that it crumbled to dust the moment I tried to handle it. The juice that came out of it stained a spot on the letter, which I plan to keep and cherish for the sake of the person who had it sent. Please send my best wishes to her specifically, and to all your relatives who know me.
As ever,
As always,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Springfield, Ill., July 4, 1842.
Springfield, IL, July 4, 1842.
Dear Speed,—Yours of the 16th June was received only a day or two since. It was not mailed at Louisville till the 25th. You speak of the great time that has elapsed since I wrote you. Let me explain that. Your letter reached here a day or two after I had started on the circuit. I was gone five or six weeks, so that I got the letters only a few weeks before Butler started to your country. I thought it scarcely worth while to write you the news which he could and would tell you more in detail. On his return, he told me you would write me soon, and so I waited for your letter. As to my having been displeased with your advice, surely you know better than that. I know you do, and therefore will not labor to convince you. True, that subject is painful to me; but it is not your silence, or the silence of all the world, that can make me forget it. I acknowledge the correctness of your advice too; but, before I resolve to do the one thing or the other, I must gain my confidence in my own ability to keep my resolves when they are made. In that ability you know I once prided myself, as the only or chief gem of my character: that gem I lost, how and where you know too well. I have not yet regained it; and, until I do, I cannot trust myself in any matter of much importance. I believe now, that, had you understood my case at the time as well as I understood yours afterwards, by the aid you would have given me I should have sailed through clear; but that does not now afford me sufficient confidence to begin that or the like of that again.
Dear Speed, — I received your letter dated June 16 just a day or two ago. It wasn't mailed in Louisville until the 25th. You're right about the long wait since I wrote to you. Let me explain. Your letter got here a day or two after I had left on the circuit. I was away for five or six weeks, so I only got the letters a few weeks before Butler headed to your area. I figured it wasn't worth writing you about the news that he could tell you in more detail. When he returned, he mentioned that you would write to me soon, so I held off on my reply. As for any displeasure on my part regarding your advice, you surely know better than that. I know you do, which is why I won't bother trying to convince you otherwise. It's true that the subject is painful for me, but neither your silence nor the silence of the world can help me forget it. I acknowledge that your advice was correct, but before I can decide to take action in any direction, I need to rebuild my confidence in my ability to follow through on my decisions. I used to take pride in that ability as the main strength of my character; it’s something I lost, and you know how and where. I still haven’t regained it, and until I do, I can’t trust myself with anything significant. I now believe that if you had understood my situation at the time as well as I understood yours later on, the help you would have given me would have allowed me to navigate through it smoothly. However, that doesn’t give me enough confidence to start that or anything similar again.
You make a kind acknowledgment of your obligations to me for your present happiness. I am much pleased with that acknowledgment. But a thousand times more am I pleased, to know that you enjoy a degree of happiness worthy of an acknowledgment. The truth is, I am not sure that there was any went with me in the part I took in your difficulty: I was drawn to it as by fate. If I would, I could not have done less than I did. I always was superstitious: I believe God made me one of the instruments of bringing your Fanny and you together, which union I have no doubt he had fore-ordained. Whatever he designs, he will do for me yet. "Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord" is my text just now. If, as you say, you have told Fanny all, I should have no objection to her seeing this letter, but for its reference to our friend here: let her seeing it depend upon whether she has ever known any thing of my affairs; and, if she has not, do not let her.
You kindly acknowledge your debt to me for your current happiness, and I'm really glad to hear that. But I am even more delighted to know that you have found a level of happiness that truly deserves recognition. Honestly, I'm not sure if my involvement in your troubles played a significant role; it felt almost destined. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have done less than I did. I've always been a bit superstitious; I believe God made me one of the means to bring you and Fanny together, a union I’m sure He had planned from the start. Whatever His plans are, He will still come through for me. "Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord" is what I'm holding onto right now. If, as you said, you've told Fanny everything, I wouldn't mind her seeing this letter, except for its mention of our friend here: let it be up to her understanding of my situation. If she doesn’t know anything about it, then please keep it from her.
I do not think I can come to Kentucky this season. I am so poor, and make so little headway in the world, that I drop back in a month of idleness as much as I gain in a year's sowing. I should like to visit you again. I should like to see that "sis" of yours that was absent when I was there, though I suppose she would run away again, if she were to hear I was coming.
I don't think I can make it to Kentucky this season. I'm really struggling financially and make so little progress in life that I lose in a month of doing nothing what I gain in a whole year of hard work. I'd love to visit you again. I'd like to see that sister of yours who wasn't there when I visited, although I guess she would run away again if she found out I was coming.
My respects and esteem to all your friends there, and, by your permission, my love to your Fanny. Ever yours, Lincoln.
My best wishes and respect to all your friends there, and, if you don’t mind, my love to your Fanny. Always yours, Lincoln.
Springfield, Oct. 5, 1842.
Springfield, Oct. 5, 1842.
Dear Speed,—You have heard of my duel with Shields, and I have now to inform you that the duelling business still rages in this city. Day before yesterday Shields challenged Butler, who accepted, and proposed fighting next morning at sunrising in Bob Allen's meadow, one hundred yards' distance, with rifles. To this Whitesides, Shields's second, said "no," because of the law. Thus ended duel No. 2. Yesterday Whiteside chose to consider himself insulted by Dr. Merryman, so sent him a kind of quasi-challenge, inviting him to meet him at the Planter's House in St. Louis, on the next Friday, to settle their difficulty. Merryman made me his friend, and sent W. a note, inquiring to know if he meant his note as a challenge, and, if so, that he would, according to the law in such case made and provided, prescribe the terms of the meeting. W. returned for answer, that, if M. would meet him at the Planter's House as desired, he would challenge him. M. replied in a note, that he denied W.'s right to dictate time and place, but that he (M.) would waive the question of time, and meet him at Louisiana, Mo. Upon my presenting this note to W., and stating verbally its contents, he declined receiving it, saying he had business in St. Louis, and it was as near as Louisiana. Merryman then directed me to notify Whiteside that he should publish the correspondence between them, with such comments as he thought fit. This I did. Thus it stood at bedtime last night. This morning Whiteside, by his friend Shields, is praying for a new trial, on the ground that he was mistaken in Merryman's proposition to meet him at Louisiana, Mo., thinking it was the State of Louisiana. This Merryman hoots at, and is preparing his publication; while the town is in a ferment, and a street-fight somewhat anticipated.
Dear Speed,—You’ve probably heard about my duel with Shields, and I have to let you know that the dueling situation is still intense in this city. The day before yesterday, Shields challenged Butler, who accepted and suggested they fight the next morning at sunrise in Bob Allen's meadow, at a distance of one hundred yards, using rifles. Whitesides, Shields’s second, objected because of the law. And so, duel No. 2 ended there. Yesterday, Whitesides decided he was insulted by Dr. Merryman, so he sent him a sort of quasi-challenge, inviting him to meet at the Planter's House in St. Louis the following Friday to resolve their conflict. Merryman made me his mediator and sent W. a note asking if he meant his note as a challenge, and if so, that he would, following the law, lay out the terms for the meeting. W. replied that if M. would meet him at the Planter's House as he wanted, he would officially challenge him. M. responded in a note, stating he denied W.'s right to set the time and place, but that he (M.) would drop the timing issue and would meet him in Louisiana, Mo. When I brought this note to W. and explained its contents, he refused to accept it, saying he had business in St. Louis, and that Louisiana was just as close. Merryman then instructed me to let Whitesides know that he intended to publish their correspondence along with any comments he deemed appropriate. I did that. That was the situation at bedtime last night. This morning, Whitesides, through his friend Shields, is asking for a retrial, claiming he misunderstood Merryman's suggestion to meet in Louisiana, Mo., thinking it was the state of Louisiana. Merryman is laughing at this and getting ready for his publication, while the town is buzzing with anticipation of a street fight.
But I began this letter, not for what I have been writing, but to say something on that subject which you know to be of such infinite solicitude to me. The immense sufferings you endured from the first days of September till the middle of February you never tried to conceal from me, and I well understood. You have now been the husband of a lovely woman nearly eight months. That you are happier now than the day you married her, I well know; for without you could not be living. But I have your word for it, too, and the returning elasticity of spirits which is manifested in your letters. But I want to ask a close question, "Are you now in feeling, as well as judgment, glad you are married as you are?" From anybody but me this would be an impudent question, not to be tolerated; but I know you will pardon it in me. Please answer it quickly, as I am impatient to know.
But I started this letter, not for what I’ve been writing, but to talk about that topic which you know is so incredibly important to me. The immense pain you went through from the beginning of September until mid-February was never hidden from me, and I understood it well. You’ve now been married to a wonderful woman for almost eight months. I know you’re happier now than you were on your wedding day; without that, you wouldn’t be thriving. But I also have your word on it and the renewed energy reflected in your letters. However, I want to ask you a direct question: "Are you genuinely feeling glad about being married, not just in your mind but in your heart?" From anyone else, this would be an inappropriate question, but I know you’ll forgive me for asking. Please answer it quickly, as I’m eager to know.
I have sent my love to your Fanny so often, I fear she is getting tired of it. However, I venture to tender it again,
I have sent my love to your Fanny so often that I worry she might be getting tired of it. Still, I’m willing to offer it again,
Yours forever,
Always yours,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
In the last of these letters, Mr. Lincoln refers to his "duel with Shields." That was another of the disagreeable consequences which flowed from his fatal entanglement with Mary. Not content with managing a timid, although half-frantic and refractory, lover, her restless spirit led her into new fields of adventure. Her pen was too keen to be idle in the political controversies of the time. As a satirical writer, she had no rival of either sex at Springfield, and few, we venture to say, anywhere else. But that is a dangerous talent: the temptations to use it unfairly are numerous and strong; it inflicts so much pain, and almost necessarily so much injustice, upon those against whom it is directed, that its possessor rarely, if ever, escapes from a controversy without suffering from the desperation it provokes. Mary Todd was not disposed to let her genius rust for want of use; and, finding no other victim handy, she turned her attention to James Shields, "Auditor." She had a friend, one Miss Jayne, afterwards Mrs. Trumbull, who helped to keep her literary secrets, and assisted as much as she could in worrying the choleric Irishman. Mr. Francis, the editor, knew very well that Shields was "a fighting-man;" but the "pieces" sent him by the wicked ladies were so uncommonly rich in point and humor, that he yielded to a natural inclination, and printed them, one and all. Below we give a few specimens:—
In the last of these letters, Mr. Lincoln talks about his "duel with Shields." That was another one of the unpleasant outcomes stemming from his complicated relationship with Mary. Not satisfied with dealing with a nervous yet somewhat desperate and defiant lover, her restless spirit pushed her into new adventures. Her writing was too sharp to be idle in the political debates of the time. As a satirical writer, she had no equal, whether male or female, in Springfield, and we dare say, few anywhere else. But that's a risky talent: the temptations to wield it unfairly are abundant and strong; it causes a lot of pain—and often substantial injustice—to those it targets, so its holder rarely escapes a dispute without feeling the fallout it ignites. Mary Todd wasn't inclined to let her talent go to waste; and, with no other target available, she set her sights on James Shields, "Auditor." She had a friend, Miss Jayne, who later became Mrs. Trumbull, who helped keep her literary endeavors secret and did what she could to irritate the hot-tempered Irishman. Mr. Francis, the editor, was well aware that Shields was "a fighting man"; however, the "pieces" sent to him by the mischievous ladies were so incredibly clever and funny that he gave in to a natural urge and published them all. Below we provide a few examples:—
LETTER FROM THE LOST TOWNSHIPS.
Letter from the abandoned towns.
Lost Townships, Aug. 27, 1842.
Lost Townships, Aug. 27, 1842.
Dear Mr. Printer,—I see you printed that long letter I sent you a spell ago: I'm quite encouraged by it, and can't keep from writing again. I think the printing of my letters will be a good thing all round,—it will give me the benefit of being known by the world, and give the world the advantage of knowing what's going on in the Lost Townships, and give your paper respectability besides. So here comes another. Yesterday afternoon I hurried through cleaning up the dinner-dishes, and stepped over to Neighbor S——, to see if his wife Peggy was as well as mought be expected, and hear what they called the baby. Well, when I got there, and just turned round the corner of his log-cabin, there he was setting on the doorstep reading a newspaper.
Dear Mr. Printer,—I noticed you printed that long letter I sent you a while ago: I'm really encouraged by it and can't help but write to you again. I believe that printing my letters will be beneficial for everyone—it will give me a chance to be known by the world, allow the world to learn what's happening in the Lost Townships, and also add some respectability to your paper. So here's another one. Yesterday afternoon, I quickly finished cleaning up the dinner dishes and stopped by Neighbor S—— to check on his wife Peggy and see how she's doing, as well as to find out what they named the baby. Well, when I arrived and just turned the corner of his log cabin, there he was sitting on the doorstep reading a newspaper.
"How are you, Jeff?" says I. He sorter started when he heard me, for he hadn't seen me before.
"How are you, Jeff?" I said. He kind of jumped when he heard me since he hadn't seen me before.
"Why," says he, "I'm mad as the devil, Aunt'Becca!"
"Why," he says, "I'm as mad as the devil, Aunt Becca!"
"What about?" says I: "ain't its hair the right color? None of that nonsense, Jeff: there ain't an honester woman in the Lost Townships than"—
"What about?" I said. "Isn't its hair the right color? No nonsense, Jeff: there's not a more honest woman in the Lost Townships than"—
"Than who?" says he: "what the mischief are you about?"
"Than who?" he says. "What on earth are you doing?"
I began to see I was running the wrong trail, and so says I, "Oh! nothing: I guess I was mistaken a little, that's all. But what is it you're mad about?" "Why," says he, "I've been tugging ever since harvest getting out wheat and hauling it to the river, to raise State-Bank paper enough to pay my tax this year, and a little school-debt I owe; and now, just as I've got it, here I open this infernal 'Extra Register,' expecting to find it full of 'Glorious Democratic Victories' and 'High-Comb'd Cocks,' when, lo and behold! I find a set of fellows calling themselves officers of State have forbidden the tax-collectors and school-commissioners to receive State paper at all; and so here it is, dead on my hands. I don't now believe all the plunder I've got will fetch ready cash enough to pay my taxes and that school-debt."
I started to realize I was on the wrong path, so I said, "Oh! It's nothing: I guess I just made a little mistake, that's all. But what are you mad about?" He replied, "Well, I've been working hard ever since harvest, getting out wheat and hauling it to the river to raise enough state banknotes to pay my taxes this year and a little school debt I owe; and now, just when I finally have it, I open this damn 'Extra Register,' expecting to see it filled with 'Glorious Democratic Victories' and 'High-Comb'd Cocks,' when, to my surprise, I find a group of guys calling themselves state officers have told the tax collectors and school commissioners not to accept state paper at all; and so now it's worthless in my hands. I honestly don't think all the stuff I have will get me enough cash to cover my taxes and that school debt."
I was a good deal thunderstruck myself; for that was the first I had heard of the proclamation, and my old man was pretty much in the same fix with Jeff. We both stood a moment staring at one another, without knowing what to say. At last says I, "Mr. S———, let me look at that paper." He handed it to me, when I read the proclamation over.
I was really taken aback too; that was the first I heard about the proclamation, and my dad was pretty much in the same situation as Jeff. We both paused for a moment, staring at each other, not knowing what to say. Finally, I said, "Mr. S———, can I see that paper?" He handed it to me, and I read the proclamation.
"There, now," says he, "did you ever see such a piece of impudence and imposition as that?" I saw Jeff was in a good tune for saying some ill-natured things, and so I tho't I would just argue a little on the contrary side, and make him rant a spell if I could.
"There, now," he says, "have you ever seen such a display of rudeness and deceit as that?" I could tell Jeff was in the mood to say some harsh things, so I thought I would argue a bit on the opposite side and see if I could get him to rant for a while.
"Why," says I, looking as dignified and thoughtful as I could, "it seems pretty tough, to be sure, to have to raise silver where there's none to be raised; but then, you see, 'there will be danger of loss' if it ain't done."
"Why," I said, trying to look as dignified and thoughtful as possible, "it definitely seems tough to expect to get silver where there's none to be found; but you see, 'there will be a risk of loss' if it isn't done."
"Loss, damnation 1" says he. "I defy Daniel Webster, I defy King Solomon, I defy the world,—I defy—I defy—yes, I defy even you, Aunt'Becca, to show how the people can lose any thing by paying their taxes in State paper."
"Loss, damnation 1," he says. "I challenge Daniel Webster, I challenge King Solomon, I challenge the world—I challenge—I challenge—even you, Aunt Becca, to explain how people can lose anything by paying their taxes with state-issued money."
"Well," says I, "you see what the officers of State say about it, and they are a desarnin' set of men. But," says I, "I guess you're mistaken about what the proclamation says. It don't say the people will lose any thing by the paper money being taken for taxes. It only says 'there will be danger of loss;' and though it is tolerable plain that the people can't lose by paying their taxes in something they can get easier than silver, instead of having to pay silver; and though it is just as plain that the State can't lose by taking State-Bank paper, however low it may be, while she owes the bank more than the whole revenue, and can pay that paper over on her debt, dollar for dollar,—still there is danger of loss to the 'officers of State;' and you know, Jeff, we can't get along without officers of State."
"Well," I said, "you see what the state officials think about it, and they’re a pretty clever group. But," I continued, "I think you’re wrong about what the proclamation says. It doesn’t say the people will lose anything by using paper money to pay their taxes. It just says 'there will be a risk of loss;' and even though it’s pretty clear that the people can’t lose by paying their taxes with something they can obtain more easily than silver, instead of having to use silver; and it’s just as obvious that the state can’t lose by accepting State-Bank paper, no matter how low its value is, when it owes the bank more than its total revenue and can pay that paper off against its debt, dollar for dollar—there is still a risk of loss for the 'state officials;' and you know, Jeff, we can’t function without state officials."
"Damn officers of State!" says he: "that's what you Whigs are always hurrahing for."
"Damn government officials!" he says. "That's what you Whigs are always cheering for."
"Now, don't swear so, Jeff," says I: "you know I belong to the meetin', and swearin' hurts my feelins'."
"Now, don't curse like that, Jeff," I said. "You know I'm part of the meeting, and swearing really bothers me."
"Beg pardon, Aunt'Becca," says he; "but I do say it's enough to make Dr. Goddard swear, to have tax to pay in silver, for nothing only that Ford may get his two thousand a year, and Shields his twenty-four hundred a year, and Carpenter his sixteen hundred a year, and all without 'danger of loss' by taking it in State paper. Yes, yes: it's plain enough now what these officers of State mean by 'danger of loss.' Wash, I s'pose, actually lost fifteen hundred dollars out of the three thousand that two of these 'officers of State' let him steal from the treasury, by being compelled to take it in State paper. Wonder if we don't have a proclamation before long commanding us to make up this loss to Wash in silver."
"Excuse me, Aunt Becca," he says; "but honestly, it’s enough to make Dr. Goddard curse to have to pay taxes in silver, just so Ford can get his two thousand a year, Shields his twenty-four hundred a year, and Carpenter his sixteen hundred a year, all without the 'risk of loss' that comes from taking it in State paper. Yes, yes: it’s pretty clear now what these State officials mean by 'risk of loss.' I bet Wash actually lost fifteen hundred dollars out of the three thousand that two of these 'State officials' let him take from the treasury by forcing him to accept it in State paper. I wonder if we’ll see a proclamation soon demanding that we make up this loss to Wash in silver."
And so he went on till his breath run out, and he had to stop. I couldn't think of any thing to say just then; and so I begun to look over the paper again. "Ay! here's another proclamation, or something like it."
And so he kept going until he ran out of breath and had to stop. I couldn't think of anything to say at that moment, so I started to look over the paper again. "Oh! Here's another proclamation, or something like that."
"Another!" says Jeff; "and whose egg is it, pray?"
"Another!" says Jeff. "And whose egg is it, I wonder?"
I looked to the bottom of it, and read aloud, "Your obedient servant, Jas. Shields, Auditor."
I looked at the bottom of it and read aloud, "Your obedient servant, Jas. Shields, Auditor."
"Aha!" says Jeff, "one of them same three fellows again. Well, read it, and let's hear what of it."
"Aha!" says Jeff, "it's those same three guys again. Well, read it, and let’s see what it says."
I read on till I came to where it says, "The object of this measure is to suspend the collection of the revenue for the current year."
I kept reading until I reached the part that says, "The purpose of this measure is to pause the collection of revenue for the current year."
"Now stop, now stop!" says he: "that's a lie a'ready, and I don't want to hear of it."
"Now stop, now stop!" he says. "That's already a lie, and I don't want to hear about it."
"Oh! maybe not," says I.
"Oh! maybe not," I say.
"I say it—is—a—lie. Suspend the collection, indeed! Will the collectors, that have taken their oaths to make the collection, dare to suspend it? Is there any thing in the law requiring them to perjure themselves at the bidding of James Shields? Will the greedy gullet of the penitentiary be satisfied with swallowing him instead of all them, if they should venture to obey him? And would he not discover some 'danger of loss,' and be off, about the time it came to taking their places?
"I say it's a lie. Suspend the collection? Really? Do the collectors, who have sworn to carry out the collection, dare to stop it? Is there anything in the law that requires them to perjure themselves just because James Shields said so? Will the hungry maw of the penitentiary be satisfied with just swallowing him instead of all of them if they decide to obey him? And wouldn't he find some 'danger of loss' and bail when it came time to take their positions?"
"And suppose the people attempt to suspend, by refusing to pay, what then? The collectors would just jerk up their horses and cows, and the like, and sell them to the highest bidder for silver in hand, without valuation or redemption. Why, Shields didn't believe that story himself: it was never meant for the truth. If it was true, why was it not writ till five days after the proclamation? Why didn't Carlin and Carpenter sign it as well as Shields? Answer me that, Aunt'Becca. I say it's a lie, and not a well-told one at that. It grins out like a copper dollar. Shields is a fool as well as a liar. With him truth is out of the question; and, as for getting a good bright passable lie out of him, you might as well try to strike fire from a cake of tallow. I stick to it, it's all an infernal Whig lie!"
"And what if the people try to avoid payment by refusing to pay? What then? The collectors would just pull up their horses and cattle, and things like that, and sell them to the highest bidder for cash, without any appraisal or chance of getting them back. Honestly, Shields didn’t buy that story either: it was never meant to be taken seriously. If it were true, why wasn't it written until five days after the proclamation? Why didn’t Carlin and Carpenter sign it too, alongside Shields? Answer me that, Aunt'Becca. I say it’s a lie, and not even a well-crafted one at that. It stands out like a copper coin. Shields is a fool as well as a liar. For him, truth doesn’t matter; and trying to get a decent, believable lie out of him is like trying to spark a fire from a block of tallow. I’m convinced it’s all an awful Whig lie!"
"A Whig lie! Highty tighty!"
"A Whig lie! Right on!"
"Yes, a Whig lie; and it's just like every thing the cursed British Whigs do. First they'll do some divilment, and then they'll tell a lie to hide it. And they don't care how plain a lie it is: they think they can cram any sort of a one down the throats of the ignorant Locofocos, as they call the Democrats."
"Yeah, a Whig lie; just like everything those damn British Whigs do. First, they cause some trouble, then they lie to cover it up. And they don't care how obvious the lie is; they think they can shove any kind of lie down the throats of the clueless Locofocos, as they call the Democrats."
"Why, Jeff, you're crazy: you don't mean to say Shields is a Whig!"
"Why, Jeff, you're nuts: you can't be saying Shields is a Whig!"
"Yes, I do."
"Yes, I do."
"Why, look here! the proclamation is in your own Democratic paper, as you call it."
"Hey, check it out! The announcement is in your own Democratic newspaper, as you like to call it."
"I know it; and what of that? They only printed it to let us Democrats see the deviltry the Whigs are at."
"I get it; so what? They just published it to show us Democrats the tricks the Whigs are up to."
"Well, but Shields is the auditor of this Loco—I mean this Democratic State."
"Well, Shields is the auditor of this Loco—I mean this Democratic State."
"So he is, and Tyler appointed him to office."
"So he is, and Tyler put him in charge."
"Tyler appointed him?"
"Tyler hired him?"
"Yes (if you must chaw it over), Tyler appointed him; or, if it wasn't him, it was old Granny Harrison, and that's all one. I tell you, Aunt'Becca, there's no mistake about his being a Whig. Why, his very looks shows it,—every thing about him shows it: if I was deaf and blind, I could tell him by the smell. I seed him when I was down in Springfield last winter. They had a sort of a gatherin' there one night among the grandees, they called a fair. All the gals about town was there; and all the handsome widows and married women, finickin' about, trying to look like gals, tied as tight in the middle, and puffed out at both ends, like bundles of fodder that hadn't been stacked yet, but wanted stackin' pretty bad. And then they had tables all round the house kivered over with [ ] caps, and pincushions, and ten thousand such little knick-knacks, tryin' to sell'em to the fellows that were bowin' and scrapin' and kungeerin' about'em. They wouldn't let no Democrats in, for fear they'd disgust the ladies, or scare the little gals, or dirty the floor. I looked in at the window, and there was this same fellow Shields floatin' about on the air, without heft or earthly substance, just like a lock of cat-fur where cats had been fightin'.
"Yeah (if you have to think about it), Tyler picked him; or if it wasn't him, it was old Granny Harrison, and that’s the same thing. I’m telling you, Aunt Becca, there’s no doubt he’s a Whig. Just looking at him proves it—everything about him shows it: if I were deaf and blind, I’d still know him by the smell. I saw him when I was down in Springfield last winter. They had some kind of gathering there one night among the important people, they called it a fair. All the girls in town were there; and all the attractive widows and married women, fussing around, trying to look like girls, all cinched in the middle and puffed out on both ends, like bundles of hay that hadn’t been stacked yet but really needed to be. They had tables all around the house covered with caps, pincushions, and a thousand little trinkets, trying to sell them to the guys who were bowing and scraping around them. They wouldn’t let any Democrats in, for fear they’d offend the ladies, scare the little girls, or mess up the floor. I looked in the window, and there was that same guy Shields floating around like he was made of air, without any weight or substance, just like a clump of cat fur after a catfight."
"He was paying his money to this one, and that one, and t'other one, and sufferin' great loss because it wasn't silver instead of State paper; and the sweet distress he seemed to be in,—his very features, in the ecstatic agony of his soul, spoke audibly and distinctly, 'Dear girls, it is distressing, but I cannot marry you all. Too well I know how much you suffer; but do, do remember, it is not my fault that I am so handsome and so interesting.'
"He was handing his money over to this one, that one, and the other one, and suffering a huge loss because it wasn’t silver but state paper; and the sweet distress he seemed to be in—his very face, in the ecstatic agony of his soul, shouted clearly and distinctly, 'Dear girls, it’s heartbreaking, but I can’t marry you all. I know how much you’re hurting; but please, please remember, it’s not my fault that I’m so handsome and so interesting.'”
"As this last was expressed by a most exquisite contortion of his face, he seized hold of one of their hands, and squeezed, and held on to it about a quarter of an hour. 'O my good fellow!' says I to myself, 'if that was one of our Democratic gals in the Lost Townships, the way you'd get a brass pin let into you, would be about up to the head.' He a Democrat! Fiddlesticks! I tell you, Aunt'Becca, he's a Whig, and no mistake: nobody but a Whig could make such a conceity dunce of himself."
"As this last was shown by a really exaggerated expression on his face, he grabbed one of their hands, squeezed it, and held on for about fifteen minutes. 'Oh my good friend!' I thought to myself, 'if that were one of our Democratic girls in the Lost Townships, you'd be looking at a serious fight.' He a Democrat! Nonsense! I'm telling you, Aunt'Becca, he's a Whig, no doubt about it: no one but a Whig could be such a self-important fool."
"Well," says I, "maybe he is; but, if he is, I'm mistaken the worst sort. Maybe so, maybe so; but, if I am, I'll suffer by it; I'll be a Democrat if it turns out that Shields is a Whig; considerin' you shall be a Whig if he turns out a Democrat."
"Well," I said, "maybe he is; but if he is, I’ve seriously misjudged things. Maybe, maybe; but if I’m wrong, I’ll deal with it; I’ll be a Democrat if Shields turns out to be a Whig, just like you’ll be a Whig if he ends up being a Democrat."
"A bargain, by jingoes!" says he; "but how will we find out?"
"A deal, for goodness' sake!" he says; "but how are we going to figure it out?"
"Why," says I, "we'll just write, and ax the printer."
"Why," I said, "we'll just write and ask the printer."
"Agreed again!" says he; "and, by thunder! if it does turn out that Shields is a Democrat, I never will"—
"Agreed again!" he says; "and, by god! if it turns out that Shields is a Democrat, I never will"—
"Jefferson,—Jefferson"—
"Jefferson, Jefferson"—
"What do you want, Peggy?"
"What do you want, Peggy?"
"Do get through your everlasting clatter sometime, and bring me a gourd of water: the child's been crying for a drink this live-long hour."
"Please get through your constant noise sometime and bring me a jug of water: the kid has been crying for a drink for this entire hour."
"Let it die, then: it may as well die for water as to be taxed to death to fatten officers of State."
"Let it die, then: it might as well die for water than be drained dry to support government officials."
Jeff run off to get the water, though, just like he hadn't been sayin' any thing spiteful; for he's a raal good-hearted fellow, after all, once you get at the foundation of him.
Jeff ran off to get the water, acting like he hadn't said anything mean; because he's a really good-hearted guy, after all, once you get to know him.
I walked into the house, and "Why, Peggy," says I, "I declare, we like to forgot you altogether."
I walked into the house, and "Wow, Peggy," I said, "I swear, we almost forgot about you completely."
"Oh, yes!" says she, "when a body can't help themselves, everybody soon forgets'em; but, thank God! by day after to-morrow I shall be well enough to milk the cows, and pen the calves, and wring the contrary ones' tails for'em, and no thanks to nobody."
"Oh, yes!" she says, "When someone can't help themselves, everyone forgets about them quickly; but, thank God! by the day after tomorrow, I’ll be well enough to milk the cows, pen the calves, and wring the tails of the stubborn ones for them, and no thanks to anyone."
"Good-evening, Peggy," says I; and so I sloped, for I seed she was mad at me for making Jeff neglect her so long.
"Good evening, Peggy," I said; and then I took off, because I saw she was upset with me for making Jeff ignore her for so long.
And now, Mr. Printer, will you be sure to let us know in your next paper whether this Shields is a Whig or a Democrat? I don't care about it for myself, for I know well enough how it is already; but I want to convince Jeff. It may do some good to let him, and others like him, know who and what those officers of State are. It may help to send the present hypocritical set to where they belong, and to fill the places they now disgrace with men who will do more work for less pay, and take a fewer airs while they are doing it. It ain't sensible to think that the same men who get us into trouble will change their course; and yet it's pretty plain, if some change for the better is not made, it's not long that either Peggy or I, or any of us, will have a cow left to milk, or a calf's tail to wring.
And now, Mr. Printer, can you please let us know in your next paper whether this Shields is a Whig or a Democrat? I don’t really care for myself, because I already know how it is; but I want to convince Jeff. It might help to let him, and others like him, know who these state officials really are. It could help get the current hypocritical group out of office and replace them with people who will do more work for less pay and carry themselves with more humility while doing it. It doesn’t make sense to think that the same people who got us into this mess will suddenly change their ways; and yet it’s pretty clear that if we don’t make some positive changes soon, neither Peggy nor I, or any of us, will have a cow to milk or a calf’s tail to wring.
Yours, truly,
Sincerely,
Rebecca———.
Rebecca.
Lost Townships, Sept. 8,1842. Dear Mr. Printer,—I was a-standin' at the spring yesterday a-washin' out butter, when I seed Jim Snooks a-ridin' up towards the house for very life like, when, jist as I was a wonderin' what on airth was the matter with him, he stops suddenly, and ses he, "Aunt'Becca, here's somethin' for you;" and with that he hands out your letter. Well, you see I steps out towards him, not thinkin' that I had both hands full of butter; and seein' I couldn't take the letter, you know, without greasin' it, I ses, "Jim, jist you open it, and read it for me." Well, Jim opens it, and reads it; and would you believe it, Mr. Editor? I was so completely dumfounded, and turned into stone, that there I stood in the sun, a-workin' the butter, and it a-runnin' on the ground, while he read the letter, that I never thunk what I was about till the hull on't run melted on the ground, and was lost. Now, sir, it's not for the butter, nor the price of the butter, but, the Lord have massy on us, I wouldn't have sich another fright for a whole firkin of it. Why, when I found out that it was the man what Jeff seed down to the fair that had demanded the author of my letters, threatnin' to take personal satisfaction of the writer, I was so skart that I tho't I should quill-wheel right where I was.
Lost Townships, Sept. 8, 1842. Dear Mr. Printer,—I was standing at the spring yesterday washing out butter when I saw Jim Snooks riding up towards the house looking really anxious. Just as I was wondering what on earth was wrong with him, he suddenly stopped and said, "Aunt Becca, here's something for you;" and with that, he handed me your letter. Well, I stepped out towards him, not realizing I had both hands full of butter. Since I couldn’t take the letter without getting it greasy, I said, "Jim, just open it and read it for me." So, Jim opened it and read it; and would you believe it, Mr. Editor? I was so completely shocked and frozen in place that there I stood in the sun, working the butter while it ran onto the ground, and I didn’t realize what I was doing until it all melted away and was lost. Now, sir, it’s not about the butter or its price, but, my goodness, I wouldn’t want such a fright again for a whole barrel of it. When I found out it was the man that Jeff saw at the fair who had demanded the author of my letters, threatening to take personal revenge on the writer, I was so scared I thought I might faint right there.
You say that Mr. S. is offended at being compared to cat's fur, and is as mad as a March hare (that ain't far), because I told about the squeezin'. Now, I want you to tell Mr. S, that, rather than fight, I'll make any apology; and, if he wants personal satisfaction, let him only come here, and he may squeeze my hand as hard as I squeeze the butter, and, if that ain't personal satisfaction, I can only say that he is the fust man that was not satisfied with squeezin' my hand. If this should not answer, there is one thing more that I would do rather than get a lickin'. I have all along expected to die a widow; but, as Mr. S. is rather good-looking than otherwise, I must say I don't care if we compromise the matter by—really, Mr. Printer, I can't help blushin'—but I—it must come out—I—but widowed modesty—well, if I must, I must—wouldn't he—maybe sorter, let the old grudge drap if I was to consent to be—be—h-i-s w-i-f-e? I know he's a fightin' man, and would rather fight than eat; but isn't marryin' better than fightin', though it does sometimes run into it? And I don't think, upon the whole, that I'd be sich a bad match neither: I'm not over sixty, and am just four feet three in my bare feet, and not much more round the girth; and for color, I wouldn't turn my back to nary gal in the Lost Townships. But, after all, maybe I'm countin' my chickins before they' re hatched, and dreamin' of matrimonial bliss when the only alternative reserved for me may be a lickin'. Jeff tells me the way these fire-eaters do is to give the challenged party choice of weapons, &c., which bein' the case, I'll tell you in confidence that I never fights with any thing but broomsticks, or hot water, or a shovelful of coals, or some such thing; the former of which being somewhat like a shillalah, may not be very objectionable to him. I will give him choice, however, in one thing, and that is, whether, when we fight, I shall wear breeches or he petticoats; for I presume that change is sufficient to place us on an equality.
You say Mr. S. is upset about being compared to cat fur and is as mad as a March hare (which isn’t far off) because I talked about the squeezing. Now, I want you to tell Mr. S. that instead of fighting, I’ll make any apology; and if he wants personal satisfaction, he should just come here, and he can squeeze my hand as hard as I squeeze the butter, and if that isn't personal satisfaction, I can only say he’s the first man who wasn’t satisfied with squeezing my hand. If that doesn't work, there’s one more thing I’d do rather than get a beating. I’ve always expected to die a widow; but since Mr. S. is somewhat good-looking, I have to say I don’t mind compromising the situation by—really, Mr. Printer, I can’t help but blush—but it has to come out—I—but widow modesty—well, if I must, I must—wouldn't he—maybe sort of, let the old grudge drop if I were to agree to be—be—his wife? I know he’s a fighter and would rather fight than eat; but isn’t marrying better than fighting, even if it sometimes leads to that? And on the whole, I don’t think I’d be such a bad match either: I’m not over sixty, I’m just four feet three in my bare feet, and not much more around the waist; and for looks, I wouldn’t be ashamed to stand next to any girl in the Lost Townships. But, after all, maybe I’m counting my chickens before they’re hatched, dreaming of marriage bliss when the only alternative might be a beating. Jeff tells me that the way these hotheads work is to give the challenged person a choice of weapons, and since that’s the case, I’ll share in confidence that I only fight with broomsticks, or hot water, or a shovel full of coals, or something like that; the broomstick being somewhat like a shillelagh, might not be too objectionable to him. However, I will give him a choice in one thing: whether I should wear pants or he should wear a skirt when we fight, because I assume that change is enough to put us on equal ground.
Yours, &c.
Yours, etc.
Rebecca———.
Rebecca.
P. S.—Jist say to your friend, if he concludes to marry rather than fight, I shall only inforce one condition: that is, if he should ever happen to gallant any young gals home of nights from our house, he must not squeeze their hands.
P. S.—Just tell your friend, if he decides to marry instead of fighting, I only have one condition: if he ever happens to take any young girls home at night from our house, he must not squeeze their hands.
It is by no means a subject of wonder that these publications threw Mr. James Shields into a state of wrath. A thin-skinned, sensitive, high-minded, and high-tempered man, tender of his honor, and an Irishman besides, it would have been strange indeed, if he had not felt like snuffing blood. But his rage only afforded new delights to his tormentors; and when it reached its height, "Aunt'Becca" transformed herself to "Cathleen," and broke out in rhymes like the following, which Miss Jayne's brother "Bill" kindly consented to "drop" for the amiable ladies.
It's no surprise that these publications made Mr. James Shields furious. He was a thin-skinned, sensitive, principled, and hot-tempered man who cared deeply about his honor, and being Irish, it would have been odd if he hadn't wanted to react violently. But his anger only provided more entertainment for those who taunted him; and when his rage peaked, "Aunt'Becca" turned into "Cathleen" and expressed herself in rhymes like the following, which Miss Jayne's brother "Bill" kindly agreed to share for the lovely ladies.
[For The Journal.] Ye Jew's-harps awake! The A———s won: Rebecca the widow has gained Erin's son; The pride of the North from Emerald Isle Has been wooed and won by a woman's smile. The combat's relinquished, old loves all forgot: To the widow he's bound. Oh, bright be his lot! In the smiles of the conquest so lately achieved, Joyful be his bride, "widowed modesty" relieved. The footsteps of time tread lightly on flowers, May the cares of this world ne'er darken his hours! But the pleasures of life are fickle and coy As the smiles of a maiden sent off to destroy. Happy groom! in sadness, far distant from thee, The Fair girls dream only of past times of glee Enjoyed in thy presence; whilst the soft blarnied store Will be fondly remembered as relics of yore, And hands that in rapture you oft would have prest In prayer will be clasped that your lot may be blest. Cathleen.
[For The Journal.] Hey, jaw harps, wake up! The A———s have triumphed: Rebecca, the widow, has won Erin's son; The pride of the North from the Emerald Isle Has been charmed and won by a woman's smile. The battle is done, old loves are forgotten: He's now devoted to the widow. Oh, may his fortunes be bright! In the joy of his recent victory, May his bride be happy, her "widowed modesty" eased. Time moves gently over flowers; May the worries of this world never cloud his days! But the joys of life are unpredictable and fleeting, Like the smiles of a maiden destined to say goodbye. Happy groom! In sadness, far from you, The lovely girls can only dream of joyful times Shared in your company; while the sweet flattery Will be cherished as treasures of the past, And hands that you often held in joy Will be joined in prayer that your life may be blessed. Cathleen.
It was too bad. Mr. Shields could stand it no longer. He sent Gen. Whiteside to Mr. Francis, to demand the name of the person who wrote the letters from the "Lost Townships;" and Mr. Francis told him it was A. Lincoln. This information led to a challenge, a sudden scampering off of parties and friends to Missouri, a meeting, an explanation, and a peaceful return.
It was unfortunate. Mr. Shields could tolerate it no longer. He sent Gen. Whiteside to Mr. Francis to demand the name of the person who wrote the letters from the "Lost Townships," and Mr. Francis told him it was A. Lincoln. This information led to a challenge, a quick rush of individuals and friends to Missouri, a meeting, an explanation, and a peaceful return.
Abraham Lincoln in the field of honor, sword in hand, manoeuvred by a second learned in the duello, would be an attractive spectacle under any circumstances. But with a celebrated man for an antagonist, and a lady's humor the occasion, the scene is one of transcendent interest; and the documents which describe it are well entitled to a place in his history. The letter of Mr. Shields's second, being first in date, is first in order.
Abraham Lincoln on the battlefield, sword in hand, directed by a second skilled in the duello, would be an appealing sight in any situation. However, with a famous opponent and a lady's feelings at stake, the scene becomes incredibly captivating; the documents that detail it deserve to be included in his history. The letter from Mr. Shields's second, being the earliest, comes first in order.
Springfield, Oct. 3, 1842. To the Editor op "The Sangamon Journal."
Springfield, Oct. 3, 1842. To the Editor of "The Sangamon Journal."
Sir,—To prevent misrepresentation of the recent affair between Messrs. Shields and Lincoln, I think it proper to give a brief narrative of the facts of the case, as they came within my knowledge; for the truth of which I hold myself responsible, and request you to give the same publication. An offensive article in relation to Mr. Shields appeared in "The Sangamon Journal" of the 2d September last; and, on demanding the author, Mr. Lincoln was given up by the editor. Mr. Shields, previous to this demand, made arrangements to go to Quincy on public business; and before his return Mr. Lincoln had left for Tremont, to attend the court, with the intention, as we learned, of remaining on the circuit several weeks. Mr. Shields, on his return, requested me to accompany him to Tremont; and, on arriving there, we found that Dr. Merryman and Mr. Butler had passed us in the night, and got there before us. We arrived in Tremont on the 17th ult.; and Mr. Shields addressed a note to Mr. Lincoln immediately, informing him that he was given up as the author of some articles that appeared in "The Sangamon Journal" (one more over the signature having made its appearance at this time), and requesting him to retract the offensive allusions contained in said articles in relation to his private character. Mr. Shields handed this note to me to deliver to Mr. Lincoln, and directed me, at the same time, not to enter into any verbal communication, or be the bearer of any verbal explanation, as such were always liable to misapprehension. This note was delivered by me to Mr. Lincoln, stating, at the same time, that I would call at his convenience for an answer. Mr. Lincoln, in the evening of the same day, handed me a letter addressed to Mr. Shields. In this he gave or offered no explanation, but stated therein that he could not submit to answer further, on the ground that Shields's note contained an assumption of facts and also a menace. Mr. Shields then addressed him another note, in which he disavowed all intention to menace, and requested to know whether he (Mr. Lincoln) was the author of either of the articles which appeared in "The Journal," headed "Lost Townships," and signed "Rebecca;" and, if so, he repeated his request of a retraction of the offensive matter in relation to his private character; if not, his denial would be held sufficient. This letter was returned to Mr. Shields unanswered, with a verbal statement "that there could be no further negotiation between them until the first note was withdrawn." Mr. Shields thereupon sent a note designating me as his friend, to which Mr. Lincoln replied by designating Dr. Merryman. These three last notes passed on Monday morning, the 19th. Dr. Merryman handed me Mr. Lincoln's last note when by ourselves. I remarked to Dr. Merryman that the matter was now submitted to us, and that I would propose that he and myself should pledge our words of honor to each other to try to agree upon terms of amicable arrangement, and compel our principals to accept of them. To this he readily assented, and we shook hands upon the pledge. It was then mutually agreed that we should adjourn to Springfield, and there procrastinate the matter, for the purpose of effecting the secret arrangement between him and myself. All this I kept concealed from Mr. Shields. Our horse had got a little lame in going to Tremont, and Dr. Merryman invited me to take a seat in his buggy. I accepted the invitation the more readily, as I thought, that leaving Mr. Shields in Tremont until his horse would be in better condition to travel would facilitate the private agreement between Dr. Merryman and myself. I travelled to Springfield part of the way with him, and part with Mr. Lincoln; but nothing passed between us on the journey in relation to the matter in hand. We arrived in Springfield on Monday night. About noon on Tuesday, to my astonishment, a proposition was made to meet in Missouri, within three miles of Alton, on the next Thursday! The weapons, cavalry broadswords of the largest size; the parties to stand on each side of a barrier, and to be confined to a limited space. As I had not been consulted at all on the subject, and considering the private understanding between Dr. Merryman and myself, and it being known that Mr. Shields was left at Tremont, such a proposition took me by surprise. However, being determined not to violate the laws of the State, I declined agreeing upon the terms until we should meet in Missouri. Immediately after, I called upon Dr. Merryman, and withdrew the pledge of honor between him and myself in relation to a secret arrangement. I started after this to meet Mr. Shields, and met him about twenty miles from Springfield. It was late on Tuesday night when we both reached the city, and learned that Dr. Merryman had left for Missouri, Mr. Lincoln having left before the proposition was made, as Dr. Merryman had himself informed me. The time and place made it necessary to start at once. We left Springfield at eleven o'clock on Tuesday night, travelled all night, and arrived in Hillsborough on Wednesday morning, where we took in Gen. Ewing. From there we went to Alton, where we arrived on Thursday; and, as the proposition required three friends on each side, I was joined by Gen. Ewing and Dr. Hope, as the friends of Mr. Shields.
Sir,—To avoid any misrepresentation of the recent issue between Messrs. Shields and Lincoln, I think it's appropriate to provide a brief account of the facts as I know them, for which I take full responsibility, and I ask you to publish this. An offensive article regarding Mr. Shields appeared in "The Sangamon Journal" on September 2nd; when Mr. Lincoln was sought as the author, the editor confirmed it was him. Before this demand, Mr. Shields had planned to go to Quincy on public business; by the time he returned, Mr. Lincoln had already gone to Tremont for court, intending to stay on the circuit for several weeks. Upon his return, Mr. Shields asked me to go with him to Tremont; when we arrived, we found that Dr. Merryman and Mr. Butler had passed us during the night and had already arrived. We got to Tremont on the 17th of last month, and Mr. Shields wrote to Mr. Lincoln immediately, letting him know that he was identified as the author of some articles in "The Sangamon Journal" (with another article signed by a different name also appearing at this time), and asking him to retract the offensive comments regarding his private character. Mr. Shields entrusted me with this note to deliver to Mr. Lincoln, instructing me not to engage in any verbal discussions or carry any verbal explanations, as those could easily be misinterpreted. I delivered this note to Mr. Lincoln and mentioned that I would return at his convenience for a response. Later that same evening, Mr. Lincoln gave me a letter for Mr. Shields. In this letter, he did not provide any explanations but stated that he could not provide further answers because Shields's note contained assumptions and a threat. Mr. Shields then sent Mr. Lincoln another note, in which he denied any intention to threaten and asked whether Mr. Lincoln authored either of the articles in "The Journal" titled "Lost Townships" and signed "Rebecca," and if he did, he reiterated his request for a retraction of the offensive comments about his private character; if not, he would take Mr. Lincoln's denial as sufficient. This letter was returned unanswered to Mr. Shields, along with a verbal statement that there could be no further negotiation until the first note was withdrawn. Mr. Shields then sent a note designating me as his friend, to which Mr. Lincoln replied by designating Dr. Merryman. These last three exchanges occurred on Monday morning, the 19th. Dr. Merryman handed me Mr. Lincoln's last note when we were alone. I suggested to Dr. Merryman that we would take this matter into our hands and that we should pledge to each other to work out an amicable arrangement and compel our principals to accept it. He agreed readily, and we shook hands on the pledge. We then agreed to head to Springfield and delay the matter there to work on a private agreement between us. I kept all of this hidden from Mr. Shields. Our horse had gotten a bit lame on the way to Tremont, and Dr. Merryman invited me to ride in his buggy. I accepted, thinking that leaving Mr. Shields in Tremont until his horse was in better shape would help facilitate the private deal between Dr. Merryman and me. I traveled part of the way to Springfield with him and part with Mr. Lincoln, but we didn't talk about the matter at all during the journey. We arrived in Springfield on Monday night. To my surprise, around noon on Tuesday, a proposition was made to meet in Missouri, within three miles of Alton, that Thursday! The weapons would be large cavalry broadswords, with the parties standing on either side of a barrier and confined to a limited space. Since I hadn't been consulted at all about this, and considering the private understanding between Dr. Merryman and me, and knowing that Mr. Shields was left at Tremont, this proposal surprised me. Nevertheless, determined not to break the state's laws, I declined to agree on the terms until we met in Missouri. Immediately afterward, I spoke to Dr. Merryman and withdrew the pledge of honor that we made regarding a secret arrangement. I then set out to meet Mr. Shields and found him about twenty miles from Springfield. It was late Tuesday night when we both got to the city, where we learned that Dr. Merryman had left for Missouri, and Mr. Lincoln had departed before the proposal was made, as Dr. Merryman had informed me. The timing and location made it urgent to leave at once. We left Springfield at eleven o'clock Tuesday night, traveled all night, and arrived in Hillsborough Wednesday morning, where we picked up Gen. Ewing. From there we continued to Alton, arriving there on Thursday; and since the proposal required three friends on each side, I had General Ewing and Dr. Hope join me as Mr. Shields's friends.
We then crossed to Missouri, where a proposition was made by Gen. Hardin and Dr. English (who had arrived there in the mean time as mutual friends) to refer the matter to, I think, four friends for a settlement. This I believed Mr. Shields would refuse, and declined seeing him; but Dr. Hope, who conferred with him upon the subject, returned, and stated that Mr. Shields declined settling the matter through any other than the friends he had selected to stand by him on that occasion. The friends of both the parties finally agreed to withdraw the papers (temporarily) to give the friends of Mr. Lincoln an opportunity to explain. Whereupon the friends of Mr. Lincoln, to wit, Messrs. Merryman, Bledsoe, and Butler, made a full and satisfactory explanation in relation to the article which appeared in "The Sangamon Journal" of the 2d, the only one written by him. This was all done without the knowledge or consent of Mr. Shields; and he refused to accede to it until Dr. Hope, Gen. Ewing, and myself declared the apology sufficient, and that we could not sustain him in going further. I think it necessary to state further, that no explanation or apology had been previously offered on the part of Mr. Lincoln to Mr. Shields, and that none was ever communicated by me to him, nor was any ever offered to me, unless a paper read to me by Dr. Merryman after he had handed me the broadsword proposition on Tuesday. I heard so little of the reading of the paper, that I do not know fully what it purported to be; and I was the less inclined to inquire, as Mr. Lincoln was then gone to Missouri, and Mr. Shields not yet arrived from Tremont. In fact, I could not entertain any offer of the kind, unless upon my own responsibility; and that I was not disposed to do after what had already transpired.
We then crossed into Missouri, where General Hardin and Dr. English, who had become mutual friends in the meantime, suggested we refer the issue to four friends for resolution. I believed Mr. Shields would refuse this and I chose not to meet with him; however, Dr. Hope, who discussed it with him, came back and said that Mr. Shields would only settle the matter through the friends he had chosen to support him at that time. The friends from both sides eventually agreed to temporarily withdraw the papers to give Mr. Lincoln's friends a chance to explain. Consequently, Mr. Lincoln's friends, specifically Messrs. Merryman, Bledsoe, and Butler, provided a complete and satisfactory explanation regarding the article published in "The Sangamon Journal" on the 2nd, the only piece he wrote. This was all done without Mr. Shields' knowledge or consent, and he refused to accept it until Dr. Hope, General Ewing, and I stated that the apology was sufficient and that we could not support him in pursuing it further. I think it's important to add that no explanation or apology had been offered by Mr. Lincoln to Mr. Shields prior to this, and I never communicated any to him, nor was any offered to me, except for a document Dr. Merryman read to me after he presented me the broadsword proposal on Tuesday. I heard so little of the reading that I don’t know what it fully entailed, and I was less inclined to ask, as Mr. Lincoln had already gone to Missouri, and Mr. Shields had not yet arrived from Tremont. In fact, I couldn't consider any offer like that unless it was on my own terms, and I wasn't willing to do that given what had already happened.
I make this statement, as I am about to be absent for some time, and I think it due to all concerned to give a true version of the matter before I leave.
I’m making this statement because I’m going to be away for a while, and I feel it’s fair to everyone involved to provide an accurate account of the situation before I go.
Your obedient servant,
Sincerely,
John D. Whiteside.
John D. Whiteside.
To which Mr. Merryman replied:—
Mr. Merryman replied:—
Springfield, Oct. 8, 1842.
Springfield, Oct. 8, 1842.
Editors of "The Journal."
Editors of "The Journal."
Gents,—By your paper of Friday, I discover that Gen. Whiteside has published his version of the late affair between Messrs. Shields and Lincoln. I now bespeak a hearing of my version of the same affair, which shall be true and full as to all material facts.
Gents,—From your paper on Friday, I see that Gen. Whiteside has shared his take on the recent incident between Messrs. Shields and Lincoln. I would like to request the opportunity to present my version of the same incident, which will be accurate and complete regarding all important facts.
On Friday evening, the 16th of September, I learned that Mr. Shields and Gen. Whiteside had started in pursuit of Mr. Lincoln, who was at Tremont, attending court. I knew that Mr. Lincoln was wholly unpractised both as to the diplomacy and weapons commonly employed in similar affairs; and I felt it my duty, as a friend, to be with him, and, so far as in my power, to prevent any advantage being taken of him as to either his honor or his life. Accordingly, Mr. Butler and myself started, passed Shields and Whiteside in the night, and arrived at Tremont ahead of them on Saturday morning. I told Mr. Lincoln what was brewing, and asked him what course he proposed to himself. He stated that he was wholly opposed to duelling, and would do any thing to avoid it that might not degrade him in the estimation of himself and friends; but, if such degradation or a fight were the only alternative, he would fight.
On Friday evening, September 16th, I found out that Mr. Shields and Gen. Whiteside had set out to confront Mr. Lincoln, who was in Tremont for court. I knew that Mr. Lincoln had little experience with the tactics and weapons typically used in such situations, and I felt it was my responsibility, as a friend, to be with him and, as much as I could, to prevent anyone from taking advantage of him regarding his honor or his life. So, Mr. Butler and I left, passed Shields and Whiteside during the night, and arrived in Tremont ahead of them on Saturday morning. I told Mr. Lincoln what was happening and asked him what he planned to do. He said he was completely against dueling and would do anything to avoid it that wouldn’t compromise his self-respect or that of his friends; however, if either losing that respect or fighting was the only option left, he would choose to fight.
In the afternoon Shields and Whiteside arrived, and very soon the former sent to Mr. Lincoln by the latter the following note or letter:—
In the afternoon, Shields and Whiteside arrived, and shortly after, Shields sent a note or letter to Mr. Lincoln through Whiteside:—
Tremont, Sept. 17,1842.
Tremont, Sept. 17, 1842.
A. Lincoln, Esq.—I regret that my absence on public business compelled me to postpone a matter of private consideration a little longer than I could have desired. It will only be necessary, however, to account for it by informing you that I have been to Quincy on business that would not admit of delay. I will now state briefly the reasons of my troubling you with this communication, the disagreeable nature of which I regret, as I had hoped to avoid any difficulty with any one in Springfield while residing there, by endeavoring to conduct myself in such a way amongst both my political friends and opponents, as to escape the necessity of any. Whilst thus abstaining from giving provocation, I have become the object of slander, vituperation, and personal abuse, which, were I capable of submitting to, I would prove myself worthy of the whole of it.
A. Lincoln, Esq.—I'm sorry that my work commitments made me postpone a personal matter longer than I wanted to. I just need to explain that I had to go to Quincy for urgent business. Now, let me briefly explain why I'm bothering you with this communication, which I regret is unpleasant, as I hoped to avoid any issues with anyone in Springfield while living there. I’ve tried to conduct myself in a way that would keep me out of conflict with both my political allies and opponents. However, despite not provoking anyone, I've become a target of slander, insults, and personal attacks, which, if I were to accept, would mean I deserve all of it.
In two or three of the last number's of "The Sangamon Journal," articles of the most personal nature, and calculated to degrade me, have made their appearance. On inquiring, I was informed by the editor of that paper, through the medium of my friend, Gen. Whiteside, that you are the author of those articles. This information satisfies me that I have become, by some means or other, the object of your secret hostility. I will not take the trouble of inquiring into the reason of all this; but I will take the liberty of requiring a full, positive, and absolute retraction of all offensive allusions used by you in these communications, in relation to my private character and standing as a man, as an apology for the insults conveyed in them.
In the last couple of issues of "The Sangamon Journal," there have been articles of a very personal nature that seem aimed at discrediting me. When I asked about this, the editor informed my friend, Gen. Whiteside, that you are the one behind those articles. This makes it clear to me that I have somehow become the target of your hidden animosity. I won’t bother investigating the reasons behind this, but I do want to formally request a complete, clear, and undeniable retraction of all negative comments you made about my personal character and reputation as a man as a way to apologize for the slights in those articles.
This may prevent consequences which no one will regret more than myself.
This might prevent outcomes that no one will regret more than I will.
Your ob't serv't,
Your obedient servant,
[Copy.] Jas. Shields.
[Copy.] Jas. Shields.
About sunset Gen. Whiteside called again, and received from Mr. Lincoln the following answer to Mr. Shields's note:—
About sunset, General Whiteside called again and received the following response from Mr. Lincoln regarding Mr. Shields's note:—
Tremont, Sept. 17, 1812
Tremont, Sept. 17, 1812
Jas. Shields, Esq.—Your note of to-day was handed me by Gen. Whiteside. In that note, you say you have been informed, through the medium of the editor of "The Journal," that I am the author of certain articles in that paper which you deem personally abusive of you; and, without stopping to inquire whether I really am the author, or to point out what is offensive in them, you demand an unqualified retraction of all that is offensive, and then proceed to hint at consequences.
Jas. Shields, Esq.—I received your note today from Gen. Whiteside. In your note, you mention that you've heard from the editor of "The Journal" that I wrote some articles in that paper that you find personally offensive; without checking if I'm actually the author or discussing what specifically bothers you, you demand a complete retraction of everything you've taken offense to, and then you suggest there could be repercussions.
Now, sir, there is in this so much assumption of facts, and so much of menace as to consequences, that I cannot submit to answer that note any further than I have, and to add, that the consequence to which I suppose you allude would be matter of as great regret to me as it possibly could to you. Respectfully,
Now, sir, there is so much presumption in this, along with a lot of threatening implications about the outcomes, that I can't respond to that note any more than I already have. I will add that the consequence you're referring to would cause me just as much regret as it would for you. Respectfully,
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln
In about an hour Gen. Whiteside called again with another note from Mr. Shields; but after conferring with Mr. Butler for a long time, say two or three hours, returned without presenting the note to Mr. Lincoln. This was in consequence of an assurance from Mr. Butler that Mr. Lincoln could not receive any communication from Mr. Shields, unless it were a withdrawal of his first note, or a challenge. Mr. Butler further stated to Gen. Whiteside, that, on the withdrawal of the first note, and a proper and gentlemanly request for an explanation, he had no doubt one would be given. Gen. Whiteside admitted that that was the course Mr. Shields ought to pursue, but deplored that his furious and intractable temper prevented his having any influence with him to that end. Gen. W. then requested us to wait with him until Monday morning, that he might endeavor to bring Mr. Shields to reason.
About an hour later, Gen. Whiteside called again with another message from Mr. Shields. After discussing it with Mr. Butler for quite a while, around two or three hours, he returned without showing the note to Mr. Lincoln. This was because Mr. Butler assured him that Mr. Lincoln couldn’t accept any message from Mr. Shields unless it was either a withdrawal of his first note or a challenge. Mr. Butler also told Gen. Whiteside that if Mr. Shields withdrew the first note and made a proper and respectful request for an explanation, he was confident one would be given. Gen. Whiteside agreed that this was the right way for Mr. Shields to proceed, but lamented that his angry and stubborn nature prevented him from having any influence over him to make that happen. Gen. W. then asked us to wait with him until Monday morning so he could try to persuade Mr. Shields to be reasonable.
On Monday morning he called and presented Mr. Lincoln the same note as, Mr. Butler says, he had brought on Saturday evening. It was as follows:—
On Monday morning, he called and gave Mr. Lincoln the same note that Mr. Butler claims he had brought on Saturday evening. It was as follows:—
Tremont, Sept. 17, 1842.
Tremont, Sep 17, 1842.
A. Lincoln, Esq.—In your reply to my note of this date, you intimate that I assume facts and menace consequences, and that you cannot submit to answer it further. As now, sir, you desire it, I will be a little more particular. The editor of "The Sangamon Journal" gave me to understand that you are the author of an article which appeared, I think, in that paper of the 2d September inst., headed "The Lost Townships," and signed Rebecca or 'Becca. I would therefore take the liberty of asking whether you are the author of said article, or any other over the same signature which has appeared in any of the late numbers of that paper. If so, I repeat my request of an absolute retraction of all offensive allusion contained therein in relation to my private character and standing. If you are not the author of any of the articles, your denial will be sufficient. I will say further, it is not my intention to menace, but to do myself justice.
A. Lincoln, Esq.—In your reply to my note dated today, you suggest that I make assumptions and threaten consequences, and that you can't continue to respond to it. Now, sir, since you wish it, I will be a bit clearer. The editor of "The Sangamon Journal" informed me that you wrote an article that appeared, I believe, in that paper on September 2nd, titled "The Lost Townships," and signed Rebecca or 'Becca. Therefore, I would like to ask if you are the author of that article, or any others under the same signature that have appeared in recent issues of that paper. If so, I reiterate my request for a complete retraction of all offensive references regarding my personal character and reputation. If you are not the author of any of these articles, your denial will be enough. I want to clarify that it’s not my intention to threaten, but to seek justice for myself.
Your ob't serv't,
Your obedient servant,
[Copy.] Jas. Shields.
[Copy] Jas. Shields.
This Mr. Lincoln perused, and returned to Gen. Whiteside, telling him verbally, that he did not think it consistent with his honor to negotiate for peace with Mr. Shields, unless Mr. Shields would withdraw his former offensive letter.
This Mr. Lincoln read and then returned to Gen. Whiteside, telling him in person that he didn’t think it was right to negotiate for peace with Mr. Shields unless Mr. Shields would take back his earlier offensive letter.
In a very short time Gen. Whiteside called with a note from Mr. Shields, designating Gen. Whiteside as his friend, to which Mr. Lincoln instantly replied, designating me as his. On meeting Gen. Whiteside, he proposed that we should pledge our honor to each other that we would endeavor to settle the matter amicably; to which I agreed, and stated to him the only conditions on which it could be so settled; viz., the withdrawal of Mr. Shields's first note; which he appeared to think reasonable, and regretted that the note had been written,—saying, however, that he had endeavored to prevail on Mr. Shields to write a milder one, but had not succeeded. He added, too, that I must promise not to mention it, as he would not dare to let Mr. Shields know that he was negotiating peace; for, said he, "He would challenge me next, and as soon cut my throat as not." Not willing that he should suppose my principal less dangerous than his own, I promised not to mention our pacific intentions to Mr. Lincoln or any other person; and we started for Springfield forthwith.
In no time, Gen. Whiteside arrived with a note from Mr. Shields, naming Gen. Whiteside as his friend. Mr. Lincoln quickly replied, designating me as his friend. When I met Gen. Whiteside, he suggested that we pledge our honor to each other to try to resolve the issue amicably, and I agreed. I explained the only condition for a resolution: the withdrawal of Mr. Shields's first note. He seemed to find that reasonable and regretted that the note had been sent, mentioning that he had tried to convince Mr. Shields to write a gentler one but failed. He also insisted that I promise not to mention this, saying he couldn't let Mr. Shields know he was negotiating peace, because "He would challenge me next, and would just as soon cut my throat." Not wanting him to think my situation was less risky than his, I promised not to share our peaceful intentions with Mr. Lincoln or anyone else, and we set off for Springfield immediately.
We all, except Mr. Shields, arrived in Springfield late at night on Monday. We discovered that the affair had, somehow, got great publicity in Springfield, and that an arrest was probable. To prevent this, it was agreed by Mr. Lincoln and myself that he should leave early on Tuesday morning. Accordingly, he prepared the following instructions for my guide, on a suggestion from Mr. Butler that he had reason to believe that an attempt would be made by the opposite party to have the matter accommodated:—
We all, except for Mr. Shields, got to Springfield late at night on Monday. We found out that the whole situation had somehow gained a lot of attention in Springfield, and that an arrest was likely. To avoid this, Mr. Lincoln and I agreed that he should leave early on Tuesday morning. So, he wrote the following instructions for my guide, based on Mr. Butler's suggestion that he believed the opposing side would try to resolve the issue:—
In case Whiteside shall signify a wish to adjust this affair without further difficulty, let him know, that, if the present papers be withdrawn, and a note from Mr. Shields asking to know if I am the author of the articles of which he complains, and asking that I shall make him gentlemanly satisfaction if I am the author, and this without menace or dictation as to what that satisfaction shall be, a pledge is made that the following answer shall be given:—
If Whiteside wants to resolve this matter without any more issues, let him know that if the current documents are retracted, and Mr. Shields sends a note asking if I am the author of the articles he is complaining about, and asks for a polite resolution from me if I am the author, without any threats or demands about what that resolution should entail, then a commitment will be made to provide the following response:—
"I did write the 'Lost Township' letter which appeared in the 'Journal' of the 2d inst., but had no participation in any form in any other article alluding to you. I wrote that wholly for political effect. I had no intention of injuring your personal or private character, or standing as a man or a gentleman; and I did not then think, and do not now think, that that article could produce, or has produced, that effect against you; and, had I anticipated such an effect, would have forborne to write it. And I will add, that your conduct towards me, so far as I knew, had always been gentlemanly, and that I had no personal pique against you, and no cause for any."
"I did write the 'Lost Township' letter that appeared in the 'Journal' on the 2nd of this month, but I didn't take part in any other article mentioning you. I wrote that solely for political reasons. I never intended to harm your personal or private reputation, or your standing as a man or gentleman; and I believed then, as I do now, that that article couldn't have, and didn't have, that kind of negative impact on you; and if I had thought it would, I wouldn't have written it. I'll also say that your behavior towards me, as far as I knew, has always been courteous, and I have no personal grudge against you, nor any reason to."
If this should be done, I leave it with you to manage what shall and what shall not be published.
If this is to be done, I trust you to decide what should and shouldn’t be published.
If nothing like this is done, the preliminaries of the fight are to be:—
If nothing like this is done, the preliminaries of the fight will be:—
1st, Weapons.—Cavalry broadswords of the largest size, precisely equal in all respects, and such as now used by the cavalry company at Jacksonville.
1st, Weapons.—Cavalry broadswords of the largest size, exactly equal in all respects, and the same as those currently used by the cavalry company in Jacksonville.
2d, Position.—A plank ten feet long, and from nine to twelve inches broad, to be firmly fixed on edge on the ground as the line between us, which neither is to pass his foot over upon forfeit of his life. Next, a line drawn on the ground on either side of said plank and parallel with it, each at the distance of the whole length of the sword and three feet additional from the plank; and the passing of his own such line by either party during the fight shall be deemed a surrender of the contest.
2d, Position.—A plank ten feet long and nine to twelve inches wide should be securely placed on its edge on the ground, serving as the boundary line between us, which neither of us is allowed to cross, under the penalty of death. Next, a line should be marked on the ground on either side of the plank and parallel to it, each at the distance of a full sword length plus an additional three feet from the plank; if either party crosses their respective line during the fight, it will be considered a forfeit of the contest.
3d, Time.—On Thursday evening at 5 o'clock, if you can get it so; but in no case to be at a greater distance of time than Friday evening at 5 o'clock.
3d, Time.—On Thursday evening at 5 o'clock, if you can manage it; but under no circumstances should it be later than Friday evening at 5 o'clock.
4th, Place.—Within three miles of Alton, on the opposite side of the river, the particular spot to be agreed on by you.
4th Place.—Located within three miles of Alton, on the other side of the river, the exact location will be determined by you.
Any preliminary details coming within the above rules, you are at liberty to make at your discretion; but you are in no case to swerve from these rules, or to pass beyond their limits.
Any preliminary details that fall within the above rules are up to you to decide; however, you must not deviate from these rules or exceed their limits.
In the course of the forenoon I met Gen. Whiteside, and he again intimated a wish to adjust the matter amicably. I then read to him Mr. Lincoln's instructions to an adjustment, and the terms of the hostile meeting, if there must be one, both at the same time.
In the morning, I ran into General Whiteside, and he once again expressed a desire to resolve the issue peacefully. I then shared with him President Lincoln's guidance for a resolution and the terms of the conflict, should it have to happen, all at once.
He replied that it was useless to talk of an adjustment, if it could only be effected by the withdrawal of Mr. Shields's paper, for such withdrawal Mr. Shields would never consent to; adding, that he would as soon think of asking Mr. Shields to "butt his brains out against a brick wall as to withdraw that paper." He proceeded: "I see but one course,—that is a desperate remedy:'tis to tell them, if they will not make the matter up, they must fight us." I replied, that, if he chose to fight Mr. Shields to compel him to do right, he might do so; but as for Mr. Lincoln, he was on the defensive, and, I believed, in the right, and I should do nothing to compel him to do wrong. Such withdrawal having been made indispensable by Mr. Lincoln, I cut this matter short as to an adjustment, an I proposed to Gan. Whiteside to accept the terms of the fight, which he refused to do until Mr. Shields's arrival in town, but agreed, verbally, that Mr. Lincoln's friends should procure the broadswords, and take them to the ground. In the afternoon he came to me, saying that some persons were swearing out affidavits to have us arrested, and that he intended to meet Mr. Shields immediately, and proceed to the place designated; lamenting, however, that I would not delay the time, that he might procure the interference of Gov. Ford and Gen. Ewing to mollify Mr. Shields. I told him that an accommodation, except upon the terms I mentioned, was out of the question; that to delay the meeting was to facilitate our arrest; and, as I was determined not to be arrested, I should leave town in fifteen minutes. I then pressed his acceptance of the preliminaries, which he disclaimed upon the ground that it would interfere with his oath of office as Fund Commissioner. I then, with two other friends, went to Jacksonville, where we joined Mr. Lincoln about 11 o'clock on Tuesday night. Wednesday morning we procured the broadswords, and proceeded to Alton, where we arrived about 11, A.M., on Thursday. The other party were in town before us. We crossed the river, and they soon followed. Shortly after, Gen. Hardin and Dr. English presented to Gen. Whiteside and myself the following note:—
He responded that there was no point in discussing a resolution if it could only happen by having Mr. Shields withdraw his paper, which Mr. Shields would never agree to. He added that he would rather ask Mr. Shields to "slam his head against a brick wall" than to withdraw that paper. He continued: "There's only one option—it's a desperate one: to tell them that if they won’t settle this, they’ll have to fight us." I replied that if he wanted to fight Mr. Shields to force him to act rightly, he could go ahead, but as for Mr. Lincoln, he was defending himself, and I believed he was right, so I wouldn’t do anything to push him to act wrongly. Since Mr. Lincoln had made such withdrawal necessary, I cut the discussion of resolution short and suggested to Gen. Whiteside that we accept the terms of the fight, which he refused to do until Mr. Shields arrived in town, but verbally agreed that Mr. Lincoln's friends should get the broadswords and bring them to the site. In the afternoon, he came to me saying that some people were swearing out affidavits to have us arrested, and he planned to meet Mr. Shields right away and head to the designated spot. However, he lamented that I wouldn’t postpone the meeting so he could get Governor Ford and General Ewing to intercede with Mr. Shields. I told him that any resolution, except on the terms I’d mentioned, was off the table; delaying the meeting would only help in our arrest, and since I was determined not to be arrested, I was leaving town in fifteen minutes. I then pressed him to accept the preliminaries, which he rejected, claiming it would conflict with his oath of office as Fund Commissioner. I then, along with two other friends, went to Jacksonville, where we met up with Mr. Lincoln around 11 o'clock on Tuesday night. On Wednesday morning, we got the broadswords and headed to Alton, where we arrived around 11 AM on Thursday. The other group was in town before us. We crossed the river, and they soon followed. Shortly after, General Hardin and Dr. English presented a note to General Whiteside and me:—
Alton, Sept. 22, 1842.
Alton, Sept. 22, 1842.
Messrs. Whiteside and Merryman.—As the mutual personal friends of Messrs. Shields and Lincoln, but without authority from either, we earnestly desire to see a reconciliation of the misunderstanding which exists between them. Such difficulties should always be arranged amicably, if it is possible to do so with honor to both parties.
Messrs. Whiteside and Merryman.—As mutual personal friends of Messrs. Shields and Lincoln, but without any authority from either of them, we strongly hope to see a resolution to the misunderstanding between them. Such issues should always be settled amicably, if it's possible to do so while maintaining honor for both sides.
Believing ourselves, that such an arrangement can possibly be effected, we respectfully, but earnestly, submit the following proposition for your consideration:—
Believing that this arrangement can actually be made, we respectfully, yet sincerely, present the following proposal for your consideration:—
Let the whole difficulty be submitted to four or more gentlemen, to be selected by yourselves, who shall consider the affair, and report thereupon for your consideration.
Let the entire issue be handed over to four or more gentlemen, chosen by you, who will look into the matter and provide a report for your review.
John J. Hardin.
John Hardin.
E. W. English.
E. W. English.
To this proposition Gen. Whiteside agreed: I declined doing so without consulting Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Lincoln remarked, that, as they had accepted the proposition, he would do so, but directed that his friends should make no terms except those first proposed. Whether the adjustment was finally made upon these very terms, and no other, let the following documents attest:—
To this proposal, General Whiteside agreed: I refused to proceed without discussing it with Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Lincoln noted that since they had accepted the proposal, he would go ahead, but instructed that his associates should not negotiate any terms other than those initially suggested. Whether the agreement was ultimately reached on those exact terms, and no others, let the following documents confirm:—
Missouri, Sept. 22, 1842.
Missouri, Sept. 22, 1842.
Gentlemen,—All papers in relation to the matter in controversy between Mr. Shields and Mr. Lincoln having been withdrawn by the friends of the parties concerned, the friends of Mr. Shields ask the friends of Mr. Lincoln to explain all offensive matter in the articles which appeared in "The Sangamon Journal" of the 2d, 9th, and 16th of September, under the signature of "Rebecca," and headed "Lost Townships."
Gentlemen, — All documents related to the dispute between Mr. Shields and Mr. Lincoln have been withdrawn by the friends of the parties involved. Mr. Shields' friends are requesting that Mr. Lincoln's friends clarify any offensive content in the articles published in "The Sangamon Journal" on September 2nd, 9th, and 16th, signed "Rebecca," and titled "Lost Townships."
It is due to Gen. Hardin and Mr. English to state that their interference was of the most courteous and gentlemanly character.
It should be noted that Gen. Hardin and Mr. English were very polite and respectful in their involvement.
John D. Whiteside.
John D. Whiteside.
Wm. Lee D. Ewino.
Wm. Lee D. Ewino.
T. M. Hope.
T. M. Hope.
Missouri, Sept. 22, 1842.
Missouri, September 22, 1842.
Gentlemen,—All papers in relation to the matter in controversy between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Shields having been withdrawn by the friends of the parties concerned, we, the undersigned, friends of Mr. Lincoln, in accordance with your request that explanation of Mr. Lincoln's publication in relation to Mr. Shields in "The Sangamon Journal" of the 2d, 9th, and 16th of September be made, take pleasure in saying, that, although Mr. Lincoln was the writer of the article signed "Rebecca" in the "Journal" of the 2d, and that only, yet he had no intention of injuring the personal or private character or standing of Mr. Shields as a gentleman or a man, and that Mr. Lincoln did not think, nor does he now think, that said article could produce such an effect; and, had Mr. Lincoln anticipated such an effect, he would have forborne to write it. We will further state, that said article was written solely for political effect, and not to gratify any personal pique against Mr. Shields, for he had none, and knew of no cause for any It is due to Gen. Hanlin and Mr. English to say that their interference was of the most courteous and gentlemanly character.
Gentlemen,—All documents related to the dispute between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Shields have been withdrawn by their friends. We, the undersigned friends of Mr. Lincoln, in response to your request for clarification regarding Mr. Lincoln's publication about Mr. Shields in "The Sangamon Journal" on September 2nd, 9th, and 16th, are pleased to state that although Mr. Lincoln wrote the article signed "Rebecca" in the "Journal" on the 2nd, and only that article, he had no intention of harming Mr. Shields' personal or private reputation as a gentleman or individual. Mr. Lincoln did not believe, nor does he believe now, that the article could have such an impact, and had he anticipated that it might, he would not have written it. Additionally, we want to clarify that the article was written purely for political purposes and not to settle any personal grievances against Mr. Shields, as he had none and was not aware of any reason to have them. We must also acknowledge that Gen. Hanlin and Mr. English acted in a very courteous and gentlemanly manner in their involvement.
E. H. Merryman.
E.H. Merryman.
A. T. Bledsoe.
A.T. Bledsoe.
Wm. Butler.
Will Butler.
Let it be observed now, that Mr. Shields's friends, after agreeing to the arbitrament of four disinterested gentlemen, declined the contract, saying that Mr. Shields wished his own friends to act for him. They then proposed that we should explain without any withdrawal of papers. This was promptly and firmly refused, and Gen. Whiteside himself pronounced the papers withdrawn. They then produced a note requesting us to "disavow" all offensive intentions in the publications, &c., &c. This we declined answering, and only responded to the above request for an explanation.
Let it be noted that Mr. Shields's friends, after agreeing to let four impartial gentlemen settle the matter, turned down the contract, claiming that Mr. Shields wanted his own friends to represent him. They then suggested that we should explain ourselves without pulling back any documents. This was quickly and firmly rejected, and Gen. Whiteside himself declared the documents withdrawn. They then handed us a note asking us to "disavow" any offensive intentions in the publications, etc., etc. We chose not to respond to that and only replied to their earlier request for an explanation.
These are the material facts in relation to the matter, and I think present the case in a very different light from the garbled and curtailed statement of Gen. Whiteside. Why he made that statement I know not, unless he wished to detract from the honor of Mr. Lincoln. This was ungenerous, more particularly as he on the ground requested us not to make in our explanation any quotations from the "Rebecca papers;" also not to make public the terms of reconciliation, and to unite with them in defending the honorable character of the adjustment.
These are the key facts regarding the situation, and I believe they present the case in a much clearer way than Gen. Whiteside's distorted and incomplete statement. I don't know why he made that statement, unless it was to undermine Mr. Lincoln's reputation. This was unkind, especially since he specifically asked us not to include any quotes from the "Rebecca papers" in our explanation, nor to reveal the terms of reconciliation, and to work together with them to defend the integrity of the agreement.
Gen. W., in his publication, says, "The friends of both parties agreed to withdraw the papers (temporarily) to give the friends of Mr. Lincoln an opportunity to explain." This I deny. I say the papers were withdrawn to enable Mr. Shields's friends to ask an explanation; and I appeal to the documents for proof of my position.
Gen. W., in his publication, says, "The friends of both parties agreed to withdraw the papers (temporarily) to give the friends of Mr. Lincoln an opportunity to explain." I disagree with this. I say the papers were withdrawn to allow Mr. Shields's friends to ask for an explanation; and I refer to the documents as proof of my point.
By looking over these documents, it will be seen that Mr. Shields had not before asked for an explanation, but had all the time been dictatorily insisting on a retraction.
By reviewing these documents, it's clear that Mr. Shields had not previously requested an explanation, but had consistently demanded a retraction instead.
Gen. Whiteside, in his communication, brings to light much of Mr. Shields's manifestations of bravery behind the scenes. I can do nothing of the kind for Mr. Lincoln. He took his stand when I first met him at Tremont, and maintained it calmly to the last, without difficulty or difference between himself and his friends.
Gen. Whiteside, in his message, highlights many of Mr. Shields's acts of bravery behind the scenes. I can't do the same for Mr. Lincoln. He took his position when I first encountered him at Tremont and held it calmly until the end, without any trouble or disagreement between himself and his allies.
I cannot close this article, lengthy as it is, without testifying to the honorable and gentlemanly conduct of Gen. Ewing and Dr. Hope, nor indeed can I say that I saw any thing objectionable in the course of Gen. Whiteside up to the time of his communication. This is so replete with prevarication and misrepresentation, that I cannot accord to the General that candor which I once supposed him to possess. He complains that I did not procrastinate time according to agreement. He forgets that by his own act he cut me off from that chance in inducing me, by promise, not to communicate our secret contract to Mr. Lincoln. Moreover, I could see no consistency in wishing for an extension of time at that stage of the affair, when in the outset they were in so precipitate a hurry, that they could not wait three days for Mr. Lincoln to return from Tremont, but must hasten there, apparently with the intention of bringing the matter to a speedy issue. He complains, too, that, after inviting him to take a seat in my buggy, I never broached the subject to him on our route here. But was I, the defendant in the case, with a challenge hanging over me, to make advances, and beg a reconciliation? Absurd! Moreover, the valorous general forgets that he beguiled the tedium of the journey by recounting to me his exploits in many a well-fought battle,—dangers by "flood and field" in which I don't believe he ever participated,—doubtless with a view to produce a salutary effect on my nerves, and impress me with a proper notion of his fire-eating propensities.
I can't wrap up this article, long as it is, without acknowledging the honorable and gentlemanly behavior of Gen. Ewing and Dr. Hope. I also can't say that I found anything wrong with Gen. Whiteside's actions until he sent his message. His communication is so full of lies and misunderstandings that I can no longer view the General with the openness I once thought he had. He complains that I didn't delay things as we agreed. He forgets that he himself prevented that chance by promising me not to share our secret arrangement with Mr. Lincoln. Furthermore, I saw no reason to ask for an extension at that point in the situation when they were initially in such a hurry that they couldn't even wait three days for Mr. Lincoln to come back from Tremont, but rushed there instead, apparently aiming to resolve things quickly. He also says that after inviting him to sit in my buggy, I never brought up the topic during our ride here. But should I, the defendant in this case, with a challenge looming over me, make the first move and ask for a truce? That's ridiculous! Additionally, the brave general forgets that he passed the time on our journey by telling me about his feats in numerous hard-fought battles—dangerous situations he claimed to have faced, which I doubt he was ever part of—surely with the aim of easing my nerves and giving me a proper impression of his daring nature.
One more main point of his argument, and I have done. The General seems to be troubled with a convenient shortness of memory on some occasions. He does not remember that any explanations were offered at any time, unless it were a paper read when the "broadsword proposition" was tendered, when his mind was so confused by the anticipated clatter of broadswords, or something else, that he did "not know fully what it purported to be." The truth is, that by unwisely refraining from mentioning it to his principal, he placed himself in a dilemma which he is now endeavoring to shuffle out of. By his inefficiency, and want of knowledge of those laws which govern gentlemen in matters of this kind, he has done great injustice to his principal, a gentleman who I believe is ready at all times to vindicate his honor manfully, but who has been unfortunate in the selection of his friend; and this fault he is now trying to wipe out by doing an act of still greater injustice to Mr. Lincoln.
One more key point of his argument, and I'm done. The General seems to have a troubling tendency to forget things conveniently at times. He doesn’t remember any explanations being offered unless it was a paper read when the "broadsword proposition" was brought up, when his mind was so rattled by the expected noise of broadswords, or something else, that he didn’t “fully grasp what it was about.” The truth is, by foolishly not mentioning it to his superior, he put himself in a tricky position that he’s now trying to get out of. His incompetence and lack of understanding about the rules that govern gentlemen in situations like this have caused great injustice to his superior, a man who I believe is always ready to defend his honor bravely, but who has been unfortunate in his choice of friend; and this error he is now trying to resolve by committing an even greater injustice to Mr. Lincoln.
E. H. Merryman.
E.H. Merryman.
And so Mr. Lincoln acknowledged himself to have been the author of one of the "Lost Township Letters." Whether he was or not, was known only perhaps to Miss Todd and himself. At the time of their date, he was having secret meetings with her at Mr. Francis's house, and endeavoring to nerve himself to the duty of marrying her, with what success the letters to Speed are abundant evidence. It is probable that Mary composed them fresh from these stolen conferences; that some of Mr. Lincoln's original conceptions and peculiarities of style unwittingly crept into them, and that here and there he altered and amended the manuscript before it went to the printer. Such a connection with a lady's productions made it obligatory upon him to defend them. But why avow one, and disavow the rest? It is more than likely that he was determined to take just enough responsibility to fight upon, provided Shields should prove incorrigible, and not enough to prevent a peaceful issue, if the injured gentleman should be inclined to accept an apology.
And so Mr. Lincoln admitted that he was the author of one of the "Lost Township Letters." Whether he actually was or not is probably known only to Miss Todd and himself. At the time those letters were written, he was having private meetings with her at Mr. Francis's house, trying to muster the courage to marry her, as shown by the letters to Speed. It's likely that Mary wrote them right after these secret meetings; that some of Mr. Lincoln's original ideas and unique style unintentionally slipped into them, and that here and there he edited the manuscript before it was sent to the printer. His connection to a woman’s writings made it necessary for him to defend them. But why admit to one and deny the others? It’s quite possible that he intended to take just enough responsibility to be able to fight if Shields became impossible, but not so much that it would prevent a peaceful resolution, if the aggrieved gentleman was willing to accept an apology.
After his marriage, Mr. Lincoln took up his residence at the "Globe Tavern," where he had a room and boarding for man and wife for the moderate sum of four dollars per week. But, notwithstanding cheap living, he was still as poor as ever, and gave "poverty" as one of his reasons for not paying a friendly visit which seemed to be expected of him.
After getting married, Mr. Lincoln moved into the "Globe Tavern," where he had a room and meals for him and his wife for just four dollars a week. However, even with the affordable living, he was still just as broke as before and cited "poverty" as one of the reasons for not accepting a friendly visit that everyone expected him to make.
At the bar and in political affairs he continued to work with as much energy as before, although his political prospects seem just now to have suffered an unexpected eclipse. In 1843, Lincoln, Hardin, and Baker were candidates for the Whig congressional nomination; but between Hardin and Baker there was "bitter hostility," and between Baker and Lincoln "suspicion and dislike." The contest was long and fierce; but, before it was over, Lincoln reluctantly withdrew in favor of Baker. He had had a hard time of it, and had been compelled to meet accusations of a very strange character. Among other things, he was charged with being an aristocrat; with having deserted his old friends, the people, by marrying a proud woman on account of her blood and family. This hurt him keenly, and he took great pains to disprove it; but this was not all. He was called an infidel by some, a Presbyterian here, an Episcopalian there; so that by turns he incurred the hostility of all the most powerful religious societies in the district.
At the bar and in politics, he continued to work just as hard as before, even though his political future seemed to be facing an unexpected setback. In 1843, Lincoln, Hardin, and Baker were all running for the Whig congressional nomination; however, there was "bitter hostility" between Hardin and Baker, and "suspicion and dislike" between Baker and Lincoln. The battle was long and intense; but before it was over, Lincoln reluctantly withdrew in favor of Baker. He faced a tough fight and had to deal with some really strange accusations. Among other things, people claimed he was an aristocrat and that he had abandoned his old friends, the common people, by marrying a proud woman because of her lineage. This accusation hurt him deeply, and he went to great lengths to prove it wrong; but that wasn't all. He was called an infidel by some, a Presbyterian by some, and an Episcopalian by others, which meant he faced the hostility of all the major religious groups in the area.
On the 24th of March, he wrote to Mr. Speed as follows:—
On March 24th, he wrote to Mr. Speed as follows:—
Springfield, March 24, 1843.
Springfield, March 24, 1843.
Dear Speed,—... We had a meeting of the Whigs of the county here on last Monday to appoint delegates to a district convention; and Baker beat me, and got the delegation instructed to go for him. The meeting, in spite of my attempt to decline it, appointed me one of the delegates; so that, in getting Baker the nomination, I shall be fixed a good deal like a fellow who is made a groomsman to a man that has cut him out, and is marrying his own dear "gal." About the prospects of your having a namesake at our town, can't say exactly yet.
Dear Speed,— We had a meeting of the county Whigs last Monday to choose delegates for a district convention, and Baker beat me and got the delegation instructed to support him. The meeting, despite my attempt to decline, appointed me as one of the delegates, so that in helping Baker get the nomination, I’ll be a bit like a guy who’s made a groomsman for the man who took his girl. As for the chances of you having a namesake in our town, I can't say for sure yet.
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln
He was now a Baker delegate, pledged to get him the nomination if he could; and yet he was far from giving up the contest in his own behalf. Only two days after the letter to Speed, he wrote to Mr. Morris:—
He was now a Baker delegate, committed to securing the nomination for him if possible; yet he was far from giving up on his own campaign. Just two days after the letter to Speed, he wrote to Mr. Morris:—
Springfield, Ill., March 26, 1843.
Springfield, IL, March 26, 1843.
Friend Morris,—Your letter of the 23d was received on yesterday morning, and for which (instead of an excuse, which you thought proper to ask) I tender you my sincere thanks. It is truly gratifying to me to learn, that, while the people of Sangamon have cast me off, my old friends of Menard, who have known me longest and best, stick to me. It would astonish, if not amuse, the older citizens (a stranger, friendless, uneducated, penniless boy, working on a flat-boat at ten dollars per month) to learn that I have been put down here as the candidate of pride, wealth, and aristocratic family distinction. Yet so, chiefly, it was. There was, too, the strangest combination of church-influence against me. Baker is a Campbellite; and therefore, as I suppose, with few exceptions, got all that church.
Friend Morris,—I received your letter from the 23rd yesterday morning, and instead of making an excuse, as you suggested, I want to sincerely thank you. It’s truly heartening to know that, while the people of Sangamon have turned their backs on me, my longtime friends in Menard, who know me best, still support me. It would shock, if not entertain, the older citizens (a stranger, friendless, uneducated, broke kid working on a flatboat for ten dollars a month) to find out that I've been labeled here as the candidate of pride, wealth, and high society. But, that’s mainly how it is. There was also the oddest mix of church influence working against me. Baker is associated with the Campbellite church, and because of that, I assume, he got most of their support.
My wife has some relations in the Presbyterian churches, and some with the Episcopal churches; and therefore, wherever it would tell, I was set down as either the one or the other, while it was everywhere contended that no Christian ought to go for me, because I belonged to no church, was suspected of being a deist, and had talked about fighting a duel. With all these things, Baker, of course, had nothing to do. Nor do I complain of them. As to his own church going for him, I think that was right enough: and as to the influences I have spoken of in the other, though they were very strong, it would be grossly untrue and unjust to charge that they acted upon them in a body, or were very near so. I only mean that those influences levied a tax of a considerable per cent upon my strength throughout the religious controversy. But enough of this.
My wife has some connections in the Presbyterian churches and some with the Episcopal churches; so, depending on the situation, I was often seen as one or the other. Everywhere it was argued that no Christian should support me because I didn't belong to any church, was thought to be a deist, and had mentioned fighting a duel. Of course, Baker had nothing to do with any of that. And I’m not complaining about it. As for his own church backing him, I think that’s fair; and regarding the influences I mentioned in the other church, while they were quite strong, it would be totally dishonest and unfair to say they influenced the group as a whole, or even very closely. I just mean that those influences took a considerable toll on my strength during the religious debate. But that's enough about that.
You say, that, in choosing a candidate for Congress, you have an equal right with Sangamon; and in this you are undoubtedly earnest. In agreeing to withdraw if the Whigs of Sangamon should go against me, I did not mean that they alone were worth consulting, but that if she, with her heavy delegation, should be against me, it would be impossible for me to succeed; and therefore I had as well decline. And in relation to Menard having rights, permit me fully to recognize them, and to express the opinion, that, if she and Mason act circumspectly, they will in the convention be able so far to enforce their rights as to decide absolutely which one of the candidates shall be successful. Let me show the reason of this. Hardin, or some other Morgan candidate, will get Putnam, Marshall, Woodford, Tazewell, and Logan,—make sixteen. Then you and Mason, having three, can give the victory to either side.
You say that when choosing a candidate for Congress, you have the same rights as Sangamon, and I believe you're serious about that. When I agreed to step aside if the Whigs of Sangamon opposed me, I didn't mean they were the only ones worth consulting. I just thought that if their significant delegation was against me, I wouldn't have a chance to succeed, so it would be better to bow out. As for Menard's rights, I completely acknowledge them and believe that if he and Mason act wisely, they can enforce their rights in the convention enough to firmly decide which candidate will win. Let me explain why. Hardin or another candidate from Morgan will secure Putnam, Marshall, Woodford, Tazewell, and Logan—totaling sixteen. So then, you and Mason, with your three votes, could determine the outcome for either side.
You say you shall instruct your delegates for me, unless I object. I certainly shall not object. That would be too pleasant a compliment for me to tread in the dust. And besides, if any thing should happen (which, however, is not probable) by which Baker should be thrown out of the fight, I would be at liberty to accept the nomination if I could get it. I do, however, feel myself bound not to hinder him in any way from getting the nomination. I should despise myself were I to attempt it. I think, then, it would be proper for your meeting to appoint three delegates, and to instruct them to go for some one as a first choice, some one else as a second, and perhaps some one as a third; and, if in those instructions I were named as the first choice, it would gratify me very much.
You say you'll instruct your delegates for me unless I have a problem with it. I definitely won’t have a problem. That would be too nice of a compliment for me to ignore. Plus, if something were to happen (though it’s unlikely) that would remove Baker from the running, I’d be free to accept the nomination if it’s offered to me. However, I do feel obligated not to block him from getting the nomination in any way. I would hate myself if I tried to do that. So, I think it would make sense for your meeting to choose three delegates and have them go for one person as the first choice, someone else as the second, and maybe another as the third. If the instructions included me as the first choice, I would be very pleased.
If you wish to hold the balance of power, it is important for you to attend to and secure the vote of Mason also. You should be sure to have men appointed delegates that you know you can safely confide in. If yourself and James Short were appointed for your county, all would be safe; but whether Jim's woman affair a year ago might not be in the way of his appointment is a question. I don't know whether you know it, but I know him to be as honorable a man as there is in the world. You have my permission, and even request, to show this letter to Short; but to no one else, unless it be a very particular friend, who you know will not speak of it.
If you want to maintain the balance of power, it's important for you to pay attention to and secure Mason's vote as well. You should ensure that the delegates you appoint are people you can trust. If you and James Short were chosen for your county, everything would be fine; but there's a question as to whether Jim's personal issues from a year ago might affect his appointment. I don’t know if you're aware, but I believe he’s one of the most honorable men you could meet. You have my permission, and I even encourage you, to share this letter with Short; but no one else, unless it’s a very close friend who you know won’t discuss it.
Yours as ever,
Always yours,
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
P. S.—Will you write me again?
P. S.—Will you write to me again?
To Martin M. Morris, Petersburg, 111.
To Martin M. Morris, Petersburg, IL.
And finally to Speed on the same subject:—
And finally to Speed on the same topic:—
Springfield, May 18, 1843.
Springfield, May 18, 1843.
Dear Speed,—Yours of the 9th inst. is duly received, which I do not meet as a "bore," but as a most welcome visitor. I will answer the business part of it first.
Dear Speed, — I received your letter from the 9th, and I want you to know that I don't see it as a "bore," but rather as a very welcome message. I'll address the business part of it first.
In relation to our Congress matter here, you were right in supposing I would support the nominee. Neither Baker nor I, however, is the man, but Hardin, so far as I can judge from present appearances. We shall have no split or trouble about the matter,—all will be harmony. In relation to the "coming events" about which Butler wrote you, I had not heard one word before I got your letter; but I have so much confidence in the judgment of a Butler on such a subject, that I incline to think there may be some reality in it. What day does Butler appoint? By the way, how do "events" of the same sort come on in your family? Are you possessing houses and lands, and oxen and asses, and men-servants and maid-servants, and begetting sons and daughters? We are not keeping house, but boarding at the Globe Tavern, which is very well kept now by a widow lady of the name of Beck. Our room (the same Dr. Wallace occupied there) and boarding only costs us four dollars a week. Ann Todd was married something more than a year since to a fellow by the name of Campbell, and who, Mary says, is pretty much of a "dunce," though he has a little money and property. They live in Boonville, Mo., and have not been heard from lately enough for me to say any thing about her health. I reckon it will scarcely be in our power to visit Kentucky this year. Besides poverty and the necessity of attending to business, those "coming events," I suspect, would be somewhat in the way. I most heartily wish you and your Fanny would not fail to come. Just let us know the time, and we will have a room provided for you at our house, and all be merry together for a while. Be sure to give my respects to your mother and family: assure her, that, if I ever come near her, I will not fail to call and see her. Mary joins in sending love to your Fanny and you.
In regard to our Congress situation, you were right to assume I would support the nominee. However, neither Baker nor I is the right person, but Hardin seems to be, based on what I can tell right now. There won’t be any splits or issues about it—all will be harmonious. Regarding the "upcoming events" that Butler mentioned to you, I hadn't heard a thing until I got your letter; but I have so much faith in Butler's judgment on these matters that I think there might be some truth to it. What day does Butler choose? By the way, how do similar "events" go in your family? Are you acquiring homes, land, livestock, and servants, and having sons and daughters? We're not living in a house but are boarding at the Globe Tavern, which is run well now by a widow named Beck. Our room (the same one Dr. Wallace stayed in) and meals only cost us four dollars a week. Ann Todd got married a little over a year ago to a guy named Campbell, who Mary says is mostly a "dunce," although he has a bit of money and property. They live in Boonville, Mo., and we haven’t heard from them recently enough for me to comment on her health. I doubt we’ll be able to visit Kentucky this year. Besides being strapped for cash and needing to focus on business, I suspect those "upcoming events" would be a bit of an obstacle. I truly hope you and your Fanny can make it. Just let us know when, and we’ll ensure there’s a room ready for you at our place, and we can all enjoy some time together. Please send my regards to your mother and family: let her know that if I’m ever close to her, I won’t miss the chance to visit. Mary also sends love to you and Fanny.
Yours as ever,
Always yours,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
After the "race," still smarting from the mortification of defeat, and the disappointment of a cherished hope, he took his old friend Jim Matheny away off to a solitary place in the woods, "and then and there," "with great emphasis," protested that he had not grown proud, and was not an aristocrat. "Jim," said he, in conclusion, "I am now, and always shall be, the same Abe Lincoln that I always was."
After the "race," still feeling the sting of defeat and the letdown of a cherished hope, he took his old friend Jim Matheny to a quiet spot in the woods, "and then and there," "with great emphasis," insisted that he had not become proud and was not an aristocrat. "Jim," he concluded, "I am now, and always will be, the same Abe Lincoln I’ve always been."
CHAPTER XII
IN 1844 Mr. Lincoln was again a candidate for elector on the Whig ticket. Mr. Clay, as he has said himself, was his "beau-ideal of a statesman," and he labored earnestly and as effectually as any one else for his election. For the most part, he still had his old antagonists to meet in the Springfield region, chief among whom this year was John Calhoun. With him and others he had joint debates, running through several nights, which excited much popular feeling. One of his old friends and neighbors, who attended all these discussions, speaks in very enthusiastic terms of Mr. Calhoun, and, after enumerating his many noble gifts of head and heart, concludes that "Calhoun came nearer of whipping Lincoln in debate than Douglas did."
IN 1844, Mr. Lincoln was once again a candidate for elector on the Whig ticket. Mr. Clay, as he noted himself, was his "beau-ideal of a statesman," and Lincoln worked hard and effectively for his election. For the most part, he still faced his old opponents in the Springfield area, with John Calhoun being the chief among them that year. He engaged in joint debates with Calhoun and others that lasted several nights and generated a lot of public interest. One of his old friends and neighbors, who attended all these discussions, speaks very enthusiastically about Mr. Calhoun, and after listing his many admirable qualities, concludes that "Calhoun came closer to beating Lincoln in debate than Douglas did."
Mr. Lincoln made many speeches in Illinois, and finally, towards the close of the campaign, he went over into Indiana, and there continued "on the stump" until the end. Among other places he spoke at Rockport on the Ohio,—where he had first embarked for New Orleans with Gentry,—at Gentryville, and at a place in the country about two miles from the cabin where his father had lived. While he was in the midst of his speech at Gentryville, his old friend, Nat Grigsby, entered the room. Lincoln recognized him on the instant, and, stopping short in his remarks, cried out, "There's Nat!" Without the slightest regard for the proprieties of the occasion, he suspended his address totally, and, striding from the platform, began scrambling through the audience and over the benches, toward the modest Nat, who stood near the door. When he reached him, Lincoln shook his hand "cordially;" and, after felicitating himself sufficiently upon the happy meeting, he returned to the platform, and finished his speech. When that was over, Lincoln could not make up his mind to part with Nat, but insisted that they must sleep together. Accordingly, they wended their way to Col. Jones's, where that fine old Jackson Democrat received his distinguished "clerk" with all the honors he could show him. Nat says, that in the night a cat "began mewing, scratching, and making a fuss generally." Lincoln got up, took the cat in his hands, and stroking its back "gently and kindly," made it sparkle for Nat's amusement. He then "gently" put it out of the door, and, returning to bed, "commenced telling stories and talking over old times."
Mr. Lincoln gave many speeches in Illinois, and finally, towards the end of the campaign, he crossed over into Indiana and continued "on the stump" until it was all over. Among other places, he spoke at Rockport on the Ohio River—where he had first set off for New Orleans with Gentry—at Gentryville, and at a spot about two miles from the cabin where his father had lived. While he was in the middle of his speech in Gentryville, his old friend, Nat Grigsby, walked into the room. Lincoln instantly recognized him and, stopping short in his speech, exclaimed, "There's Nat!" Without any concern for the formalities of the occasion, he completely paused his address and, striding off the platform, started making his way through the audience and over the benches toward modest Nat, who was near the door. When he reached Nat, Lincoln shook his hand "warmly" and, after enjoying the happy reunion for a bit, he returned to the platform and finished his speech. Once the speech was over, Lincoln couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to Nat and insisted they must spend the night together. So, they headed to Col. Jones's place, where that fine old Jackson Democrat welcomed his distinguished "clerk" with all the respect he could muster. Nat says that during the night a cat "started meowing, scratching, and generally causing a commotion." Lincoln got up, picked up the cat, and while stroking its back "gently and kindly," made it sparkle to entertain Nat. He then "gently" put it outside and, returning to bed, "began telling stories and reminiscing about old times."
It is hardly necessary to say, that the result of the canvass was a severe disappointment to Mr. Lincoln. No defeat but his own could have given him more pain; and thereafter he seems to have attended quietly to his own private business until the Congressional canvass of 1846.
It hardly needs to be said that the outcome of the canvass was a big disappointment for Mr. Lincoln. No defeat except his own could have hurt him more; after that, he appears to have quietly focused on his own private affairs until the Congressional canvass of 1846.
It was thought for many years by some persons well informed, that between Lincoln, Logan, Baker, and Hardin,—four very conspicuous Whig leaders,—there was a secret personal understanding that they four should "rotate" in Congress until each had had a term. Baker succeeded Hardin in 1844; Lincoln was elected in 1846, and Logan was nominated, but defeated, in 1848. Lincoln publicly declined to contest the nomination with Baker in 1844; Hardin did the same for Lincoln in 1846 (although both seem to have acted reluctantly), and Lincoln refused to run against Logan in 1848. Col. Matheny and others insist, with great show of reason, that the agreement actually existed; and, if such was the case, it was practically carried out, although Lincoln was a candidate against Baker, and Hardin against Lincoln, as long as either of them thought there was the smallest prospect of success. They might have done this, however, merely to keep other and less tractable candidates out of the field. That Lincoln would cheerfully have made such a bargain to insure himself a seat in Congress, there can be no doubt; but the supposition that he did do it can scarcely be reconciled with the feeling displayed by him in the conflict with Baker, or the persistency of Hardin, to a very late hour, in the contest of 1846.
For many years, some well-informed people believed that there was a secret agreement among Lincoln, Logan, Baker, and Hardin—four prominent Whig leaders—that they would "rotate" in Congress until each had served a term. Baker replaced Hardin in 1844; Lincoln was elected in 1846, and Logan was nominated but lost in 1848. Lincoln publicly chose not to compete with Baker for the nomination in 1844; Hardin did the same for Lincoln in 1846 (though both seemed reluctant), and Lincoln refused to run against Logan in 1848. Col. Matheny and others argue convincingly that the agreement existed, and if that was the case, it was largely followed through, even though Lincoln ran against Baker and Hardin ran against Lincoln as long as either thought there was any chance of winning. They might have done this simply to keep other more difficult candidates out of the race. It's clear that Lincoln would have happily made such a deal to secure a seat in Congress; however, the idea that he actually did so is hard to reconcile with the way he acted during the conflict with Baker or Hardin's determination in the 1846 race.
At all events, Mr. Lincoln and Gen. Hardin were the two, and the only two, candidates for the Whig nomination in 1846. The contest was much like the one with Baker, and Lincoln was assailed in much the same fashion. He was called a deist and an infidel, both before and after his nomination, and encountered in a less degree the same opposition from the members of certain religious bodies that had met him before. But with Hardin he maintained personal relations the most friendly. The latter proposed to alter the mode of making the nomination; and, in the letter conveying this desire to Mr. Lincoln, he also offered to stipulate that each candidate should remain within the limits of his own county. To this Mr. Lincoln replied, "As to your proposed stipulation that all the candidates shall remain in their own counties, and restrain their friends to the same, it seems to me, that, on reflection, you will see the fact of your having been in Congress has, in various ways, so spread your name in the district as to give you a decided advantage in such a stipulation. I appreciate your desire to keep down excitement, and I promise you to 'keep cool' under the circumstances."
At any rate, Mr. Lincoln and Gen. Hardin were the two, and only two, candidates for the Whig nomination in 1846. The competition was similar to the one with Baker, and Lincoln faced criticism in much the same way. He was called a deist and an infidel, both before and after his nomination, and faced some opposition from members of certain religious groups that had confronted him before. However, he maintained a friendly personal relationship with Hardin. The latter suggested changing the method of making the nomination; in the letter to Mr. Lincoln proposing this, he also offered to agree that each candidate would remain within the boundaries of his own county. To this, Mr. Lincoln replied, "Regarding your suggestion that all candidates stay in their own counties and limit their supporters to the same, it seems to me that, upon reflection, you will recognize that your time in Congress has, in various ways, elevated your name in the district to give you a clear advantage in such an agreement. I appreciate your intention to minimize excitement, and I promise to 'stay cool' under these circumstances."
On the 26th of February, 1846, "The Journal" contained Gen. Hardin's card declining to be "longer considered a candidate," and in its editorial comments occurred the following: "We have had, and now have, no doubt that he (Hardin) has been, and now is, a great favorite with the Whigs of the district. He states, in substance, that there was never any understanding on his part that his name was not to be presented in the canvasses of 1844 and 1846. This, we believe, is strictly true. Still, the doings of the Pekin Convention did seem to point that way; and the general's voluntary declination as to the canvass of 1844 was by many construed into an acquiescence on his part. These things had led many of his most devoted friends to not expect him to be a candidate at this time. Add to this the relation that Mr. Lincoln bears, and has borne, to the party, and it is not strange that many of those who are as strongly devoted to Gen. Hardin as they are to Mr. Lincoln should prefer the latter at this time. We do not entertain a doubt, that, if we could reverse the positions of the two men, that a very large portion of those who now have supported Mr. Lincoln most warmly would have supported Gen. Hardin quite as warmly." This article was admirably calculated to soothe Gen. Hardin, and to win over his friends. It was wise and timely. The editor was Mr. Lincoln's intimate friend. It is marked by Mr. Lincoln's style, and has at least one expression which was peculiar to him.
On February 26, 1846, "The Journal" published Gen. Hardin's announcement that he was stepping down as a candidate, and in the editorial comments, it stated: "We have always believed that he (Hardin) has been, and still is, a favorite among the Whigs in the district. He essentially claims that there was never any agreement on his part that his name wouldn’t be put forward in the elections of 1844 and 1846. We think this is completely accurate. However, the actions of the Pekin Convention did seem to suggest otherwise, and many interpreted the general's decision to withdraw from the 1844 race as agreement on his part. These factors led many of his loyal supporters to not expect him to run this time. Adding to this is Mr. Lincoln's relationship with the party, making it understandable that many who are just as devoted to Gen. Hardin as they are to Mr. Lincoln would prefer the latter right now. We have no doubt that if the positions of the two men were reversed, a significant number of those who have strongly supported Mr. Lincoln would have equally backed Gen. Hardin." This article was perfectly aimed to calm Gen. Hardin and to sway his supporters. It was smart and timely. The editor was a close friend of Mr. Lincoln. It's marked by Mr. Lincoln's style and contains at least one phrase that was unique to him.
In its issue of May 7, "The Journal" announced the nomination as having been made at Petersburg, on the Friday previous, and said further, "This nomination was, of course, anticipated, there being no other candidate in the field. Mr. Lincoln, we all know, is a good Whig, a good man, an able speaker, and richly deserves, as he enjoys, the confidence of the Whigs of this district and of the State."
In its May 7 issue, "The Journal" reported that the nomination took place in Petersburg the previous Friday, adding, "This nomination was expected since there were no other candidates. Mr. Lincoln is known to be a solid Whig, a decent person, a skilled speaker, and he truly deserves, as he has, the trust of the Whigs in this district and the state."
Peter Cartwright, the celebrated pioneer Methodist preacher, noted for his piety and combativeness, was Mr. Lincoln's competitor before the people. We know already the nature of the principal charges against Mr. Lincoln's personal character; and these, with the usual criticism upon Whig policy, formed the staple topics of the campaign on the Democratic side. But Peter himself did not escape with that impunity which might have been expected in the case of a minister of the gospel. Rough tongues circulated exaggerated stories of his wicked pugnacity and his worldly-mindedness, whilst the pretended servant of the Prince of peace. Many Democrats looked with intense disgust upon his present candidacy, and believed, that, by mingling in politics, he was degrading his office and polluting the Church. One of these Democrats told Mr. Lincoln what he thought, and said, that, although it was a hard thing to vote against his party, he would do it if it should be necessary to defeat Cartwright. Mr. Lincoln told him, that on the day of the election he would give him a candid opinion as to whether the vote was needed or not Accordingly, on that day, he called upon the gentleman, and said, "I have got the preacher,... and don't want your vote."
Peter Cartwright, the famous pioneer Methodist preacher known for his strong beliefs and fighting spirit, was Mr. Lincoln's opponent in front of the public. We already understand the main accusations against Mr. Lincoln's character, and these, along with the usual critiques of Whig policies, were the key talking points for the Democrats during the campaign. However, Peter himself didn't get a free pass as one might expect for a minister of the gospel. Rumors spread about his aggressive nature and focus on worldly affairs, while he claimed to be a servant of the Prince of Peace. Many Democrats were deeply appalled by his candidacy and believed that by getting involved in politics, he was undermining his role and tainting the Church. One Democrat expressed his feelings to Mr. Lincoln, saying that although it was tough to vote against his party, he would do it if it meant stopping Cartwright. Mr. Lincoln replied that on election day, he would give him a clear opinion on whether his vote was necessary. So on that day, he went to see the man and said, "I’ve got the preacher,... and I don’t want your vote."
Clay's majority in this district in 1844 had been but nine hundred and fourteen; whereas it now gave Mr. Lincoln a majority of fifteen hundred and eleven, in a year which had no Presidential excitements to bring out electors. In 1848 Gen. Taylor's majority was smaller by ten, and the same year the Whig candidate for Congress was defeated by a hundred and six.
Clay's majority in this district in 1844 was only nine hundred and fourteen; now, it gave Mr. Lincoln a majority of fifteen hundred and eleven in a year that didn't have any Presidential races to motivate voters. In 1848, Gen. Taylor's majority was smaller by ten, and that same year, the Whig candidate for Congress lost by a hundred and six.
In the following letter to Mr. Speed, he intimates that the first sensations of pleasure attending his new distinction were not of long duration; at least, that there were moments in which, if he did not forget his greatness, it afforded him little joy.
In the following letter to Mr. Speed, he suggests that the initial feelings of pleasure from his new status didn’t last long; at least, there were times when, even if he didn’t forget his greatness, it brought him little happiness.
Springfield, Oct. 22, 1846.
Springfield, Oct. 22, 1846.
Dear Speed,—
Dear Speed,
You no doubt assign the suspension of our correspondence to the true philosophic cause; though it must be confessed by both of us, that this is rather a cold reason for allowing a friendship such as ours to die out by degrees. I propose now, that, upon receipt of this, you shall be considered in my debt, and under obligations to pay soon, and that neither shall remain long in arrears hereafter. Are you agreed?
You probably think the reason we stopped talking is a philosophical one; however, we both have to admit that it’s a pretty cold excuse for letting a friendship like ours fade away gradually. I suggest that once you get this, you’ll owe me and be expected to catch up soon, so neither of us falls behind again. Do you agree?
Being elected to Congress, though I am very grateful to our friends for having done it, has not pleased me as much as I expected.
Being elected to Congress, while I'm really thankful to our friends for making it happen, hasn't made me as happy as I thought it would.
We have another boy, born the 10th of March. He is very much such a child as Bob was at his age, rather of a longer order. Bob is "short and low," and expect always will be. He talks very plainly,—almost as plainly as anybody. He is quite smart enough. I sometimes fear he is one of the little rare-ripe sort, that are smarter at about five than ever after. He has a great deal of that sort of mischief that is the offspring of much animal spirits. Since I began this letter, a messenger came to tell me Bob was lost; but by the time I reached the house his mother had found him, and had him whipped; and by now, very likely, he is run away again. Mary has read your letter, and wishes to be remembered to Mrs. S. and you, in which I most sincerely join her. As ever yours.
We have another boy, born on March 10th. He's very much like Bob was at that age, just a bit taller. Bob is "short and small," and I expect he always will be. He speaks very clearly—almost as clearly as anyone. He's quite smart enough. Sometimes I worry he's one of those rare kids who are really smart at around five but not so much later on. He has a lot of that mischievous energy that comes from being really lively. Since I started writing this letter, a messenger came to tell me Bob was lost; but by the time I got to the house, his mother had found him and had him punished; and by now, he’s probably run away again. Mary has read your letter and wants to send her regards to you and Mrs. S., which I wholeheartedly echo. As always, yours.
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
At the meeting of the Thirtieth Congress Mr. Lincoln took his seat, and went about the business of his office with a strong determination to do something memorable. He was the only Whig member from Illinois, and would be carefully watched. His colleagues were several of them old acquaintances of the Vandalia times. They were John McClernand, O. B. Ficklin, William A. Richardson, Thomas J. Turner, Robert Smith, and John Wentworth (Long John). And at this session that alert, tireless, ambitious little man, Stephen A. Douglas, took his seat in the Senate.
At the meeting of the Thirtieth Congress, Mr. Lincoln took his seat and approached his duties with a strong determination to make a significant impact. He was the only Whig member from Illinois, which meant he would be closely observed. Many of his colleagues were familiar faces from the Vandalia days: John McClernand, O. B. Ficklin, William A. Richardson, Thomas J. Turner, Robert Smith, and John Wentworth (Long John). Also at this session was the alert, hardworking, ambitious Stephen A. Douglas, who took his seat in the Senate.
The roll of this House shone with an array of great and brilliant names. Robert C. Winthrop was the Speaker. On the Whig side were John Quincy Adams, Horace Mann, Hunt of New York, Collamer of Vermont, Ingersoll of Pennsylvania, Botts and Goggin of Virginia, Morehead of Kentucky, Caleb B. Smith of Indiana, Stephens and Toombs of Georgia, Gentry of Tennessee, and Vinton and Schenck of Ohio. On the Democratic side were Wilmot of Pennsylvania, McLane of Maryland, McDowell of Virginia, Rhett of South Carolina, Cobb of Georgia, Boyd of Kentucky, Brown and Thompson of Mississippi, and Andrew Johnson and George W. Jones of Tennessee. In the Senate were Webster, Calhoun, Benton, Berrien, Clayton, Bell, Hunter, and William R. King.
The roster of this House was filled with a range of prominent and distinguished names. Robert C. Winthrop served as the Speaker. On the Whig side were John Quincy Adams, Horace Mann, Hunt from New York, Collamer from Vermont, Ingersoll from Pennsylvania, Botts and Goggin from Virginia, Morehead from Kentucky, Caleb B. Smith from Indiana, Stephens and Toombs from Georgia, Gentry from Tennessee, and Vinton and Schenck from Ohio. On the Democratic side were Wilmot from Pennsylvania, McLane from Maryland, McDowell from Virginia, Rhett from South Carolina, Cobb from Georgia, Boyd from Kentucky, Brown and Thompson from Mississippi, along with Andrew Johnson and George W. Jones from Tennessee. In the Senate were Webster, Calhoun, Benton, Berrien, Clayton, Bell, Hunter, and William R. King.
The House organized on the 6th; and the day previous to that. Mr. Lincoln wrote to his friend and partner, William H. Herndon:—
The House got organized on the 6th; and the day before that, Mr. Lincoln wrote to his friend and partner, William H. Herndon:—
Washington, Dec. 5, 1847.
Washington, December 5, 1847.
Dear William,—You may remember that about a year ago a man by the name of Wilson (James Wilson, I think) paid us twenty dollars as an advance fee to attend to a case in the Supreme Court for him, against a Mr. Campbell, the record of which case was in the hands of Mr. Dixon of St. Louis, who never furnished it to us. When I was at Bloomington last fall, I met a friend of Wilson, who mentioned the subject to me, and induced me to write to Wilson, telling him that I would leave the ten dollars with you which had been left with me to pay for making abstracts in the case, so that the case may go on this winter; but I came away, and forgot to do it. What I want now is to send you the money to be used accordingly, if any one comes on to start the case, or to be retained by you if no one does.
Dear William, — You might remember that about a year ago, a guy named Wilson (James Wilson, I think) paid us twenty dollars as an advance fee to handle a case in the Supreme Court for him against a Mr. Campbell. The details of that case were with Mr. Dixon in St. Louis, who never provided them to us. When I was in Bloomington last fall, I ran into a friend of Wilson's who brought it up and encouraged me to reach out to Wilson. I meant to tell him that I'd leave the ten dollars with you that he had given me for making abstracts in the case so that things could move forward this winter. However, I left and forgot to do it. What I need to do now is send you the money so it can be used as needed if someone comes to start the case, or you can keep it if no one does.
There is nothing of consequence new here. Congress is to organize to-morrow. Last night we held a Whig caucus for the House, and nominated Winthrop of Massachusetts for Speaker, Sargent of Pennsylvania for Sergeant-at-arms, Homer of New Jersey Doorkeeper, and McCormick of District of Columbia Postmaster. The Whig majority in the House is so small, that, together with some little dissatisfaction, leaves it doubtful whether we will elect them all.
There isn't anything significant happening here. Congress is set to organize tomorrow. Last night we had a Whig meeting for the House and nominated Winthrop from Massachusetts for Speaker, Sargent from Pennsylvania for Sergeant-at-arms, Homer from New Jersey as Doorkeeper, and McCormick from the District of Columbia as Postmaster. The Whig majority in the House is so slim that, along with some minor dissatisfaction, it raises doubts about whether we will be able to elect all of them.
This paper is too thick to fold, which is the reason I send only a halfsheet.
This paper is too thick to fold, which is why I’m only sending a half sheet.
Yours as ever,
Yours always,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Again on the 13th, to the same gentleman:—
Again on the 13th, to the same gentleman:—
Washington, Dec. 13, 1847.
Washington, Dec. 13, 1847.
Dear William,—Your letter advising me of the receipt of our fee in the bank-case is just received, and I don't expect to hear another as good a piece of news from Springfield while I am away. I am under no obligations to the bank; and I therefore wish you to buy bank certificates, and pay my debt there, so as to pay it with the least money possible. I would as soon you should buy them of Mr. Ridgely, or any other person at the bank, as of any one else, provided you can get them as cheaply. I suppose, after the bank-debt shall be paid, there will be some money left, out of which I would like to have you pay Lavely and Stout twenty dollars, and Priest and somebody (oil-makers) ten dollars, for materials got for house-painting. If there shall still be any left, keep it till you see or hear from me.
Dear William, I just received your letter letting me know that our fee for the bank case has been received, and I doubt I’ll get any better news from Springfield while I’m away. I’m not obligated to the bank, so I’d like you to buy bank certificates and pay off my debt there with the least amount of money possible. I’d be fine with you buying them from Mr. Ridgely or anyone else at the bank, as long as you can get them at a good price. After the bank debt is settled, I expect there will be some money left. Please use $20 of that to pay Lavely and Stout, and $10 for Priest and someone else (the oil-makers) for materials purchased for house painting. If there’s any money left after that, hold on to it until you hear from me.
I shall begin sending documents so soon as I can get them. I wrote you yesterday about a "Congressional Globe." As you are all so anxious for me to distinguish myself, I have concluded to do so before long.
I’ll start sending documents as soon as I can get them. I wrote to you yesterday about a "Congressional Globe." Since you all seem so eager for me to stand out, I’ve decided to make that happen soon.
Yours truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
Mr. Lincoln was a member of the Committee on Post-offices and Post-roads, and in that capacity had occasion to study the claim of a mail-contractor who had appealed to Congress against a decision of the Department. Mr. Lincoln made a speech on the case, in which, being his first, he evidently felt some pride, and reported progress to his friends at home:—
Mr. Lincoln was part of the Committee on Post-offices and Post-roads, and in that role, he had the opportunity to look into the case of a mail contractor who had appealed to Congress regarding a decision made by the Department. Mr. Lincoln delivered a speech about the case, and since it was his first, he clearly felt a sense of pride and shared his progress with his friends back home:—
Washington, Jan. 8, 1848.
Washington, January 8, 1848.
Dear William,—Your letter of Dec. 27 was received a day or two ago. I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken, and promise to take, in my little business there. As to speech-making, by way of getting the hang of the House, I made a little speech two or three days ago, on a post-office question of no general interest. I find speaking here and elsewhere about the same thing. I was about as badly scared, and no worse, as I am when I speak in court. I expect to make one within a week or two, in which I hope to succeed well enough to wish you to see it.
Dear William, — I received your letter from December 27 a day or two ago. I really appreciate the effort you put into helping with my little business there. Regarding giving speeches to get a feel for the House, I made a short speech a few days ago about a post-office issue that doesn’t really matter to most people. I find that speaking here and elsewhere feels pretty much the same. I was just as nervous as I usually am when I speak in court. I expect to give another speech in a week or two, which I hope will go well enough for you to see it.
It is very pleasant to me to learn from you that there are some who desire that I should be re-elected. I most heartily thank them for the kind partiality; and I can say, as Mr. Clay said of the annexation of Texas, that "personally I would not object" to a re-election, although I thought at the time, and still think, it would be quite as well for me to return to the law at the end of a single term. I made the declaration, that I would not be a candidate again, more from a wish to deal fairly with others, to keep peace among our friends, and to keep the district from going to the enemy, than for any cause personal to myself; so that, if it should so happen that nobody else wishes to be elected, I could not refuse the people the right of sending me again. But to enter myself as a competitor of others, or to authorize any one so to enter me, is what my word and honor forbid.
I'm really glad to hear from you that some people want me to be re-elected. I sincerely thank them for their support, and I can say, like Mr. Clay said about the annexation of Texas, that "personally I wouldn't mind" being re-elected, even though I thought back then, and still believe, that it would probably be better for me to go back to practicing law after just one term. I announced that I wouldn't run again mainly to be fair to others, maintain peace among our friends, and prevent the district from falling into the hands of the enemy, rather than for my own personal reasons. So, if it turns out that nobody else wants to be elected, I couldn't deny the people the chance to send me back. However, putting myself forward as a competitor or allowing anyone else to do so is something my word and honor won't allow.
I get some letters intimating a probability of so much difficulty amongst our friends as to lose us the district; but I remember such letters were written to Baker when my own case was under consideration, and I trust there is no more ground for such apprehension now than there was then.
I received some letters suggesting that there’s a chance we might have serious trouble with our friends and lose the district. However, I recall that similar letters were sent to Baker when my own situation was being evaluated, and I hope there’s no more reason for concern now than there was back then.
Remember I am always glad to receive a letter from you.
Remember, I'm always happy to get a letter from you.
Most truly your friend,
Your true friend,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
Thoroughly hostile to Polk, and hotly opposed to the war, Mr. Lincoln took an active, although not a leading part in the discussions relating to the commencement and conduct of the latter. He was politician enough, however, to go with the majority of his party in voting supplies to the troops, and thanks to the generals, whilst censuring the President by solemnly declaring that the "war was unnecessarily and unconstitutionally begun by the President of the United States." But his position, and the position of the Whigs, will be made sufficiently apparent by the productions of his own pen.
Thoroughly against Polk and strongly opposed to the war, Mr. Lincoln played an active role in discussions about starting and managing it, although he wasn't in charge. He was savvy enough to vote with the majority of his party to provide resources for the troops, while also criticizing the President by formally stating that the "war was started unnecessarily and unconstitutionally by the President of the United States." His stance, as well as that of the Whigs, will be clearly shown through his own writings.
On the 22d of December, 1847, Mr. Lincoln introduced a preamble and resolutions, which attained great celebrity in Illinois under the title of "Spot Resolutions," and in all probability lost the party a great many votes in the Springfield district. They were as follows:—
On December 22, 1847, Mr. Lincoln introduced a preamble and resolutions that became well-known in Illinois as the "Spot Resolutions," and likely cost the party many votes in the Springfield district. They were as follows:—
Whereas, The President of the United States, in his Message of May 11, 1846, has declared that "the Mexican Government not only refused to receive him [the envoy of the United States], or listen to his propositions, but, after a long-continued series of menaces, has at last invaded our territory, and shed the blood of our fellow-citizens on our own soil;"
Whereas, the President of the United States, in his message on May 11, 1846, stated that "the Mexican government not only refused to accept him [the envoy of the United States] or consider his proposals, but, after a long history of threats, has finally invaded our territory and spilled the blood of our fellow citizens on our own soil;"
And again, in his Message of Dec. 8, 1846, that "we had ample cause of war against Mexico long before the breaking out of hostilities; but even then we forbore to take redress into our own hands until Mexico herself became the aggressor, by invading our soil in hostile array, and shedding the blood of our citizens;"
And again, in his Message of Dec. 8, 1846, that "we had plenty of reasons for war against Mexico long before the fighting started; but even then we held back from taking matters into our own hands until Mexico itself became the aggressor, by invading our land in a hostile manner and spilling the blood of our citizens;"
And yet again, in his Message of Dec. 7, 1847, that "the Mexican Government refused even to hear the terms of adjustment which he [our minister of peace] was authorized to propose, and finally, under wholly unjustifiable pretexts, involved the two countries in war, by invading the territory of the State of Texas, striking the first blow, and shedding the blood of our citizens on our own soil;" and,
And yet again, in his Message of Dec. 7, 1847, that "the Mexican Government refused to even listen to the terms of settlement that he [our minister of peace] was allowed to propose, and ultimately, under completely unjustifiable reasons, dragged the two countries into war by invading the territory of the State of Texas, striking the first blow, and spilling the blood of our citizens on our own soil;" and,
Whereas, This House is desirous to obtain a full knowledge of all the facts which go to establish whether the particular spot on which the blood of our citizens was so shed was or was not at that time "our own soil;" therefore,
Whereas, This House wants to fully understand all the facts that determine whether the specific location where the blood of our citizens was shed was or was not at that time "our own soil;" therefore,
Resolved by the House of Representatives, That the President of the United States be respectfully requested to inform this House,—
Resolved by the House of Representatives, That the President of the United States be respectfully asked to inform this House,—
1st. Whether the spot on which the blood of our citizens was shed, as in his Messages declared, was or was not within the territory of Spain, at least after the treaty of 1819, until the Mexican revolution.
1st. Whether the place where our citizens' blood was spilled, as he stated in his messages, was or was not within Spain's territory, at least after the 1819 treaty, until the Mexican revolution.
2d. Whether that spot is or is not within the territory which was wrested from Spain by the revolutionary government of Mexico.
2d. Whether that location is or isn't within the area that was taken from Spain by the revolutionary government of Mexico.
3d. Whether that spot is or is not within a settlement of people, which settlement has existed ever since long before the Texas revolution, and until its inhabitants fled before the approach of the United States army.
3d. Whether that location is or isn't within a community of people, which community has been around since long before the Texas revolution, and until its residents left in the face of the advancing United States army.
4th. Whether that settlement is or is not isolated from any and all other settlements by the Gulf and the Rio Grande on the south and west, and by wide, uninhabited regions on the north and east.
4th. Whether that settlement is isolated from all other settlements by the Gulf and the Rio Grande to the south and west, and by wide, uninhabited areas to the north and east.
5th. Whether the people of that settlement, or a majority of them, or any of them, have ever submitted themselves to the government or laws of Texas or of the United States, by consent or by compulsion, either by accepting office, or voting at elections, or paying tax, or serving on juries, or having process served upon them, or in any other way.
5th. Whether the people of that settlement, or most of them, or any of them, have ever agreed to be governed by the laws of Texas or the United States, whether voluntarily or by force, through actions like accepting office, voting in elections, paying taxes, serving on juries, being served with legal documents, or in any other way.
6th. Whether the people of that settlement did or did not flee from the approach of the United States army, leaving unprotected their homes and their growing crops, before the blood was shed, as in the Messages stated; and whether the first blood, so shed, was or was not shed within the enclosure of one of the people who had thus fled from it.
6th. Whether the people of that settlement did or did not run away from the approaching United States army, leaving their homes and growing crops unprotected, before the blood was shed, as stated in the Messages; and whether the first blood that was shed was or was not spilled within the property of one of the people who had fled.
7th. Whether our citizens, whose blood was shed, as in his Messages declared, were or were not at that time armed officers and soldiers, sent into that settlement by the military order of the President, through the Secretary of War.
7th. Whether our citizens, whose blood was shed, as he declared in his Messages, were or were not at that time armed officers and soldiers, sent into that settlement by the military order of the President, through the Secretary of War.
8th. Whether the military force of the United States was or was not so sent into that settlement after Gen. Taylor had more than once intimated to the War Department, that, in his opinion, no such movement was necessary to the defence or protection of Texas.
8th. Whether the U.S. military was or wasn't sent into that settlement after Gen. Taylor had repeatedly suggested to the War Department that, in his opinion, such a move wasn't necessary for the defense or protection of Texas.
Mr. Lincoln improved the first favorable opportunity (Jan. 12, 1818), to address the House in the spirit of the "Spot Resolutions."
Mr. Lincoln took advantage of the first good opportunity (Jan. 12, 1818) to speak to the House in the spirit of the "Spot Resolutions."
In Committee of the Whole House, Jan. 12, 1848.
In Committee of the Whole House, Jan. 12, 1848.
Mr. Lincoln addressed the Committee as follows:—
Mr. Lincoln spoke to the Committee like this:—
Mr. Chairman,—Some, if not at all, of the gentlemen on the other side of the House, who have addressed the Committee within the last two days, have spoken rather complainingly, if I have rightly understood them, of the vote given a week or ten days ago, declaring that the war with Mexico was unnecessarily and unconstitutionally commenced by the President. I admit that such a vote should not be given in mere party wantonness, and that the one given is justly censurable, if it have no other or better foundation. I am one of those who joined in that vote, and did so under my best impression of the truth of the case. How I got this impression, and how it may possibly be removed, I will now try to show. When the war began, it was my opinion that all those who, because of knowing too little, or because of knowing too much, could not conscientiously approve the conduct of the President (in the beginning of it), should, nevertheless, as good citizens and patriots, remain silent on that point, at least till the war should be ended. Some leading Democrats, including ex-President Van Buren, have taken this same view, as I understand them; and I adhered to it, and acted upon it, until since I took my seat here; and I think I should still adhere to it, were it not that the President and his friends will not allow it to be so. Besides the continual effort of the President to argue every silent vote given for supplies into an indorsement of the justice and wisdom of his conduct; besides that singularly candid paragraph in his late Message, in which he tells us that Congress, with great unanimity (only two in the Senate and fourteen in the House dissenting), had declared that "by the act of the Republic of Mexico a state of war exists between that government and the United States;" when the same journals that informed him of this also informed him, that, when that declaration stood disconnected from the question of supplies, sixty-seven in the House, and not fourteen merely, voted against it; besides this open attempt to prove by telling the truth what he could not prove by telling the whole truth, demanding of all who will not submit to be misrepresented, in justice to themselves, to speak out; besides all this, one of my colleagues [Mr. Richardson], at a very early day in the session, brought in a set of resolutions expressly indorsing the original justice of the war on the part of the President. Upon these resolutions, when they shall be put on their passage, I shall be compelled to vote; so that I cannot be silent if I would. Seeing this, I went about preparing myself to give the vote understandingly when it should come. I carefully examined the President's Messages, to ascertain what he himself had said and proved upon the point. The result of this examination was to make the impression, that, taking for true all the President states as facts, he falls far short of proving his justification; and that the President would have gone further with his proof, if it had not been for the small matter that the truth would not permit him. Under the impression thus made, I gave the vote before mentioned. I propose now to give concisely the process of the examination I made, and how I reached the conclusion I did.
Mr. Chairman, some, if not all, of the gentlemen on the other side of the House who have spoken to the Committee in the last couple of days have expressed some complaints, if I understood them correctly, about the vote taken a week or ten days ago, which stated that the war with Mexico was started by the President unnecessarily and unconstitutionally. I agree that such a vote shouldn't be cast thoughtlessly along party lines, and that the one taken is rightly criticized if it lacks a solid basis. I was one of those who supported that vote, and I did so based on my genuine belief in the truth of the matter. I will now try to explain how I formed this belief and how it might be changed. When the war began, I thought that those who either knew too little or too much to morally support the President's actions at the start should, as responsible citizens and patriots, stay quiet on the matter, at least until the war was over. Some prominent Democrats, including former President Van Buren, seem to share this view, as I understand it; I adhered to and acted on this perspective until I took my seat here, and I might still hold to it if the President and his supporters allowed that. In addition to the President's continuous effort to interpret every silent vote in favor of supplies as an endorsement of his actions; apart from that surprisingly frank statement in his recent message, where he tells us that Congress, with great agreement (only two in the Senate and fourteen in the House dissenting), declared that "by the act of the Republic of Mexico a state of war exists between that government and the United States"; when the same reports that informed him of this also informed him that when that declaration was not connected to the supplies issue, sixty-seven in the House, not just fourteen, voted against it; besides this open attempt to prove something by stating the truth which he could not prove by revealing the whole truth, demanding that anyone unwilling to be misrepresented speak out for their own justice; besides all this, one of my colleagues [Mr. Richardson] introduced a set of resolutions early in the session that explicitly approved the original justice of the war as stated by the President. When these resolutions come up for a vote, I will be compelled to participate; therefore, I can't remain silent even if I wanted to. Recognizing this, I began to prepare myself to understand the vote when it comes. I thoroughly reviewed the President's messages to see what he himself said and provided on the matter. The outcome of this review led me to believe that, accepting all the facts the President claims to be true, he significantly fails to justify his stance; and that he might have presented better evidence if it weren't for the fact that the truth wouldn't allow it. Based on this impression, I cast the previously mentioned vote. Now, I intend to briefly outline the examination process I undertook and how I arrived at my conclusion.
The President, in his first Message of May, 1846, declares that the soil was ours on which hostilities were commenced by Mexico; and he repeats that declaration, almost in the same language, in each successive annual Message,—thus showing that he esteems that point a highly essential one. In the importance of that point I entirely agree with the President. To my judgment, it is the very point upon which he should be justified or condemned. In his Message of December, 1846, it seems to have occurred to him, as is certainly true, that title, ownership to soil, or any thing else, is not a simple fact, but is a conclusion following one or more simple facts; and that it was incumbent upon him to present the facts from which he concluded the soil was ours on which the first blood of the war was shed.
The President, in his first Message of May 1846, states that the land where hostilities began with Mexico was ours; he repeats this statement almost word-for-word in each annual Message that follows, emphasizing that he considers this point very important. I completely agree with the President on the significance of this matter. In my opinion, it is the very point on which he should be either justified or criticized. In his Message from December 1846, it appears to him, as is certainly the case, that title or ownership of land, or anything else, is not just a straightforward fact, but rather a conclusion drawn from one or more straightforward facts; and that it was his responsibility to present the evidence supporting his conclusion that the land where the first blood of the war was spilled was indeed ours.
Accordingly, a little below the middle of page twelve, in the Message last referred to, he enters upon that task; forming an issue and introducing testimony, extending the whole to a little below the middle of page fourteen. Now, I propose to try to show that the whole of this, issue and evidence, is, from beginning to end, the sheerest deception. The issue, as he presents it, is in these words: "But there are those who, conceding all this to be true, assume the ground that the true western boundary of Texas is the Nueces, instead of the Rio Grande; and that, therefore, in marching our army to the east bank of the latter river, we passed the Texan line, and invaded the Territory of Mexico." Now, this issue is made up of two affirmatives, and no negative. The main deception of it is, that it assumes as true, that one river or the other is necessarily the boundary, and cheats the superficial thinker entirely out of the idea that possibly the boundary is somewhere between the two, and not actually at either. A further deception is, that it will let in evidence which a true issue would exclude. A true issue made by the President would be about as follows: "I say the soil was ours on which the first blood was shed; there are those who say it was not."
Accordingly, a little below the middle of page twelve, in the previously mentioned Message, he begins that task; setting up an issue and presenting evidence, extending all the way to just below the middle of page fourteen. Now, I plan to demonstrate that this entire issue and evidence is, from start to finish, pure deception. The issue, as he states, is: "But there are those who, acknowledging all this to be true, claim that the true western boundary of Texas is the Nueces, not the Rio Grande; and that, therefore, in moving our army to the east bank of the latter river, we crossed the Texan line and invaded Mexico." This issue consists of two affirmatives and no negative. The main deception here is that it assumes as true that one river or the other must be the boundary, completely misleading the casual thinker into ignoring the possibility that the boundary could be somewhere between the two, rather than at either one. Another deception is that it will admit evidence which a legitimate issue would exclude. A legitimate issue put forth by the President would look something like this: "I say the land was ours where the first blood was shed; there are those who claim it was not."
I now proceed to examine the President's evidence, as applicable to such an issue. When that evidence is analyzed, it is all included in the following propositions:—
I will now review the President's evidence as it relates to this issue. When that evidence is analyzed, it can be summarized in the following statements:—
1. That the Rio Grande was the western boundary of Louisiana, as we purchased it of France in 1803.
1. The Rio Grande was the western border of Louisiana when we bought it from France in 1803.
2. That the Republic of Texas always claimed the Rio Grande as her western boundary.
2. The Republic of Texas has always viewed the Rio Grande as its western boundary.
3. That, by various acts, she had claimed it on paper.
3. That, through various actions, she had claimed it in writing.
4. That Santa Anna, in his treaty with Texas, recognized the Rio Grande as her boundary.
4. Santa Anna, in his treaty with Texas, acknowledged the Rio Grande as its boundary.
5. That Texas before, and the United States after annexation, had exercised jurisdiction beyond the Nueces, between the two rivers.
5. That Texas before, and the United States after annexation, had exercised jurisdiction beyond the Nueces, between the two rivers.
6. That our Congress understood the boundary of Texas to extend beyond the Nueces.
6. That our Congress understood the boundary of Texas to extend beyond the Nueces.
Now for each of these in its turn:—
Now, let's look at each of these in turn:—
His first item is, that the Rio Grande was the western boundary of Louisiana, as we purchased it of France in 1803; and, seeming to expect this to be disputed, he argues over the amount of nearly a page to prove it true; at the end of which, he lets us know, that, by the treaty of 1819, we sold to Spain the whole country, from the Rio Grande eastward to the Sabine. Now, admitting for the present, that the Rio Grande was the boundary of Louisiana, what, under Heaven, had that to do with the present boundary between us and Mexico? How, Mr. Chairman, the line that once divided your land from mine can still be the boundary between us after I have sold my land to you, is, to me, beyond all comprehension. And how any man, with an honest purpose only of proving the truth, could ever have thought of introducing such a fact to prove such an issue, is equally incomprehensible. The outrage upon common right, of seizing as our own what we have once sold, merely because it was ours before we sold it, is only equalled by the outrage on common sense of any attempt to justify it.
His first point is that the Rio Grande was the western boundary of Louisiana when we bought it from France in 1803. Seeming to anticipate this being challenged, he goes on for nearly a page to prove it's true; at the end, he mentions that, by the treaty of 1819, we sold Spain the entire area from the Rio Grande east to the Sabine. Now, assuming for the moment that the Rio Grande was indeed the boundary of Louisiana, what on earth does that have to do with the current boundary between us and Mexico? How, Mr. Chairman, can the line that once separated your land from mine still be considered the boundary between us after I've sold my land to you? To me, that makes no sense at all. And how any person, who genuinely wants to establish the truth, could think of bringing up such a fact to prove such a point is just as baffling. The absurdity of claiming as our own what we’ve previously sold—just because it used to belong to us—is matched only by the ridiculousness of any attempt to justify it.
The President's next piece of evidence is, that "The Republic of Texas always claimed this river (Rio Grande) as her western boundary." That is not true, in fact. Texas has claimed it, but she has not always claimed it. There is, at least, one distinguished exception. Her State Constitution—the public's most solemn and well-considered act, that which may, without impropriety, be called her last will and testament, revoking all others—makes no such claim. But suppose she had always claimed it. Has not Mexico always claimed the contrary? So that there is but claim against claim, leaving nothing proved until we get back of the claims, and find which has the better foundation.
The President's next piece of evidence is that "The Republic of Texas always claimed this river (Rio Grande) as her western boundary." That’s not true, actually. Texas has claimed it, but she hasn't always claimed it. There's at least one notable exception. Her State Constitution—the public's most serious and carefully considered act, which could be considered her last will and testament, revoking all others—makes no such claim. But let's say she had always claimed it. Hasn't Mexico always claimed the opposite? So, we have just claim against claim, which doesn’t prove anything until we look behind the claims and see which one has the better foundation.
Though not in the order in which the President presents his evidence, I now consider that class of his statements which are, in substance, nothing more than that Texas has, by various acts of her Convention and Congress, claimed the Rio Grande as her boundary—on paper. I mean here what he says about the fixing of the Rio Grande as her boundary in her old constitution (not her State Constitution), about forming congressional districts, counties, &c. Now, all this is but naked claim; and what I have already said about claims is strictly applicable to this. If I should claim your land by word of mouth, that certainly would not make it mine; and if I were to claim it by a deed which I had made myself, and with which you had nothing to do, the claim would be quite the same in substance, or rather in utter nothingness.
Although not in the order the President presents his evidence, I will now discuss the type of statements that basically say Texas has, through various actions by her Convention and Congress, claimed the Rio Grande as her boundary—on paper. I’m referring to what he says about establishing the Rio Grande as her boundary in her old constitution (not her State Constitution), about creating congressional districts, counties, and so on. All of this is just a bare claim; and what I've already pointed out about claims applies directly to this situation. If I were to claim your land verbally, that definitely wouldn't make it mine; and if I were to claim it with a deed I created myself, and you were not involved in any way, the claim would essentially be the same in terms of absolute nothingness.
I next consider the President's statement that Santa Anna, in his treaty with Texas, recognized the Rio Grande as the western boundary of Texas. Besides the position so often taken that Santa Anna, while a prisoner of war, a captive, could not bind Mexico by a treaty, which I deem conclusive,—besides this, I wish to say something in relation to this treaty, so called by the President, with Santa Anna. If any man would like to be amused by a sight at that little thing, which the President calls by that big name, he can have it by turning to "Niles's Register," vol. 1. p. 336. And if any one should suppose that "Niles's Register" is a curious repository of so mighty a document as a solemn treaty between nations, I can only say that I learned, to a tolerable degree of certainty, by inquiry at the State Department, that the President himself never saw it anywhere else. By the way, I believe I should not err if I were to declare, that, during the first ten years of the existence of that document, it was never by anybody called a treaty; that it was never so called till the President, in his extremity, attempted, by so calling it, to wring something from it in justification of himself in connection with the Mexican war. It has none of the distinguishing features of a treaty. It does not call itself a treaty. Santa Anna does not therein assume to bind Mexico: he assumes only to act as president, commander-in-chief of the Mexican army and navy; stipulates that the then present hostilities should cease, and that he would not himself take up arms, nor influence the Mexican people to take up arms, against Texas during the existence of the war of independence. He did not recognize the independence of Texas; he did not assume to put an end to the war, but clearly indicated his expectation of its continuance; he did not say one word about boundary, and most probably never thought of it. It is stipulated therein that the Mexican forces should evacuate the Territory of Texas, passing to the other side of the Rio Grande; and in another article it is stipulated, that, to prevent collisions between the armies, the Texan army should not approach nearer than within five leagues,—of what is not said; but clearly, from the object stated, it is of the Rio Grande. Now, if this is a treaty recognizing the Rio Grande as the boundary of Texas, it contains the singular feature of stipulating that Texas shall not go within five leagues of her own boundary.
I want to address the President's claim that Santa Anna, in his treaty with Texas, recognized the Rio Grande as Texas's western boundary. Beyond the frequently stated argument that Santa Anna, as a prisoner of war, could not bind Mexico by a treaty—which I find convincing—I want to add some thoughts on this so-called treaty with Santa Anna. If anyone wants to be entertained by a look at that little document the President refers to with such a grand title, they can check "Niles's Register," vol. 1, p. 336. And if anyone believes that "Niles's Register" is an impressive archive for such a significant document as a formal treaty between nations, I can only say that I found out, with a reasonable level of certainty, through inquiries at the State Department, that the President himself has never seen it anywhere else. By the way, I would not be mistaken if I said that for the first ten years of that document's existence, no one ever called it a treaty; it wasn’t referred to as such until the President, in a moment of desperation, tried to label it that way to justify his actions regarding the Mexican war. It lacks the defining characteristics of a treaty. It doesn't call itself a treaty. Santa Anna does not claim to bind Mexico in it; he only represents himself as president and commander-in-chief of the Mexican army and navy. He agrees that the current fighting should stop and that he would neither take up arms nor persuade the Mexican people to fight against Texas during the independence war. He did not acknowledge Texas's independence; he did not suggest an end to the war, and he clearly indicated that he expected it to continue; he did not mention anything about borders and most likely never thought of it. The agreement states that the Mexican forces should leave Texas, crossing to the other side of the Rio Grande; and in another section, it stipulates that to avoid clashes between the armies, the Texan army must not get closer than five leagues—though it does not specify from what, but it’s clear from the stated purpose that it’s from the Rio Grande. Now, if this is a treaty recognizing the Rio Grande as Texas's boundary, it has the strange condition that Texas must not approach within five leagues of her own boundary.
Next comes the evidence of Texas before annexation, and the United States afterwards, exercising jurisdiction beyond the Nueces, and between the two rivers. This actual exercise of jurisdiction is the very class or quality of evidence we want. It is excellent so far as it goes; but does it go far enough? He tells us it went beyond the Nueces; but he does not tell us it went to the Rio Grande. He tells us jurisdiction was exercised between the two rivers; but he does not tell us it was exercised over all the territory between them. Some simple-minded people think it possible to cross one river and go beyond it, without going all the way to the next; that jurisdiction may be exercised between two rivers without covering all the country between them. I know a man, not very unlike myself, who exercises jurisdiction over a piece of land between the Wabash and the Mississippi; and yet so far is this from being all there is between those rivers, that it is just a hundred and fifty-two feet long by fifty wide, and no part of it much within a hundred miles of either. He has a neighbor between him and the Mississippi,—that is, just across the street, in that direction,—whom, I am sure, he could neither persuade nor force to give up his habitation; but which, nevertheless, he could certainly annex, if it were to be done by merely standing on his own side of the street and claiming it, or even sitting down and writing a deed for it.
Next comes the evidence of Texas before it joined the U.S., and the U.S. afterwards, asserting control beyond the Nueces and between the two rivers. This actual exercise of authority is exactly what we need. It’s great as far as it goes; but does it go far enough? He tells us it extended past the Nueces; but he doesn’t specify if it reached the Rio Grande. He states that jurisdiction was claimed between the two rivers; but he doesn’t say it was claimed over all the land in between. Some naïve people believe it's possible to cross one river and go beyond it without reaching the next; that jurisdiction can be claimed between two rivers without covering all the land in that area. I know a guy, somewhat like me, who claims authority over a patch of land between the Wabash and the Mississippi; and yet this is far from capturing everything between those rivers, as it’s only a hundred and fifty-two feet long by fifty wide, and none of it is anywhere near a hundred miles from either. He has a neighbor between him and the Mississippi—that is, just across the street in that direction—whom I’m sure he couldn’t convince or force to leave; yet, he could definitely take claim of it, if it were simply a matter of standing on his side of the street and asserting it, or even sitting down and writing up a deed for it.
But next, the President tells us, the Congress of the United States understood the State of Texas they admitted into the Union to extend beyond the Nueces. Well, I suppose they did,—I certainly so understand it,—but how far beyond? That Congress did not understand it to extend clear to the Rio Grande, is quite certain by the fact of their joint resolutions for admission, expressly leaving all questions of boundary to future adjustment. And it may be added, that Texas herself is proved to have had the same understanding of it that our Congress had, by the fact of the exact conformity of her new Constitution to those resolutions.
But next, the President tells us that the Congress of the United States understood that the State of Texas they admitted into the Union extended beyond the Nueces. Well, I guess they did—I certainly understand it that way—but how far beyond? It's pretty clear that Congress did not think it stretched all the way to the Rio Grande, given that their joint resolutions for admission specifically left all boundary questions for future resolution. Additionally, it's worth noting that Texas itself had the same understanding as our Congress, as shown by how closely her new Constitution matched those resolutions.
I am now through the whole of the President's evidence; and it is a singular fact, that, if any one should declare the President sent the army into the midst of a settlement of Mexican people, who had never submitted, by consent or by force, to the authority of Texas or of the United States, and that there, and thereby, the first blood of the war was shed, there is not one word in all the President has said which would either admit or deny the declaration. In this strange omission chiefly consists the deception of the President's evidence,—an omission which, it does seem to me, could scarcely have occurred but by design. My way of living leads me to be about the courts of justice; and there I have sometimes seen a good lawyer, struggling for his client's neck in a desperate case, employing every artifice to work round, befog, and cover up with many words, some position pressed upon him by the prosecution, which he dared not admit, and yet could not deny. Party bias may help to make it appear so; but, with all the allowance I can make for such bias, it still does appear to me that just such, and from just such necessity, are the President's struggles in this case.
I have now gone through all of the President's evidence, and it's a strange fact that if anyone were to say the President sent the army into a settlement of Mexican people who had never submitted, either willingly or by force, to the authority of Texas or the United States, and that there, the first blood of the war was shed, there isn't a single word in everything the President has said that would either support or refute that claim. This strange omission is largely what makes the President's evidence deceptive—an omission that, it seems to me, could hardly have happened by accident. My lifestyle has me around the courts of justice, and there I've sometimes seen a good lawyer, fighting for his client's life in a desperate case, using every trick to dodge, confuse, and obscure with many words some point raised by the prosecution that he couldn’t admit but also couldn’t deny. Party bias might make it seem that way, but even with all the allowance I can give for such bias, it still feels to me that the President’s struggles in this case are just like that, arising from the same kind of necessity.
Some time after my colleague (Mr. Richardson) introduced the resolutions I have mentioned, I introduced a preamble, resolution, and interrogatories, intended to draw the President out, if possible, on this hitherto untrodden ground. To show their relevancy, I propose to state my understanding of the true rule for ascertaining the boundary between Texas and Mexico. It is, that, wherever Texas was exercising jurisdiction was hers; and wherever Mexico was exercising jurisdiction was hers; and that whatever separated the actual exercise of jurisdiction of the one from that of the other was the true boundary between them. If, as is probably true, Texas was exercising jurisdiction along the western bank of the Nueces, and Mexico was exercising it along the eastern bank of the Rio Grande, then neither river was the boundary, but the uninhabited country between the two was. The extent of our territory in that region depended, not on any treaty-fixed boundary (for no treaty had attempted it), but on revolution. Any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up and shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them better. This is a most valuable, a most sacred right,—a right which, we hope and believe, is to liberate the world. Nor is this right confined to cases in which the whole people of an existing government may choose to exercise it. Any portion of such people that can may revolutionize, and make their own of so much of the territory as they inhabit. More than this, a majority of any portion of such people may revolutionize, putting down a minority, intermingled with or near about them, who may oppose their movements. Such minority was precisely the case of the Tories of our own Revolution. It is a quality of revolutions not to go by old lines or old laws, but to break up both, and make new ones. As to the country now in question, we bought it of France in 1803, and sold it to Spain in 1819, according to the President's statement. After this, all Mexico, including Texas, revolutionized against Spain; and, still later, Texas revolutionized against Mexico. In my view, just so far as she carried her revolution, by obtaining the actual, willing or unwilling, submission of the people, so far the country was hers, and no farther.
Some time after my colleague (Mr. Richardson) introduced the resolutions I mentioned, I introduced a preamble, resolution, and questions aimed at getting the President to speak on this previously unexplored issue. To show their relevance, I want to state my understanding of the true rule for determining the boundary between Texas and Mexico. It is that wherever Texas was exercising jurisdiction was hers, and wherever Mexico was exercising jurisdiction was hers; and that whatever separated the actual exercise of jurisdiction of one from that of the other was the true boundary between them. If, as is likely, Texas was exercising jurisdiction along the western bank of the Nueces, and Mexico was exercising it along the eastern bank of the Rio Grande, then neither river was the boundary, but the uninhabited land between the two was. The extent of our territory in that area depended not on any treaty-fixed boundary (since no treaty had attempted that), but on revolution. Any people, anywhere, having the inclination and power, have the right to rise up and overthrow the existing government and establish a new one that suits them better. This is a highly valuable and sacred right—a right which we hope and believe will liberate the world. Furthermore, this right is not limited to situations where the entire population of an existing government chooses to exercise it. Any portion of those people that can may revolutionize and claim as their own the territory they inhabit. Moreover, a majority of any such group may revolutionize, suppressing a minority that may oppose them, regardless of being intermingled or nearby. Such a minority was exactly the case of the Tories during our own Revolution. Revolutions are characterized by breaking away from old boundaries and old laws, to create new ones. Regarding the land in question, we bought it from France in 1803 and sold it to Spain in 1819, according to the President's statement. After this, all of Mexico, including Texas, revolted against Spain; and later, Texas revolted against Mexico. In my opinion, as far as she carried out her revolution by obtaining the actual, willing or unwilling, submission of the people, that much of the country was hers, and no further.
Now, sir, for the purpose of obtaining the very best evidence as to whether Texas had actually carried her revolution to the place where the hostilities of the present war commenced, let the President answer the interrogatories I proposed, as before mentioned, or some other similar ones. Let him answer fully, fairly, and candidly. Let him answer with facts, and not with arguments. Let him remember he sits where Washington sat; and, so remembering, let him answer as Washington would answer. As a nation should not, and the Almighty will not, be evaded, so let him attempt no evasion, no equivocation. And if, so answering, he can show that the soil was ours where the first blood of the war was shed; that it was not within an inhabited country, or, if within such, that the inhabitants had submitted themselves to the civil authority of Texas, or of the United States, and that the same is true of the site of Fort Brown, then I am with him for his justification. In that case, I shall be most happy to reverse the vote I gave the other day. I have a selfish motive for desiring that the President may do this: I expect to give some votes, in connection with the war, which, without his so doing, will be of doubtful propriety, in my own judgment, but which will be free from the doubt if he does so. But if he cannot or will not do this,—if, on any pretence, or no pretence, he shall refuse or omit it,—then I shall be fully convinced of what I more than suspect already,—that he is deeply conscious of being in the wrong; that he feels the blood of this war, like the blood of Abel, is crying to Heaven against him; that he ordered Gen. Taylor into the midst of a peaceful Mexican settlement, purposely to bring on a war; that, originally having some strong motive—what I will not stop now to give my opinion concerning—to involve the two countries in a war, and trusting to escape scrutiny by fixing the public gaze upon the exceeding brightness of military glory,—that attractive rainbow that rises in showers of blood, that serpent's eye that charms to destroy,—he plunged into it, and has swept on and on, till, disappointed in his calculation of the ease with which Mexico might be subdued, he now finds himself he knows not where. How like the half-insane mumbling of a fever-dream is the whole war part of the late Message! At one time telling us that Mexico has nothing whatever that we can get but territory; at another, showing us how we can support the war by levying contributions on Mexico. At one time urging the national honor, the security of the future, the prevention of foreign interference, and even the good of Mexico herself, as among the objects of the war; at another, telling us that, "to reject indemnity by refusing to accept a cession of territory, would be to abandon all our just demands, and to wage the war, bearing all its expenses, without a purpose or definite object." So, then, the national honor, security of the future, and every thing but territorial indemnity, may be considered the no purposes and indefinite objects of the war! But having it now settled that territorial indemnity is the only object, we are urged to seize, by legislation here, all that he was content to take a few months ago, and the whole province of Lower California to boot, and to still carry on the war,—to take all we are fighting for, and still fight on. Again, the President is resolved, under all circumstances, to have full territorial indemnity for the expenses of the war; but he forgets to tell us how we are to get the excess after those expenses shall have surpassed the value of the whole of the Mexican territory. So, again, he insists that the separate national existence of Mexico shall be maintained; but he does not tell us how this can be done after we shall have taken all her territory. Lest the questions I here suggest be considered speculative merely, let me be indulged a moment in trying to show they are not.
Now, sir, to get the best evidence about whether Texas actually took its revolution to the spot where the current war started, let the President answer the questions I proposed earlier, or similar ones. Let him respond fully, fairly, and honestly. Let him respond with facts, not arguments. Let him remember he sits where Washington once sat; and remembering that, let him answer as Washington would. Just as a nation cannot be evaded, and the Almighty will not be evaded, let him not attempt any evasion or half-truths. If he can prove that the land was ours where the first blood of the war was shed; that it was not inside an inhabited country, or, if it was, that the inhabitants had submitted to the civil authority of Texas, or the United States, and that the same applies to the site of Fort Brown, then I will support his justification. In that case, I will be more than happy to change the vote I gave recently. I have a personal reason for wanting the President to do this: I plan to cast votes related to the war that, in my own judgment, may seem questionable without his doing so, but would be clear if he did. However, if he cannot or will not do this—if, for any reason, he refuses or fails to do so—then I will be fully convinced of what I already strongly suspect—that he is very aware he is in the wrong; that he feels the blood of this war, much like Abel's blood, is crying out against him; that he ordered Gen. Taylor into the midst of a peaceful Mexican settlement, deliberately to provoke a war; that, having some strong motive—whatever my opinion is on that, I won’t discuss now—to entangle the two countries in conflict, he hoped to evade scrutiny by distracting the public with the allure of military glory—that captivating illusion that rises from bloodshed, tempting destruction—he got himself into this mess, and has kept pushing forward, only to find, now, that things aren't going as planned with how easily Mexico could be defeated. The entire war section of the recent Message feels like the incoherent mumblings of a fevered dream! At one moment stating that Mexico has nothing we want except territory; at another moment showing us how we can fund the war by taking resources from Mexico. One moment emphasizing national honor, future security, preventing foreign interference, and even Mexico's own welfare as reasons for the war; the next, saying that to reject compensation by refusing to accept a land cession would mean abandoning all our rightful demands and fighting the war while covering all its costs without any purpose or clear goal. So, then, national honor, future security, and everything except for land compensation could be seen as having no purpose or clear goals for the war! But now that it’s clear territorial compensation is the only objective, we are urged to seize, through legislation, everything he was willing to take just a few months ago, including the entire province of Lower California, and continue fighting—taking everything we are fighting for and still going to war. Again, the President insists, under any circumstances, on having full territorial compensation for the war's expenses; but he doesn’t explain how we’ll handle the surplus after those costs exceed the total value of all Mexican territory. Furthermore, he insists that Mexico's separate national existence must be maintained; yet he doesn’t say how this will be possible once we've taken all of her territory. To prevent the questions I raise here from being seen as purely speculative, let me take a moment to show they are not.
The war has gone on some twenty months; for the expenses of which, together with an inconsiderable old score, the President now claims about one-half of the Mexican territory, and that by far the better half, so far as concerns our ability to make any thing out of it. It is comparatively uninhabited; so that we could establish land-offices in it, and raise some money in that way. But the other half is already inhabited, as I understand it, tolerably densely for the nature of the country; and all its lands, or all that are valuable, already appropriated as private property. How, then, are we to make any thing out of these lands with this encumbrance on them, or how remove the encumbrance? I suppose no one will say we should kill the people, or drive them out, or make slaves of them, or even confiscate their property? How, then, can we make much out of this part of the territory? If the prosecution of the war has, in expenses, already equalled the better half of the country, how long its future prosecution will be in equalling the less valuable half is not a speculative but a practical question, pressing closely upon us; and yet it is a question which the President seems never to have thought of.
The war has lasted about twenty months, and for the costs of this, along with a small old debt, the President now claims roughly half of the Mexican territory, and that half is by far the more valuable part, at least in terms of our ability to benefit from it. It's relatively uninhabited, so we could set up land offices there and generate some revenue. However, the other half is already populated, as far as I know, quite densely considering the type of land; and all the valuable land is already claimed as private property. So, how are we supposed to make anything from these lands with this burden? How do we remove the burden? I doubt anyone would suggest we should kill the people, drive them out, enslave them, or even take their property. So, how can we profit much from this part of the territory? If the costs of the war have already matched the value of the better half of the country, how long will it take to match the value of the less valuable half? This isn't just a theoretical question; it's a practical one that's pressing us, yet it seems like the President has never considered it.
As to the mode of terminating the war and securing peace, the President is equally wandering and indefinite. First, it is to be done by a more vigorous prosecution of the war in the vital parts of the enemy's country; and, after apparently talking himself tired on this point, the President drops down into a half-despairing tone, and tells us, that "with a people distracted and divided by contending factions, and a government subject to constant changes, by successive revolutions, the continued success of our arms may fail to obtain a satisfactory peace." Then he suggests the propriety of wheedling the Mexican people to desert the counsels of their own leaders, and, trusting in our protection, to set up a government from which we can secure a satisfactory peace, telling us that, "this may become the only mode of obtaining such a peace." But soon he falls into doubt of this, too, and then drops back on to the already half-abandoned ground of "more vigorous prosecution." All this shows that the President is in no wise satisfied with his own positions. First, he takes up one, and, in attempting to argue us into it, he argues himself out of it; then seizes another, and goes through the same process; and then, confused at being able to think of nothing new, he snatches up the old one again, which he has some time before cast off. His mind, tasked beyond its power, is running hither and thither, like some tortured creature on a burning surface, finding no position on which it can settle down and be at ease.
As for how to end the war and achieve peace, the President seems lost and uncertain. First, he suggests that it should be done by stepping up military efforts in key areas of the enemy's territory. After expressing himself on this topic until he seems exhausted, the President shifts to a tone of near despair, telling us that "with a people distracted and divided by conflicting factions, and a government constantly changing due to successive revolutions, the continued success of our arms may fail to obtain a satisfactory peace." Then he proposes that we try to convince the Mexican people to abandon their leaders and rely on our protection to establish a government that can help us achieve a satisfactory peace, claiming that "this may become the only mode of obtaining such a peace." But soon he questions this idea too, reverting back to the already partially discarded notion of "more vigorous prosecution." All of this indicates that the President is not satisfied with his own ideas. He starts with one, then, in trying to persuade us, ends up convincing himself to abandon it; then he grabs another and goes through the same cycle; and when he can think of nothing else, he picks up the old idea he had previously rejected. His mind, overstretched, is darting around like a tormented creature on a hot surface, unable to find a suitable place to rest and feel comfortable.
Again, it is a singular omission in this Message, that it nowhere intimates when the President expects the war to terminate. At its beginning, Gen. Scott was, by this same President, driven into disfavor, if not disgrace, for intimating that peace could not be conquered in less than three or four months. But now at the end of about twenty months, during which time our arms have given us the most splendid successes,—every department, and every part, land and water, officers and privates, regulars and volunteers, doing all that men could do, and hundreds of things which it had ever before been thought that men could not do,—after all this, this same President gives us a long Message without showing us that, as to the end, he has himself even an imaginary conception. As I have before said, he knows not where he is. He is a bewildered, confounded, and miserably perplexed man. God grant he may be able to show that there is not something about his conscience more painful than all his mental perplexity.
Once again, it’s a notable oversight in this message that it doesn’t mention when the President thinks the war will end. At the start, General Scott was pushed out of favor, if not shamed, by this same President for suggesting that peace couldn’t be achieved in less than three or four months. But now, nearly twenty months later, during which our forces have achieved incredible victories—every division, every branch, both land and sea, officers and soldiers, regulars and volunteers have done everything possible, and even hundreds of things previously thought impossible—after all this, the same President delivers a lengthy message without indicating that he has even a vague idea about the end. As I’ve said before, he doesn’t know where he stands. He is a confused, disoriented, and deeply troubled man. I hope he can prove that there’s nothing weighing on his conscience that is more painful than all his mental confusion.
This speech he hastened to send home as soon as it was printed; for, while throughout he trod on unquestionable Whig ground, he had excellent reasons to fear the result. The following is the first letter to Mr. Herndon after the delivery of the speech, and notifying him of the fact:—
This speech was sent home as soon as it was printed because, although he was firmly on Whig territory, he had good reasons to worry about the outcome. The following is the first letter to Mr. Herndon after the speech was delivered, informing him of this fact:—
Washington, Jan. 19, 1848.
Washington, Jan. 19, 1848.
Dear William,—Enclosed you find a letter of Louis W. Candler. What is wanted is, that you shall ascertain whether the claim upon the note described has received any dividend in the Probate Court of Christian County, where the estate of Mr. Overton Williams has been administered on. If nothing is paid on it, withdraw the note and send it to me, so that Candler can see the indorser of it. At all events, write me all about it, till I can somehow get it off hands. I have already been bored more than enough about it; not the least of which annoyance is his cursed, unreadable, and ungodly handwriting.
Dear William,—Attached is a letter from Louis W. Candler. What I need you to do is find out if the claim on the note mentioned has received any payment in the Probate Court of Christian County, where Mr. Overton Williams's estate is being managed. If nothing has been paid on it, please withdraw the note and send it back to me so that Candler can see the endorser. In any case, keep me updated on everything until I can figure out how to handle this. I've already been more than annoyed about it, and his terrible, impossible-to-read handwriting is a big part of the frustration.
I have made a speech, a copy of which I will send you by next mail.
I’ve given a speech, and I’ll send you a copy in the next mail.
Yours as ever,
Forever yours,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
About the last of January, or the first of February, he began to hear the first murmurs of alarm and dissatisfaction from his district. He was now on the defensive, and compelled to write long and tedious letters to pacify some of the Whigs. Of this character are two extremely interesting epistles to Mr. Herndon:—
About the end of January or the start of February, he started to hear the first whispers of concern and dissatisfaction from his district. He was now on the defensive and had to write long and tedious letters to calm down some of the Whigs. Two particularly interesting letters to Mr. Herndon fall into this category:—
Washington, Feb. 1, 1848.
Washington, February 1, 1848.
Dear William,—Your letter of the 19th ult. was received last night, and for which I am much obliged. The only thing in it that I wish to talk to you about at once is, that, because of my vote for Ashmun's amendment, you fear that you and I disagree about the war. I regret this, not because of any fear we shall remain disagreed after you have read this letter, but because if you misunderstand, I fear other good friends may also. That vote affirms, that the war was unnecessarily and unconstitutionally commenced by the President; and I will stake my life, that, if you had been in my place, you would have voted just as I did. Would you have voted what you felt and knew to be a lie? I know you would not. Would you have gone out of the House,—skulked the vote? I expect not. If you had skulked one vote, you would have had to skulk many more before the end of the session. Richardson's resolutions, introduced before I made any move, or gave any vote upon the subject, make the direct question of the justice of the war; so that no man can be silent if he would. You are compelled to speak; and your only alternative is to tell the truth or tell a lie. I cannot doubt which you would do.
Dear William,—I got your letter from the 19th of last month last night, and I'm really grateful for it. The main thing I want to address immediately is your concern that my vote for Ashmun's amendment signals a disagreement between us about the war. I regret this, not because I fear we will still disagree after you've read this letter, but because if you misunderstand, I worry that other good friends might too. That vote indicates that I believe the war was started by the President unnecessarily and unconstitutionally; and I would bet my life that if you had been in my position, you would have voted the same way. Would you have voted for something you felt and knew was a lie? I know you wouldn’t. Would you have left the House to avoid voting? I doubt it. If you had ducked one vote, you'd have to dodge many more before the session ended. Richardson's resolutions, which were introduced before I took any action or cast any vote on the matter, raise the direct question of the war's justice; so no one can stay silent if they want to. You have to speak up; and your only choice is to tell the truth or tell a lie. I have no doubt which option you would choose.
This vote has nothing to do in determining my votes on the questions of supplies. I have always intended, and still intend, to vote supplies; perhaps not in the precise form recommended by the President, but in a better form for all purposes, except Locofoco party purposes. It is in this particular you seem mistaken. The Locos are untiring in their efforts to make the impression that all who vote supplies, or take part in the war, do, of necessity, approve the President's conduct in the beginning of it; but the Whigs have, from the beginning, made and kept the distinction between the two. In the very first act nearly all the Whigs voted against the preamble declaring that war existed by the act of Mexico; and yet nearly all of them voted for the supplies. As to the Whig men who have participated in the war, so far as they have spoken to my hearing, they do not hesitate to denounce as unjust the President's conduct in the beginning of the war. They do not suppose that such denunciation is directed by undying hatred to them, as "The Register" would have it believed. There are two such Whigs on this floor (Col. Haskell and Major James). The former fought as a colonel by the side of Col. Baker, at Cerro Gordo, and stands side by side with me in the vote that you seem dissatisfied with. The latter, the history of whose capture with Cassius Clay you well know, had not arrived here when that vote was given; but, as I understand, he stands ready to give just such a vote whenever an occasion shall present. Baker, too, who is now here, says the truth is undoubtedly that way; and, whenever he shall speak out, he will say so. Col. Donaphin, too, the favorite Whig of Missouri, and who overrun all Northern Mexico, on his return home, in a public speech at St. Louis, condemned the administration in relation to the war, if I remember. G. T. M. Davis, who has been through almost the whole war, declares in favor of Mr. Clay; from which I infer that he adopts the sentiments of Mr. Clay, generally at least. On the other hand, I have heard of but one Whig who has been to the war attempting to justify the President's conduct. That one was Capt. Bishop; editor of "The Charleston Courier," and a very clever fellow. I do not mean this letter for the public, but for you. Before it reaches you, you will have seen and read my pamphlet speech, and, perhaps, scared anew by it. After you get over your scare, read it over again, sentence by sentence, and tell me honestly what you think of it. I condensed all I could for fear of being cut off by the hour rule; and, when I got through, I had spoken but forty-five minutes. Yours forever,
This vote won't affect how I vote on supply issues. I’ve always planned, and still plan, to vote for supplies; maybe not in the exact format the President suggested, but in a better format for all purposes, except for Locofoco party purposes. That's where you're mistaken. The Locofocos tirelessly try to create the impression that everyone who votes for supplies or participates in the war automatically supports the President's actions at the start of it; however, the Whigs have made and maintained a distinction between the two from the very beginning. In the very first act, almost all Whigs voted against the preamble stating that the war was caused by Mexico; and yet, nearly all of them voted for the supplies. As for the Whig members who have been involved in the war, as far as I've heard them speak, they don't hesitate to condemn the President's actions at the beginning of the war as unjust. They don’t believe that this condemnation is fueled by lasting hatred towards him, as "The Register" would have you think. There are two such Whigs in this room (Col. Haskell and Major James). The former fought as a colonel alongside Col. Baker at Cerro Gordo and stands with me to vote in the way you seem unhappy with. The latter, whose capture with Cassius Clay you already know about, wasn’t here when that vote was taken; but from what I understand, he’s ready to cast that exact vote whenever the opportunity comes up. Baker, who is also here, will undoubtedly confirm that this is the truth; and when he speaks out, he’ll say so. Col. Donaphin, the favorite Whig from Missouri, who traversed all of Northern Mexico, publicly condemned the administration regarding the war in a speech in St. Louis, if I remember correctly. G. T. M. Davis, who has experienced almost the entire war, supports Mr. Clay; which leads me to believe he generally shares Mr. Clay’s views at least. On the flip side, I’ve only heard of one Whig who has been to the war trying to justify the President’s actions. That one was Capt. Bishop; editor of "The Charleston Courier," and a very sharp guy. I’m not writing this letter for the public, but for you. By the time it gets to you, you will have seen and read my pamphlet speech and maybe been alarmed by it again. Once you calm down, read it again, sentence by sentence, and honestly tell me what you think. I condensed everything as much as I could for fear of being cut off by the hour rule; and when I finished, I had only spoken for forty-five minutes. Yours forever,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
Washington, Feb. 15, 1848.
Washington, Feb. 15, 1848.
Dear William,—Your letter of the 29th January was received last night. Being exclusively a constitutional argument, I wish to submit some reflections upon it in the same spirit of kindness that I know actuates you. Let me first state what I understand to be your position. It is, that, if it shall become necessary to repel invasion, the President may, without violation of the Constitution, cross the line, and invade the territory of another country; and that whether such necessity exists in any given case, the President is the sole judge.
Dear William, — I received your letter from January 29th last night. Since it's purely a constitutional argument, I’d like to share some thoughts on it with the same kindness that I know motivates you. First, let me explain what I believe your stance is. You argue that if it becomes necessary to repel invasion, the President can, without violating the Constitution, cross the border and invade another country's territory; and that whether such necessity exists in any specific situation, the President is the sole judge.
Before going farther, consider well whether this is, or is not, your position. If it is, it is a position that neither the President himself, nor any friend of his, so far as I know, has ever taken. Their only positions are, first, that the soil was ours where the hostilities commenced; and second, that, whether it was rightfully ours or not, Congress had annexed it, and the President, for that reason, was bound to defend it, both of which are as clearly proved to be false in fact as you can prove that your house is mine. That soil was not ours; and Congress did not annex, or attempt to annex it. But to return to your position. Allow the President to invade a neighboring nation whenever he shall deem it necessary to repel an invasion, and you allow him to do so whenever he may choose to say he deems it necessary for such purpose, and you allow him to make war at pleasure. Study to see if you can fix any limit to his power in this respect, after having given him so much as you propose. If to-day he should choose to say he thinks it necessary to invade Canada, to prevent the British from invading us, how could you stop him? You may say to him, "I see no probability of the British invading us;" but he will say to you, "Be silent: I see it, if you don't."
Before going any further, think carefully about whether this is or isn't your stance. If it is, it’s a stance that neither the President nor any of his friends, as far as I know, have ever taken. Their only positions are, first, that the land where the conflicts started was ours; and second, that regardless of whether it rightfully belonged to us or not, Congress had annexed it, and for that reason, the President was obligated to defend it. Both of these claims are as clearly proven false as you can prove that your house is mine. That land was not ours; and Congress did not annex, or attempt to annex, it. But to return to your stance. If you allow the President to invade a neighboring country whenever he thinks it’s necessary to fend off an invasion, you’re giving him the power to do so whenever he decides to claim it’s necessary for that purpose, essentially allowing him to wage war at will. Consider whether you can set any limits on his power in this regard after granting him so much authority. If today he decides he needs to invade Canada to stop the British from coming after us, how could you stop him? You might say to him, "I don’t see any chance of the British invading us," but he could respond, "Be quiet: I see it, even if you don’t."
The provision of the Constitution giving the war-making power to Congress was dictated, as I understand it, by the following reasons: kings had always been involving and impoverishing their people in wars, pretending generally, if not always, that the good of the people was the object. This our convention understood to be the most oppressive of all kingly oppressions; and they resolved to so frame the Constitution that no one man should hold the power of bringing this oppression upon us. But your view destroys the whole matter, and places our President where kings have always stood.
The part of the Constitution that gives the war-making power to Congress was established, as I understand it, for the following reasons: kings have always dragged their people into wars and made them poorer, usually claiming, if not always, that they were acting for the people's good. Our convention recognized this as the worst type of kingly tyranny; they decided to write the Constitution in a way that ensures no one person can wield the power to impose this tyranny on us. But your perspective undermines the entire issue and puts our President in the same position that kings have always occupied.
Write soon again.
Write back soon.
Yours truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln
But the Whig National Convention to nominate a candidate for the Presidency was to meet at Philadelphia on the 1st of June, and Mr. Lincoln was to be a member. He was not a Clay man: he wanted a candidate that could be elected; and he was for "Old Rough," as the only available material at hand. But let him explain himself:—
But the Whig National Convention to nominate a candidate for the presidency was set to meet in Philadelphia on June 1st, and Mr. Lincoln was going to be a member. He wasn’t a Clay supporter; he wanted a candidate who could actually win, and he backed "Old Rough" as the only viable option available. But let him explain himself:—
Washington, April 30, 1848.
Washington, April 30, 1848.
Dear Williams,—I have not seen in the papers any evidence of a movement to send a delegate from your circuit to the June Convention. I wish to say that I think it all important that a delegate should be sent. Mr. Clay's chance for an election is just no chance at all. He might get New York; and that would have elected in 1844, but it will not now, because he must now, at the least, lose Tennessee, which he had then, and in addition the fifteen new votes of Florida, Texas, Iowa, and Wisconsin. I know our good friend Browning is a great admirer of Mr. Clay, and I therefore fear he is favoring his nomination. If he is, ask him to discard feeling, and try if he can possibly, as a matter of judgment, count the votes necessary to elect him.
Dear Williams, — I haven’t seen any news about a plan to send a delegate from your circuit to the June Convention. I want to emphasize how important it is that we send a delegate. Mr. Clay's chances of getting elected are practically nonexistent. He might win New York, which would have helped him in 1844, but it won’t now, because he will certainly lose Tennessee, which he had back then, plus the fifteen new electoral votes from Florida, Texas, Iowa, and Wisconsin. I know our good friend Browning really admires Mr. Clay, so I worry he might be supporting his nomination. If he is, please ask him to set aside his feelings and realistically assess the votes he needs to win.
In my judgment we can elect nobody but Gen. Taylor; and we cannot elect him without a nomination. Therefore don't fail to send a delegate.
In my opinion, we can only choose Gen. Taylor, and we can't elect him without a nomination. So make sure to send a delegate.
Your friend as ever,
Your friend always,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
To Archibald Williams, Esq.
To Archibald Williams, Esq.
Washington, June 12, 1848.
Washington, June 12, 1848.
Dear Williams,—On my return from Philadelphia, where I had been attending the nomination of "Old Rough," I found your letter in a mass of others which had accumulated in my absence. By many, and often, it had been said they would not abide the nomination of Taylor; but, since the deed has been done, they are fast falling in, and in my opinion we shall have a most overwhelming, glorious triumph. One unmistakable sign is, that all the odds and ends are with us,—Barnburners, Native Americans, Tyler men, disappointed, office-seeking Locofocos, and the Lord knows what. This is important, if in nothing else, in showing which way the wind blows. Some of the sanguine men here set down all the States as certain for Taylor but Illinois, and it is doubtful. Cannot something be done even in Illinois? Taylor's nomination takes the Locos on the blind side. It turns the war thunder against them. The war is now to them the gallows of Haman, which they built for us, and on which they are doomed to be hanged themselves.
Dear Williams,—When I got back from Philadelphia, where I had been attending the nomination of "Old Rough," I found your letter among a pile of others that had stacked up in my absence. Many people have said they wouldn't support Taylor's nomination; however, now that it's happened, they're quickly coming around, and I believe we're headed for a huge, glorious victory. One clear sign is that all kinds of groups are aligning with us—Barnburners, Native Americans, Tyler supporters, disappointed, office-seeking Locofocos, and God knows who else. This is significant, if nothing else, in showing which way the wind is blowing. Some overly optimistic folks here are counting all the states as definitely going for Taylor except Illinois, which is uncertain. Can we do something even in Illinois? Taylor's nomination catches the Locos off guard. It turns the war rhetoric against them. The war is now like the gallows of Haman, which they built for us, but they are the ones who are destined to hang there themselves.
Excuse this short letter. I have so many to write that I cannot devote much time to any one.
Excuse this brief note. I have a lot to write that I can’t spend much time on any one of them.
Yours as ever,
Always yours,
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
But his young partner in the law gave him a great deal of annoyance. Mr. Herndon seems to have been troubled by patriotic scruples. He could not understand how the war had been begun unconstitutionally and unnecessarily by President Polk, nor how the Whigs could vote supplies to carry on the war without indorsing the war itself. Besides all this, he sent news of startling defections; and the weary Representative took up his pen again and again to explain, defend, and advise:—
But his young law partner really annoyed him. Mr. Herndon seemed to be bothered by patriotic concerns. He couldn't grasp how the war had been started unconstitutionally and unnecessarily by President Polk, nor could he understand how the Whigs could approve supplies for the war without supporting the war itself. On top of all this, he reported shocking betrayals; and the exhausted Representative kept picking up his pen again and again to explain, defend, and advise:—
Washington, June 22,1848.
Washington, June 22, 1848.
Dear William,—Last night I was attending a sort of caucus of the Whig members, held in relation to the coming Presidential election. The whole field of the nation was scanned; and all is high hope and confidence. Illinois is expected to better her condition in this race. Under these circumstances, judge how heart-rending it was to come to my room and find and read your discouraging letter of the 15th. We have made no gains, but have lost "H. R. Robinson, Turner, Campbell, and four or five more." Tell Arney to reconsider, if he would be saved. Baker and I used to do something, but I think you attach more importance to our absence than is just. There is another cause: in 1840, for instance, we had two Senators and five Representatives in Sangamon; now, we have part of one Senator and two Representatives. With quite one-third more people than we had then, we have only half the sort of offices which are sought by men of the speaking sort of talent. This, I think, is the chief cause. Now, as to the young men. You must not wait to be brought forward by the older men. For instance, do you suppose that I should ever have got into notice if I had waited to be hunted up and pushed forward by older men. You young men get together and form a Rough and Ready Club, and have regular meetings and speeches. Take in everybody that you can get. Harrison, Grimsley, Z. A. Enos, Lee Kimball, and C. W. Matheny will do to begin the thing; but, as you go along, gather up all the shrewd, wild boys about town, whether just of age or a little under age,—Chris. Logan, Reddick Ridgely, Lewis Zwizler, and hundreds such. Let every one play the part he can play best,—some speak, some sing, and all hollow (holler ED). Your meetings will be of evenings; the older men, and the women, will go to hear you; so that it will not only contribute to the election of "Old Zack," but will be an interesting pastime, and improving to the intellectual faculties of all engaged. Don't fail to do this.
Dear William, —Last night I attended a meeting of the Whig members focused on the upcoming Presidential election. We considered the whole national situation, and everyone is filled with high hopes and confidence. Illinois is expected to improve its standing in this race. Given this, you can imagine how heartbreaking it was to return to my room and read your discouraging letter from the 15th. We haven’t made any gains, but we've lost "H. R. Robinson, Turner, Campbell, and four or five more.” Tell Arney to reconsider, if he wants to be saved. Baker and I used to do something, but I think you place more importance on our absence than is fair. There’s another issue: in 1840, for example, we had two Senators and five Representatives in Sangamon; now we only have part of one Senator and two Representatives. With nearly one-third more people than we had then, we only have half the offices that people with speaking talent usually seek. I believe this is the main reason. Now, regarding the young men. You shouldn’t wait to be brought forward by the older generation. For instance, do you think I would have ever gained recognition if I had waited to be found and pushed forward by older men? You young guys should come together and form a Rough and Ready Club, and have regular meetings and speeches. Include everyone you can. Harrison, Grimsley, Z. A. Enos, Lee Kimball, and C. W. Matheny are good to start with; but as you progress, gather all the clever, energetic boys around town, whether they’ve just turned 18 or are a bit younger—like Chris. Logan, Reddick Ridgely, Lewis Zwizler, and many others. Let everyone contribute in the best way they can—some should speak, some can sing, and everyone can cheer. Your meetings will be in the evenings, and the older men and women will come to hear you; this will not only help elect "Old Zack," but also provide an interesting pastime that will enhance the intellectual abilities of everyone involved. Don’t forget to do this.
You ask me to send you all the speeches made about "Old Zack," the war, &c., &c. Now, this makes me a little impatient. I have regularly sent you "The Congressional Globe" and "Appendix," and you cannot have examined them, or you would have discovered that they contain every speech made by every man in both Houses of Congress, on every subject, during the session. Can I send any more? Can I send speeches that nobody has made? Thinking it would be most natural that the newspapers would feel interested to give at least some of the speeches to their readers, I, at the beginning of the session, made arrangements to have one copy of "The Globe" and "Appendix" regularly sent to each Whig paper of the district. And yet, with the exception of my own little speech, which was published in two only of the then five, now four, Whig papers, I do not remember having seen a single speech, or even extract from one, in any single one of those papers. With equal and full means on both sides, I will venture that "The State Register" has thrown before its readers more of Locofoco speeches in a month than all the Whig papers of the district have done of Whig speeches during the session.
You ask me to send you all the speeches about "Old Zack," the war, etc. Now, this is starting to make me a bit impatient. I have regularly sent you "The Congressional Globe" and "Appendix," and you can't have looked through them, or you would have found that they include every speech given by every person in both Houses of Congress on every topic during the session. Is there anything more I can send? Can I send speeches that no one has made? Thinking it would be natural for the newspapers to want to share at least some of the speeches with their readers, I arranged at the start of the session to have one copy of "The Globe" and "Appendix" sent regularly to each Whig paper in the district. Yet, except for my own small speech, which was published in only two of the five Whig papers at the time — and now there are four — I don’t recall seeing a single speech or even a snippet from one in any of those papers. With equal resources on both sides, I bet that "The State Register" has presented its readers with more Locofoco speeches in a month than all the Whig papers in the district have published of Whig speeches during the session.
If you wish a full understanding of the war, I repeat what I believe I said to you in a letter once before, that the whole, or nearly so, is to be found in the speech of Dixon of Connecticut. This I sent you in pamphlet, as well, as in "The Globe." Examine and study every sentence of that speech thoroughly, and you will understand the whole subject.
If you want to fully understand the war, I’ll say again what I think I mentioned in a previous letter: nearly everything you need to know is in the speech by Dixon from Connecticut. I sent it to you in a pamphlet and also in "The Globe." Take the time to examine and study every sentence of that speech closely, and you’ll grasp the entire topic.
You ask how Congress came to declare that war had existed by the act of Mexico. Is it possible you don't understand that yet? You have at least twenty speeches in your possession that fully explain it. I will, however, try it once more. The news reached Washington of the commencement of hostilities on the Rio Grande, and of the great peril of Gen. Taylor's army. Everybody, Whigs and Democrats, was for sending them aid, in men and money. It was necessary to pass a bill for this. The Locos had a majority in both Houses, and they brought in a bill with a preamble, saying, Whereas, War exists by the act of Mexico, therefore we send Gen. Taylor money. The Whigs moved to strike out the preamble, so that they could vote to send the men and money, without saying any thing about how the war commenced; but, being in the minority, they were voted down, and the preamble was retained. Then, on the passage of the bill, the question came upon them, "Shall we vote for preamble and bill both together, or against both together?" They did not want to vote against sending help to Gen. Taylor, and therefore they voted for both together. Is there any difficulty in understanding this? Even my little speech shows how this was; and, if you will go to the library, you may get "The Journal" of 1845-46, in which you can find the whole for yourself.
You ask how Congress declared that war was caused by Mexico. Are you really not clear on that yet? You have at least twenty speeches that explain it fully. I'll try again. The news reached Washington about the start of hostilities on the Rio Grande and the serious danger facing Gen. Taylor's army. Everyone, both Whigs and Democrats, supported sending them aid, in soldiers and money. It was necessary to pass a bill for this. The Democrats had a majority in both Houses, and they introduced a bill with a preamble stating, Whereas, war exists due to Mexico's actions, therefore we will send Gen. Taylor money. The Whigs tried to remove the preamble so they could vote to send the men and money without addressing how the war started, but since they were in the minority, they were voted down, and the preamble stayed. Then, when it came time to vote on the bill, they had to decide, "Should we vote for both the preamble and the bill together, or against both?" They didn’t want to oppose sending help to Gen. Taylor, so they voted for both. Is there any confusion about this? Even my small speech illustrates how this happened; and if you go to the library, you can find "The Journal" from 1845-46, where you can see the entire situation for yourself.
We have nothing published yet with special reference to the Taylor race; but we soon will have, and then I will send them to everybody. I made an internal-improvement speech day before yesterday, which I shall send home as soon as I can get it written out and printed,—and which I suppose nobody will read.
We haven't published anything yet specifically about the Taylor race; but we will soon, and then I’ll send it to everyone. I gave a speech about internal improvements the day before yesterday, which I’ll send home as soon as I can write it out and print it—and I assume no one will read it.
Your friend as ever,
Your friend, as always,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
Washington, July 10, 1848.
Washington, July 10, 1848.
Dear William,—Your letter covering the newspaper slips was received last night. The subject of that letter is exceedingly painful to me; and I cannot but think there is some mistake in your impression of the motives of the old men. I suppose I am now one of the old men; and I declare, on my veracity, which I think is good with you, that nothing could afford me more satisfaction than to learn that you and others of my young friends at home were doing battle in the contest, and endearing themselves to the people, and taking a stand far above any I have ever been able to reach in their admiration. I cannot conceive that other old men feel differently. Of course, I cannot demonstrate what I say; but I was young once, and I am sure I was never ungenerously thrust back. I hardly know what to say. The way for a young man to rise is to improve himself every way he can, never suspecting that anybody wishes to hinder him. Allow me to assure you that suspicion and jealousy never did help any man in any situation. There may sometimes be ungenerous attempts to keep a young man down; and they will succeed, too, if he allows his mind to be diverted from its true channel, to brood over the attempted injury. Cast about, and see if this feeling has not injured every person you have ever known to fall into it.
Dear William,—I received your letter with the newspaper clippings last night. The topic of your letter is really painful for me; and I can’t help but think there’s some misunderstanding about the intentions of the older generation. I suppose I’m now one of those older folks; and I swear, on my good name, which I believe you trust, that nothing would make me happier than to hear that you and our other young friends at home are actively engaging in the struggle, endearing yourselves to the people, and achieving a level of admiration that I’ve never reached. I can’t imagine that other older men feel any differently. Of course, I can’t prove what I’m saying; but I was once young too, and I know I was never unfairly pushed back. I hardly know what else to say. The way for a young man to succeed is to constantly improve himself, never thinking that anyone wants to hold him back. Trust me when I say that suspicion and jealousy have never helped anyone in any situation. Sometimes, there may be unkind attempts to keep a young man down; and those attempts will succeed if he allows his mind to stray from its true path and dwell on the perceived slights. Look around and see if this mindset hasn’t harmed everyone you’ve ever known who has fallen into it.
Now, in what I have said, I am sure you will suspect nothing but sincere friendship. I would save you from a fatal error. You have been a laborious, studious young man. You are far better informed on almost all subjects than I have ever been. You cannot fail in any laudable object, unless you allow your mind to be improperly directed. I have some the advantage of you in the world's experience, merely by being older; and it is this that induces me to advise.
Now, based on what I've said, I'm sure you'll think nothing but genuine friendship from me. I want to save you from making a serious mistake. You've worked hard and studied a lot. You know much more about almost everything than I ever have. You can't fail in any worthy goal unless you let your thoughts go off track. I have some advantage over you in life experience, simply because I'm older, and that's why I feel compelled to give you this advice.
You still seem to be a little mistaken about "The Congressional Globe" and "Appendix." They contain all of the speeches that are published in any way. My speech and Dayton's speech, which you say you got in pamphlet form, are both, word for word, in the "Appendix." I repeat again, all are there.
You still appear to be a bit confused about "The Congressional Globe" and "Appendix." They include all the speeches that are published in any format. My speech and Dayton's speech, which you say you received in pamphlet form, are both, word for word, in the "Appendix." I’ll say it again, they're all there.
Your friend, as ever,
Your friend, as always,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
The "internal-improvement" speech to which Mr. Lincoln alludes in one of these letters was delivered on the 20th of June, and contained nothing remarkable or especially characteristic. It was in the main merely the usual Whig argument in favor of the constitutionality of Mr. Clay's "American System."
The "internal-improvement" speech that Mr. Lincoln refers to in one of these letters was given on June 20th and didn't have anything notable or particularly distinctive. It was basically just the standard Whig argument supporting the constitutionality of Mr. Clay's "American System."
But, after the nominations at Baltimore and Philadelphia, everybody in either House of Congress who could compose any thing at all "on his legs," or in the closet, felt it incumbent upon him to contribute at least one electioneering speech to the political literature of the day. At last, on the 27th of July, Mr. Lincoln found an opportunity to make his. Few like it have ever been heard in either of those venerable chambers. It is a common remark of those who know nothing of the subject, that Mr. Lincoln was devoid of imagination; but the reader of this speech will entertain a different opinion. It opens to us a mind fertile in images sufficiently rare and striking, but of somewhat questionable taste. It must have been heard in amazement by those gentlemen of the House who had never known a Hanks, or seen a New Salem.
But after the nominations in Baltimore and Philadelphia, everyone in either House of Congress who could come up with anything "on their feet," or in private, felt it was their duty to contribute at least one election speech to the political conversation of the day. Finally, on July 27th, Mr. Lincoln found a chance to deliver his. Few speeches like it have ever been heard in those historic chambers. It's a common saying among those unfamiliar with the topic that Mr. Lincoln lacked imagination; however, anyone who reads this speech will have a different view. It reveals a mind rich in images that are both rare and striking, though somewhat questionable in taste. Those gentlemen in the House who had never encountered a Hanks or seen a New Salem must have listened in amazement.
SPEECH ON THE PRESIDENCY AND GENERAL POLITICS. DELIVERED IN THE HOUSE, JULY 27, 1848.
SPEECH ON THE PRESIDENCY AND GENERAL POLITICS. DELIVERED IN THE HOUSE, JULY 27, 1848.
Mr. Speaker,—Our Democratic friends seem to be in great distress because they think our candidate for the Presidency don't suit us. Most of them cannot find out that Gen. Taylor has any principles at all; some, however, have discovered that he has one, but that that one is entirely wrong. This one principle is his position on the veto power. The gentleman from Tennessee (Mr. Stanton), who has just taken his seat, indeed, has said there is very little, if any, difference on this question between Gen. Taylor and all the Presidents; and he seems to think it sufficient detraction from Gen. Taylor's position on it, that it has nothing new in it. But all others whom I have heard speak assail it furiously. A new member from Kentucky (Mr. Clarke) of very considerable ability, was in particular concern about it. He thought it altogether novel and unprecedented for a President, or a Presidential candidate, to think of approving bills whose constitutionality may not be entirely clear to his own mind. He thinks the ark of our safety is gone, unless Presidents shall always veto such bills as, in their judgment, may be of doubtful constitutionality. However clear Congress may be of their authority to pass any particular act, the gentleman from Kentucky thinks the President must veto it if he has doubts about it. Now, I have neither time nor inclination to argue with the gentleman on the veto power as an original question; but I wish to show that Gen. Taylor, and not he, agrees with the earliest statesmen on this question. When the bill chartering the first Bank of the United States passed Congress, its constitutionality was questioned; Mr. Madison, then in the House of Representatives, as well as others, had opposed it on that ground. Gen. Washington, as President, was called on to approve or reject it. He sought and obtained, on the constitutional question, the separate written opinions of Jefferson, Hamilton, and Edmund Randolph; they then being respectively Secretary of State, Secretary of the Treasury, and Attorney-General. Hamilton's opinion was for the power; while Randolph's and Jefferson's were both against it. Mr. Jefferson, in his letter dated Feb. 15, 1791, after giving his opinion decidedly against the constitutionality of that bill, closed with the paragraph which I now read:—
Mr. Speaker,—Our Democratic friends seem quite upset because they believe our candidate for the Presidency doesn’t fit us. Most of them can’t figure out that Gen. Taylor has any principles at all; some, however, have found that he has one, but consider it completely wrong. This single principle is his stance on the veto power. The gentleman from Tennessee (Mr. Stanton), who just took his seat, mentioned that there is very little, if any, difference on this issue between Gen. Taylor and all the Presidents; and he seems to think it’s enough to critique Gen. Taylor’s stance on it by saying it’s nothing new. But everyone else I’ve heard speak attacks it vigorously. A new member from Kentucky (Mr. Clarke), who is quite capable, was especially worried about it. He thinks it’s entirely new and unprecedented for a President, or a Presidential candidate, to consider approving bills whose constitutionality may not be entirely clear to him. He believes our safety is compromised unless Presidents always veto any bills that, in their judgment, might be constitutionally questionable. No matter how clear Congress might think they are regarding their authority to pass a particular act, the gentleman from Kentucky thinks the President must veto it if he has doubts. Now, I have neither the time nor the desire to debate with the gentleman on the veto power as an original issue; but I want to illustrate that Gen. Taylor, rather than him, agrees with the earliest statesmen on this matter. When the bill chartering the first Bank of the United States passed Congress, its constitutionality was questioned; Mr. Madison, then in the House of Representatives, as well as others, opposed it on that basis. Gen. Washington, as President, was called upon to approve or reject it. He sought and got, on the constitutional question, separate written opinions from Jefferson, Hamilton, and Edmund Randolph; who were respectively Secretary of State, Secretary of the Treasury, and Attorney-General at that time. Hamilton’s opinion supported the power, while Randolph’s and Jefferson’s were against it. Mr. Jefferson, in his letter dated Feb. 15, 1791, after clearly stating his opinion against the constitutionality of that bill, concluded with the paragraph that I am now reading:—
"It must be admitted, however, that, unless the President's mind, on a view of every thing which is urged for and against this bill, is tolerably clear that it is unauthorized by the Constitution; if the pro and the con hang so even as to balance his judgment, a just respect for the wisdom of the Legislature would naturally decide the balance in favor of their opinion; it is chiefly for cases where they are clearly misled by error, ambition, or interest, that the Constitution has placed a check in the negative of the President."
"It must be acknowledged, however, that unless the President is fairly certain, after considering all the arguments for and against this bill, that it isn’t authorized by the Constitution; if the arguments on both sides are balanced enough to sway his judgment, a proper respect for the wisdom of the Legislature would likely tip the scales in favor of their opinion. The Constitution mainly provides a check on the President’s veto power for instances where the Legislature is clearly misled by error, ambition, or self-interest."
Gen. Taylor's opinion, as expressed in his Allison letter, is as I now read:—
Gen. Taylor's opinion, as expressed in his Allison letter, is how I understand it now:—
"The power given by the veto is a high conservative power, but, in my opinion, should never be exercised, except in cases of clear violation of the Constitution, or manifest haste and want of consideration by Congress."
"The power of the veto is a strong conservative power, but I believe it should only be used in clear cases of violating the Constitution or when Congress is acting too quickly and without proper consideration."
It is here seen, that, in Mr. Jefferson's opinion, if, on the constitutionality of any given bill, the President doubts, he is not to veto it, as the gentleman from Kentucky would have him to do, but is to defer to Congress, and approve it. And if we compare the opinions of Jefferson and Taylor, as expressed in these paragraphs, we shall find them more exactly alike than we can often find any two expressions having any literal difference. None but interested fault-finders can discover any substantial variation.
It is evident that, according to Mr. Jefferson, if the President has any doubts about the constitutionality of a bill, he should not veto it, as the gentleman from Kentucky suggests, but rather defer to Congress and approve it. If we compare the views of Jefferson and Taylor as expressed in these paragraphs, we'll find them to be more closely aligned than we typically see in cases with even slight differences. Only those with a vested interest in finding faults would claim there's a significant variation.
But gentlemen on the other side are unanimously agreed that Gen. Taylor has no other principle. They are in utter darkness as to his opinions on any of the questions of policy which occupy the public attention. But is there any doubt as to what he will do on the prominent question, if elected? Not the least. It is not possible to know what he will or would do in every imaginable case, because many questions have passed away, and others doubtless will arise, which none of us have yet thought of; but on the prominent questions of currency, tariff, internal improvements, and Wilmot Proviso, Gen. Taylor's course is at least as well defined as is Gen. Cass's. Why, in their eagerness to get at Gen. Taylor, several Democratic members here have desired to know whether, in case of his election, a bankrupt-law is to be established. Can they tell us Gen. Cass's opinion on this question? (Some member answered, He is against it.") Ay, how do you know he is? There is nothing about it in the platform, nor elsewhere, that I have seen. If the gentleman knows any thing which I do not, he can show it. But to return: Gen. Taylor, in his Allison letter, says,—
But the guys on the other side all agree that Gen. Taylor has no clear stance. They're completely in the dark about his views on any of the policy issues people are concerned about. But is there any doubt about what he would do on the key issue if he gets elected? Not at all. It’s impossible to predict what he would do in every possible scenario because some questions are outdated, and others will come up that none of us have considered yet. However, on the key issues of currency, tariffs, internal improvements, and the Wilmot Proviso, Gen. Taylor's position is at least as clear as Gen. Cass's. In fact, in their hurry to understand Gen. Taylor, several Democratic members here have asked whether a bankruptcy law would be established if he's elected. Can they tell us what Gen. Cass thinks about this issue? (Someone responded, "He’s against it.") Really, how do you know that? There's nothing in the platform or anywhere else I've seen that confirms it. If anyone knows something I don't, they can show it. But to get back to the point: Gen. Taylor, in his letter to Allison, says,—
"Upon the subject of the tariff, the currency, the improvement of our great highways, rivers, lakes, and harbors, the will of the people, as expressed through their Representatives in Congress, ought to be respected and carried out by the Executive."
"Regarding the tariff, currency, and the improvement of our major highways, rivers, lakes, and harbors, the will of the people, as expressed through their Representatives in Congress, should be respected and implemented by the Executive."
Now, this is the whole matter: in substance, it is this: The people say to Gen. Taylor, "If you are elected, shall we have a national bank?" He answers, "Your will, gentlemen, not mine"—"What about the tariff?"—"Say yourselves."—"Shall our rivers and harbors be improved?"—"Just as you please."—"If you desire a bank, an alteration of the tariff, internal improvements, any or all, I will not hinder you: if you do not desire them, I will not attempt to force them on you. Send up your members of Congress from the various districts, with opinions according to your own, and if they are for these measures, or any of them, I shall have nothing to oppose: if they are not for them, I shall not, by any appliances whatever, attempt to dragoon them into their adoption." Now, can there be any difficulty in understanding this? To you, Democrats, it may not seem like principle; but surely you cannot fail to perceive the position plain enough. The distinction between it and the position of your candidate is broad and obvious, and I admit you have a clear right to show it is wrong, if you can; but you have no right to pretend you cannot see it at all. We see it, and to us it appears like principle, and the best sort of principle at that,—the principle of allowing the people to do as they please with their own business. My friend from Indiana (Mr. C. B. Smith) has aptly asked, "Are you willing to trust the people?" Some of you answered substantially, "We are willing to trust the people; but the President is as much the representative of the people as Congress." In a certain sense, and to a certain extent, he is the representative of the people. He is elected by them as well as Congress is. But can he, in the nature of things, know the wants of the people as well as three hundred other men coming from all the various localities of the nation? If so, where is the propriety of having a Congress? That the Constitution gives the President a negative on legislation, all know; but that this negative should be so combined with platforms and other appliances as to enable him, and, in fact, almost compel him, to take the whole of legislation into his own hands, is what we object to, is what Gen. Taylor objects to, and is what constitutes the broad distinction between you and us. To thus transfer legislation is clearly to take it from those who understand with minuteness the interests of the people, and give it to one who does not and cannot so well understand it. I understand your idea,—that if a Presidential candidate avow his opinion upon a given question, or rather upon all questions, and the people, with full knowledge of this, elect him, they thereby distinctly approve all those opinions. This, though plausible, is a most pernicious deception. By means of it, measures are adopted or rejected contrary to the wishes of the whole of one party, and often nearly half of the other. The process is this: Three, four, or half a dozen questions are prominent at a given time; the party selects its candidate, and he takes his position on each of these questions. On all but one his positions have already been indorsed at former elections, and his party fully committed to them; but that one is new, and a large portion of them are against it. But what are they to do? The whole are strung together, and they must take all or reject all. They cannot take what they like, and leave the rest. What they are already committed to being the majority, they shut their eyes and gulp the whole. Next election, still another is introduced in the same way. If we run our eyes along the line of the past, we shall see that almost, if not quite, all the articles of the present Democratic creed have been at first forced upon the party in this very way. And just now, and just so, opposition to internal improvements is to be established if Gen. Cass shall be elected. Almost half the Democrats here are for improvements, but they will vote for Cass; and, if he succeeds, their votes will have aided in closing the doors against improvements. Now, this is a process which we think is wrong. We prefer a candidate, who, like Gen. Taylor, will allow the people to have their own way, regardless of his private opinion; and I should think the internal-improvement Democrats, at least, ought to prefer such a candidate. He would force nothing on them which they don't want; and he would allow them to have improvements which their own candidate, if elected, will not.
Now, here’s the gist of the matter: The people ask Gen. Taylor, "If you get elected, will we have a national bank?" He replies, "It's up to you, gentlemen, not me."—"What about the tariff?"—"That's for you to decide."—"Should we improve our rivers and harbors?"—"As you see fit."—"If you want a bank, a change in the tariff, internal improvements, any or all of these, I won't stand in your way: if you don't want them, I won’t push them on you. Send your Congress members from the different districts, with opinions that reflect yours, and if they support these ideas or any of them, I won't have anything against it: if they oppose them, I won't try to force them to adopt them in any way." Now, can this be hard to understand? To you, Democrats, it may not seem principled; but surely you can see the position clearly. The difference between it and your candidate's position is broad and clear, and I admit you have every right to show it's wrong if you can; but you have no right to pretend you can't see it at all. We see it, and it seems like principle to us, and the best kind of principle at that—the principle of letting the people manage their own affairs. My friend from Indiana (Mr. C. B. Smith) has eloquently asked, "Are you willing to trust the people?" Some of you answered essentially, "We are willing to trust the people, but the President is just as much the representative of the people as Congress." In a way, and to a certain extent, he is a representative of the people. He’s elected by them just like Congress is. But can he, by nature, understand the needs of the people as well as three hundred other individuals coming from different areas of the country? If he can, then what's the point of having Congress? Everyone knows the Constitution gives the President a veto over legislation; however, that this veto should be so intertwined with platforms and other tools that he can, in fact, almost force all legislation into his own hands is what we oppose, what Gen. Taylor opposes, and what forms the clear distinction between you and us. Transferring legislation this way clearly takes it from those who fully understand the people's interests and gives it to one who does not and cannot understand as well. I get your point—that if a presidential candidate clearly states his position on an issue, or on all issues, and the people knowingly elect him, they are approving all of those opinions. This, though it seems reasonable, is a harmful deception. Because of this, measures are passed or rejected against the wishes of an entire party and often nearly half of the other party. The process is like this: at a given time, there are three, four, or several prominent questions; the party picks its candidate, and he states his position on each of these issues. On all but one, his positions have been endorsed in previous elections, and his party is fully committed to them; but that one is new, and many within the party oppose it. So what are they supposed to do? Everything is bundled together, so they have to either take all or reject all. They can't pick what they like and leave the rest. Since what they're already committed to is the majority, they close their eyes and accept everything. The next election, yet another issue is thrown into the mix like this. If we look back, we can see that nearly all the points of the current Democratic platform have been initially forced onto the party in this very way. And just now, opposition to internal improvements is going to be established if Gen. Cass gets elected. Nearly half the Democrats here are for improvements, but they will vote for Cass; and if he wins, their votes will have contributed to shutting the door on improvements. Now, this is a process we believe is wrong. We prefer a candidate, like Gen. Taylor, who will let the people have their way, regardless of his personal opinion; and I think the Democrats who support internal improvements would at least prefer such a candidate. He wouldn't impose anything they don’t want; and he would allow them to have improvements that their own candidate, if elected, will not.
Mr. Speaker, I have said Gen. Taylor's position is as well defined as is that of Gen. Cass. In saying this, I admit I do not certainly know what he would do on the Wilmot Proviso. I am a Northern man, or, rather, a Western Free State man, with a constituency I believe to be, and with personal feelings I know to be, against the extension of slavery. As such, and with what information I have, I hope and believe Gen. Taylor, if elected, would not veto the proviso; but I do not know it. Yet, if I knew he would, I still would vote for him. I should do so, because, in my judgment, his election alone can defeat Gen. Cass; and because, should slavery thereby go into the territory we now have, just so much will certainly happen by the election of Cass, and, in addition, a course of policy leading to new wars, new acquisitions of territory, and still farther extensions of slavery. One of the two is to be President; which is preferable?
Mr. Speaker, I believe Gen. Taylor's stance is as clearly defined as Gen. Cass's. While I admit I don't know for sure how he would act on the Wilmot Proviso, I am a Northern man, or more accurately, a Western Free State man, with a community I believe, and feelings I know, oppose the expansion of slavery. Given this and the information I have, I hope and believe Gen. Taylor, if elected, wouldn’t veto the proviso; however, I don’t know that for a fact. Still, even if I knew he would, I would still vote for him. I would do so because I think his election is the only way to defeat Gen. Cass; and because, if slavery does extend into the territory we currently have, that will definitely happen if Cass is elected, along with a series of policies that could lead to new wars, more territory being taken, and even further expansions of slavery. One of these two will be President; which option is better?
But there is as much doubt of Cass on improvements as there is of Taylor on the proviso. I have no doubt myself of Gen. Cass on this question, but I know the Democrats differ among themselves as to his position. My internal-improvement colleague (Mr. Wentworth) stated on this floor the other day, that he was satisfied Cass was for improvements, because he had voted for all the bills that he (Mr. W.) had. So far, so good. But Mr. Polk vetoed some of these very bills; the Baltimore Convention passed a set of resolutions, among other things, approving these vetoes; and Cass declares, in his letter accepting the nomination, that he has carefully read these resolutions, and that he adheres to them as firmly as he approves them cordially. In other words, Gen. Cass voted for the bills, and thinks the President did right to veto them; and his friends here are amiable enough to consider him as being on one side or the other, just as one or the other may correspond with their own respective inclinations. My colleague admits that the platform declares against the constitutionality of a general system of improvement, and that Gen. Cass indorses the platform; but he still thinks Gen. Cass is in favor of some sort of improvements. Well, what are they? As he is against general objects, those he is for must be particular and local. Now, this is taking the subject precisely by the wrong end.
But there's just as much doubt about Cass on improvements as there is about Taylor on the proviso. Personally, I have no doubt about Gen. Cass on this issue, but I know the Democrats have differing opinions about where he stands. My colleague in internal improvements (Mr. Wentworth) mentioned on this floor the other day that he was sure Cass supported improvements because he had voted for all the bills that Mr. W. had as well. So far, so good. However, Mr. Polk vetoed some of those very bills; the Baltimore Convention passed a set of resolutions that, among other things, supported these vetoes; and Cass stated in his letter accepting the nomination that he has thoroughly read these resolutions and firmly adheres to them just as he wholeheartedly approves of them. In other words, Gen. Cass voted for the bills and believes the President was right to veto them, and his supporters here are nice enough to consider him on one side or the other, depending on what aligns with their own preferences. My colleague acknowledges that the platform opposes the constitutionality of a general system of improvement and that Gen. Cass endorses the platform; yet, he still believes Gen. Cass is in favor of some kind of improvements. So, what exactly are they? Since he's against general projects, the ones he supports must be specific and local. This approach is completely missing the point.
Particularity—expending the money of the whole people for an object which will benefit only a portion of them—is the greatest real objection to improvements, and has been so held by Gen. Jackson, Mr. Polk, and all others, I believe, till now. But now, behold, the objects most general, nearest free from this objection, are to be rejected, while those most liable to it are to be embraced. To return: I cannot help believing that Gen. Cass, when he wrote his letter of acceptance, well understood he was to be claimed by the advocates of both sides of this question, and that he then closed the door against all further expressions of opinion, purposely to retain the benefits of that double position. His subsequent equivocation at Cleveland, to my mind, proves such to have been the case.
Particularity—spending the money of the entire population for a purpose that only benefits a segment of them—is the biggest real argument against improvements, and I believe it has been viewed this way by Gen. Jackson, Mr. Polk, and many others up until now. But now, look, the most broadly beneficial goals, which are least affected by this issue, are being dismissed, while those most vulnerable to this criticism are being accepted. To go back: I can’t help but think that Gen. Cass, when he wrote his acceptance letter, knew he would be claimed by supporters of both sides of this debate, and that he deliberately closed off further expressions of opinion to maintain the advantages of that dual stance. His later indecision in Cleveland, in my view, confirms this.
One word more, and I shall have done with this branch of the subject. You Democrats and your candidate, in the main, are in favor of laying down in advance a platform,—a set of party positions, as a unit; and then of enforcing the people, by every sort of appliance, to ratify them, however unpalatable some of them may be. We and our candidate are in favor of making Presidential elections and the legislation of the country distinct matters; so that the people can elect whom they please, and afterward legislate just as they please, without any hinderance, save only so much as may guard against infractions of the Constitution, undue haste, and want of consideration. The difference between us is clear as noonday. That we are right, we cannot doubt. We hold the true republican position. In leaving the people's business in their hands, we cannot be wrong. We are willing, and even anxious, to go to the people on this issue.
One last thing, and I'll wrap up this part of the discussion. You Democrats and your candidate mainly support establishing a platform in advance—a set of party positions as a whole—and then forcing the people to approve them, no matter how unpopular some may be. Our candidate and we believe in keeping Presidential elections and the country's legislation separate, so that people can elect whoever they want and then create laws freely, without any obstacles, except for what might protect against violations of the Constitution, rushing things, and lack of careful consideration. The difference between us is as clear as day. We have no doubt we're right. We stand by the true republican position. By letting the people handle their own affairs, we can't be wrong. We're ready, and even eager, to bring this issue to the people.
But I suppose I cannot reasonably hope to convince you that we have any principles. The most I can expect is, to assure you that we think we have, and are quite contented with them. The other day, one of the gentlemen from Georgia (Mr. Iverson), an eloquent man, and a man of learning, so far as I can judge, not being learned myself, came down upon us astonishingly. He spoke in what "The Baltimore American" calls the "scathing and withering style." At the end of his second severe flash I was struck blind, and found myself feeling with my fingers for an assurance of my continued physical existence. A little of the bone was left, and I gradually revived. He eulogized Mr. Clay in high and beautiful terms, and then declared that we had deserted all our principles, and had turned Henry Clay out, like an old horse, to root. This is terribly severe. It cannot be answered by argument; at least, I cannot so answer it. I merely wish to ask the gentleman if the Whigs are the only party he can think of, who sometimes turn old horses out to root? Is not a certain Martin Van Buren an old horse which your own party have turned out to root? and is he not rooting a little to your discomfort about now? But, in not nominating Mr. Clay, we deserted our principles, you say. Ah! in what? Tell us, ye men of principles, what principle we violated? We say you did violate principle in discarding Van Buren, and we can tell you how. You violated the primary, the cardinal, the one great living principle of all Democratic representative government,—the principle that the representative is bound to carry out the known will of his constituents. A large majority of the Baltimore Convention of 1844 were, by their constituents, instructed to procure Van Buren's nomination if they could. In violation, in utter, glaring contempt of this, you rejected him,—rejected him, as the gentleman from New York (Mr. Birdsall), the other day expressly admitted, for availability,—that same "general availability" which you charge upon us, and daily chew over here, as something exceedingly odious and unprincipled. But the gentleman from Georgia (Mr. Iverson) gave us a second speech yesterday, all well considered and put down in writing, in which Van Buren was scathed and withered a "few" for his present position and movements. I cannot remember the gentleman's precise language, but I do remember he put Van Buren down, down, till he got him where he was finally to "stink" and "rot."
But I guess I can’t realistically expect to convince you that we have any principles. The best I can hope for is to assure you that we believe we do and we’re pretty satisfied with them. The other day, one of the guys from Georgia (Mr. Iverson), who is a very persuasive speaker and seems to be knowledgeable, came down on us pretty hard. He spoke in what "The Baltimore American" describes as the "scathing and withering style." By the end of his second harsh comment, I felt completely stunned and had to check with my hands to make sure I was still physically here. Luckily, I had a bit of strength left, and I slowly came back to life. He praised Mr. Clay with high and beautiful words, and then claimed that we had abandoned all our principles and sent Henry Clay out like an old horse to forage. That is really harsh. It can’t be responded to with a straightforward argument; at least, I can’t do that. I just want to ask the gentleman if the Whigs are the only party he can think of that sometimes sends old horses out to graze? Isn't a certain Martin Van Buren an old horse that your own party has sent out to forage? And isn't he causing you a bit of trouble right now? But because we didn’t nominate Mr. Clay, you say we abandoned our principles. Ah! In what regard? Tell us, oh men of principles, what principle we violated? We say you did violate principle by abandoning Van Buren, and we can explain how. You violated the primary, fundamental, and essential principle of all Democratic representative government—the principle that a representative must carry out the known will of their constituents. A large majority of the Baltimore Convention of 1844 were instructed by their constituents to nominate Van Buren if they could. In blatant disregard of this, you rejected him—rejected him, as the gentleman from New York (Mr. Birdsall) just admitted, for availability—that same "general availability" which you accuse us of and constantly criticize here as something extremely unpleasant and unprincipled. But the gentleman from Georgia (Mr. Iverson) gave us another speech yesterday, which was well thought out and written down, in which he criticized Van Buren for his current position and actions. I can’t recall his exact word choice, but I do remember he drove Van Buren down, down, until he finally suggested he would "stink" and "rot."
Mr. Speaker, it is no business or inclination of mine to defend Martin Van Buren. In the war of extermination now waging between him and his old admirers, I say, Devil take the hindmost—and the foremost. But there is no mistaking the origin of the breach; and, if the curse of "stinking" and "rotting" is to fall on the first and greatest violators of principle in the matter, I disinterestedly suggest, that the gentleman from Georgia and his present co-workers are bound to take it upon themselves.
Mr. Speaker, I have no interest or desire to defend Martin Van Buren. In the ongoing battle between him and his former supporters, I say, may the devil take both the last and the first. But we can't deny where the split came from; if the blame of being "stinking" and "rotting" is going to fall on the main offenders of principle in this matter, I honestly suggest that the gentleman from Georgia and his current associates will have to bear it.
While I have Gen. Cass in hand, I wish to say a word about his political principles. As a specimen, I take the record of his progress on the Wilmot Proviso. In "The Washington Union" of March 2, 1847, there is a report of the speech of Gen. Cass, made the day before in the Senate, on the Wilmot Proviso, during the delivery of which, Mr. Miller of New Jersey is reported to have interrupted him as follows, to wit:—
While I have Gen. Cass in hand, I want to mention his political principles. As an example, I refer to his stance on the Wilmot Proviso. In "The Washington Union" from March 2, 1847, there is a report of Gen. Cass's speech in the Senate the day before, discussing the Wilmot Proviso. During this speech, Mr. Miller from New Jersey reportedly interrupted him with the following comments:—
"Mr. Miller expressed his great surprise at the change in the sentiments of the Senator from Michigan, who had been regarded as the great champion of freedom in the North-west, of which he was a distinguished ornament. Last year the Senator from Michigan was understood to be decidedly in favor of the Wilmot Proviso; and, as no reason had been stated for the change, he (Mr. Miller) could not refrain from the expression of his extreme surprise."
"Mr. Miller was very surprised by the shift in the Senator from Michigan's views, who had been seen as a leading supporter of freedom in the Northwest, where he was a prominent figure. Last year, the Senator from Michigan was clearly in favor of the Wilmot Proviso; and since no explanation had been given for the change, he (Mr. Miller) couldn't help but express his shock."
To this, Gen. Cass is reported to have replied as follows, to wit:—
To this, Gen. Cass is said to have replied as follows:—
"Mr. Cass said, that the course of the Senator from New Jersey was most extraordinary. Last year he (Mr. Cass) should have voted for the proposition had it come up. But circumstances had altogether changed. The honorable Senator then read several passages from the remarks as given above which he had committed to writing, in order to refute such a charge as that of the Senator from New Jersey."
"Mr. Cass said that the actions of the Senator from New Jersey were quite extraordinary. Last year, he (Mr. Cass) would have voted for the proposal had it been presented. But things have completely changed. The honorable Senator then read several excerpts from the comments he had written down to counter the accusations made by the Senator from New Jersey."
In the "remarks above committed to writing," is one numbered 4, as follows, to wit:—
In the "remarks written above," there is one numbered 4, as follows:—
"4th. Legislation would now be wholly imperative, because no territory hereafter to be acquired can be governed without an act of Congress providing for its government. And such an act, on its passage, would open the whole subject, and leave the Congress called on to pass it free to exercise its own discretion, entirely uncontrolled by any declaration found in the statute-book."
"4th. Legislation is now completely required because any territory acquired in the future can’t be governed without a law passed by Congress outlining its government. Once this law is passed, it would cover the entire topic and allow Congress to make its own decisions without being restricted by any existing laws."
In "Niles's Register," vol. lxxiii., p. 293, there is a letter of Gen. Cas? to A. O. P. Nicholson of Nashville, Tenn., dated Dec. 24, 1847, from which the following are correct extracts:—
In "Niles's Register," vol. lxxiii., p. 293, there is a letter from Gen. Cas? to A. O. P. Nicholson of Nashville, Tenn., dated Dec. 24, 1847, from which the following are accurate extracts:—
"The Wilmot Proviso has been before the country some time. It has been repeatedly discussed in Congress, and by the public press. I am strongly impressed with the opinion that a great change has been going on in the public mind upon this subject,—in my own as well as others; and that doubts are resolving themselves into convictions, that the principle it involves should be kept out of the national Legislature, and left to the people of the Confederacy in their respective local governments.
"The Wilmot Proviso has been a topic of discussion in the country for a while now. It has been debated in Congress and covered by the media repeatedly. I strongly believe that a significant shift is occurring in public opinion on this issue—not just mine, but others too; and that doubts are turning into strong beliefs that this principle should be kept out of the national government and left to the people of the Confederacy in their local governments."
"Briefly, then, I am opposed to the exercise of any jurisdiction by Congress over this matter; and I am in favor of leaving the people of any territory which may be hereafter acquired, the right to regulate it themselves, under the general principles of the Constitution. Because,
"To sum it up, I’m against Congress having any control over this issue; I believe that the people in any territory we may acquire in the future should have the right to govern themselves, following the general principles of the Constitution. Because,"
"1. I do not see in the Constitution any grant of the requisite power to Congress; and I am not disposed to extend a doubtful precedent beyond its necessity,—the establishment of territorial governments when needed,—leaving to the inhabitants all the rights compatible with the relations they bear to the Confederation."
"1. I don't see any power granted to Congress in the Constitution; and I'm not willing to extend a questionable precedent beyond what is necessary—the establishment of territorial governments when needed—while allowing the inhabitants all the rights that fit with their relationship to the Confederation."
These extracts show, that, in 1846, Gen. Cass was for the Proviso at once; that, in March, 1847, he was still for it, but not just then; and that in December, 1847, he was against it altogether. This is a true index to the whole man. When the question was raised in 1846, he was in a blustering hurry to take ground for it. He sought to be in advance, and to avoid the uninteresting position of a mere follower; but soon he began to see glimpses of the great Democratic ox-gad waving in his face, and to hear indistinctly a voice saying, "Back!" "Back, sir!" "Back a little!" He shakes his head, and bats his eyes, and blunders back to his position of March, 1847; but still the gad waves, and the voice grows more distinct, and sharper still,—"Back, sir!" "Back, I say!" "Further back!" and back he goes to the position of December, 1847; at which the gad is still, and the voice soothingly says, "So!" "Stand still at that."
These excerpts show that in 1846, Gen. Cass was in favor of the Proviso right away; that in March 1847, he still supported it, but not at that moment; and that by December 1847, he was against it entirely. This accurately reflects his overall character. When the issue came up in 1846, he was eager to take a stand in support of it. He wanted to lead rather than be seen as just a follower; but soon he began to sense the looming consequences of the Democratic party’s position and heard a voice faintly warning him, “Back!” “Back, sir!” “Just back a little!” He shook his head, blinked, and awkwardly returned to his stance from March 1847; but the warning persisted, the voice becoming clearer and sharper—“Back, sir!” “I said back!” “Further back!” And so he retreated to the position he held in December 1847; at which point the warning ceased, and the voice gently said, “Good! Just stay there.”
Have no fears, gentlemen, of your candidate: he exactly suits you, and we congratulate you upon it. However much you may be distressed about our candidate, you have all cause to be contented and happy with your own. If elected, he may not maintain all, or even any, of his positions previously taken; but he will be sure to do whatever the party exigency, for the time being, may require; and that is precisely what you want. He and Van Buren are the same "manner of men;" and, like Van Buren, he will never desert you till you first desert him.
Don't worry, gentlemen, about your candidate: he’s a perfect fit for you, and we congratulate you on that. No matter how concerned you might be about our candidate, you have every reason to feel satisfied and happy with your own. If elected, he might not stick to all, or even any, of his previous positions; but he will definitely do whatever the party needs at that moment, which is exactly what you want. He and Van Buren are the same type of person; and, like Van Buren, he won’t abandon you until you abandon him first.
[After referring at some length to extra "charges" of Gen. Cass upon the Treasury, Mr. Lincoln continued:—-]
[After referring at some length to extra "charges" of Gen. Cass on the Treasury, Mr. Lincoln continued:—-]
But I have introduced Gen. Cass's accounts here chiefly to show the wonderful physical capacities of the man. They show that he not only did the labor of several men at the same time, but that he often did it, at several places many hundred miles apart, at the same time. And at eating, too, his capacities are shown to be quite as wonderful. From October, 1821, to May, 1822, he ate ten rations a day in Michigan, ten rations a day here in Washington, and nearly five dollars' worth a day besides, partly on the road between the two places. And then there is an important discovery in his example,—the art of being paid for what one eats, instead of having to pay for it. Hereafter, if any nice young man shall owe a bill which he cannot pay in any other way, he can just board it out. Mr. Speaker, we have all heard of the animal standing in doubt between two stacks of hay, and starving to death: the like of that would never happen to Gen. Cass. Place the stacks a thousand miles apart, he would stand stock-still, midway between them, and eat them both at once; and the green grass along the line would be apt to suffer some, too, at the same time. By all means make him President, gentlemen. He will feed you bounteously—if—if—there is any left after he shall have helped himself.
But I've shared General Cass's stories here mainly to highlight the man's incredible physical abilities. They show he not only worked like several people at the same time but also managed to do it at multiple locations hundreds of miles apart, all simultaneously. His eating abilities are just as impressive. From October 1821 to May 1822, he consumed ten rations a day in Michigan, ten rations a day here in Washington, and nearly five dollars' worth of food daily, often while traveling between the two locations. Plus, there's a key lesson in his example—the ability to get paid for what you eat instead of paying for it. From now on, if any upstanding young man finds himself with a bill he can't pay any other way, he can simply “board it out.” Mr. Speaker, we've all heard of the animal that hesitates between two stacks of hay and ends up starving to death: that would never happen to General Cass. Even if you put the stacks a thousand miles apart, he'd stand perfectly still, right in between them, and eat from both at the same time. The grass along the way would probably suffer too. So let's make him President, gentlemen. He'll feed you well—if—if—there's anything left after he's had his fill.
But as Gen. Taylor is, par excellence, the hero of the Mexican War, and as you Democrats say we Whigs have always opposed the war, you think it must be very awkward and embarrassing for us to go for Gen. Taylor. The declaration that we have always opposed the war is true or false accordingly as one may understand the term "opposing the war." If to say "the war was unnecessarily and unconstitutionally commenced by the President," by opposing the war, then the Whigs have very generally opposed it. Whenever they have spoken at all, they have said this; and they have said it on what has appeared good reason to them: the marching an army into the midst of a peaceful Mexican settlement, frightening the inhabitants away, leaving their growing crops and other property to destruction, to you may appear a perfectly amiable, peaceful, unprovoking procedure; but it does not appear so to us. So to call such an act, to us appears no other than a naked, impudent absurdity, and we speak of it accordingly. But if when the war had begun, and had become the cause of the country, the giving of our money and our blood, in common with yours, was support of the war, then it is not true that we have always opposed the war. With few individual exceptions, you have constantly had our votes here for all the necessary supplies. And, more than this, you have had the services, the blood, and the lives of our political brethren in every trial, and on every field. The beardless boy and the mature man, the humble and the distinguished,—you have had them. Through suffering and death, by disease and in battle, they have endured and fought and fallen with you. Clay and Webster each gave a son, never to be returned. From the State of my own residence, besides other worthy but less known Whig names, we sent Marshall, Morrison, Baker, and Hardin: they all fought, and one fell, and in the fall of that one we lost our best Whig man. Nor were the Whigs few in number, or laggard in the day of danger. In that fearful, bloody, breathless struggle at Buena Vista, where each man's hard task was to beat back five foes or die himself, of the five high officers who perished, four were Whigs.
But since Gen. Taylor is, without a doubt, the hero of the Mexican War, and since you Democrats claim that we Whigs have always opposed the war, you think it must be pretty awkward and embarrassing for us to support Gen. Taylor. The statement that we have always opposed the war is true or false depending on how one interprets the term "opposing the war." If saying "the war was started unnecessarily and unconstitutionally by the President" counts as opposing the war, then the Whigs have mostly opposed it. Whenever they have spoken at all, they have expressed this view, and they've done so based on what they felt were good reasons: marching an army into a peaceful Mexican settlement, scaring the inhabitants away, and leaving their crops and property to be destroyed might seem perfectly friendly and harmless to you, but it doesn't appear that way to us. To call such an act, in our view, is nothing more than a blatant absurdity, and we speak about it as such. However, if when the war began, it became about the country and required us to contribute our money and lives alongside yours, then it's inaccurate to say we have always opposed the war. With few individual exceptions, you have continually received our votes here for all the necessary supplies. More than that, you have had the efforts, blood, and lives of our political allies in every battle and on every front. The young and the old, the humble and the distinguished—you had them all. Through suffering and death, by illness and in combat, they have endured, fought, and fallen with you. Clay and Webster each lost a son who would never return. From my own state, in addition to other deserving but lesser-known Whig names, we sent Marshall, Morrison, Baker, and Hardin: they all fought, and one fell, and in the loss of that one, we lost our best Whig man. The Whigs were not few in number, nor did they hesitate in times of danger. In that fierce, bloody, breathless battle at Buena Vista, where each man's challenge was to fend off five enemies or die himself, four of the five high-ranking officers who were killed were Whigs.
In speaking of this, I mean no odious comparison between the lion-hearted Whigs and Democrats who fought there. On other occasions, and among the lower officers and privates on that occasion, I doubt not the proportion was different. I wish to do justice to all. I think of all those brave men as Americans, in whose proud fame, as an American, I, too, have a share. Many of them, Whigs and Democrats, are my constituents and personal friends; and I thank them,—more than thank them,—one and all, for the high, imperishable honor they have conferred on our common State.
In talking about this, I’m not trying to draw an ugly comparison between the courageous Whigs and Democrats who fought there. On different occasions, especially among the lower-ranking officers and soldiers present, I’m sure the proportion was different. I want to give credit to everyone. I see all those brave men as Americans, and in their proud legacy, I share a part as an American too. Many of them, both Whigs and Democrats, are my constituents and personal friends; I’m grateful to them—more than just grateful—for the lasting honor they’ve brought to our shared state.
But the distinction between the cause of the President in beginning the war, and the cause of the country after it was begun, is a distinction which you cannot perceive. To you, the President and the country seem to be all one. You are interested to see no distinction between them; and I venture to suggest that possibly your interest blinds you a little. We see the distinction, as we think, clearly enough; and our friends, who have fought in the war, have no difficulty in seeing it also. What those who have fallen would say, were they alive and here, of course we can never know; but with those who have returned there is no difficulty. Col. Haskell and Major Gaines, members here, both fought in the war; and one of them underwent extraordinary perils and hardships; still they, like all other Whigs here, vote on the record that the war was unnecessarily and unconstitutionally commenced by the President. And even Gen. Taylor himself, the noblest Roman of them all, has declared that, as a citizen, and particularly as a soldier, it is sufficient for him to know that his country is at war with a foreign nation, to do all in his power to bring it to a speedy and honorable termination, by the most vigorous and energetic operations, without inquiring about its justice, or any thing else connected with it.
But the difference between the reason the President started the war and the reason the country continues it is something you just can’t see. To you, the President and the country seem to be the same. You seem to be uninterested in seeing any distinction between them, and I might suggest that your interest is clouding your judgment a bit. We see the difference clearly enough, or so we believe; and our friends who fought in the war have no trouble recognizing it either. We can never know what those who died would say if they were alive and here, but the returning soldiers see it clearly. Col. Haskell and Major Gaines, who are both here and fought in the war, faced incredible dangers and hardships; yet they, along with all the other Whigs here, vote based on the record that the war was started unnecessarily and unconstitutionally by the President. Even Gen. Taylor himself, the most honorable of them all, has stated that, as a citizen, and especially as a soldier, it’s enough for him to know that his country is at war with another nation, to do everything in his power to bring it to a quick and honorable end with the most vigorous and energetic actions, without questioning its justice or anything else related to it.
Mr. Speaker, let our Democratic friends be comforted with the assurance that we are content with our position, content with our company, and content with our candidate; and that although they, in their generous sympathy, think we ought to be miserable, we really are not, and that they may dismiss the great anxiety they have on our account.1
Mr. Speaker, let's assure our Democratic friends that we are satisfied with our position, happy with our team, and pleased with our candidate; and that even though they, in their kind-heartedness, believe we should be unhappy, we actually are not, and they can put aside their great concern for us.
1 The following passage has generally been omitted from this speech, as published in the "Lives of Lincoln." The reason for the omission is quite obvious.
1 This part has typically been excluded from this speech, as shown in the "Lives of Lincoln." The reason for leaving it out is pretty obvious.
"But the gentleman from Georgia further says, we have deserted all our principles, and taken shelter under Gen. Taylor's military coat-tail; and he seems to think this is exceedingly degrading. Well, as his faith is, so be it unto him. But can he remember no other military coat-tail, under which a certain other party have been sheltering for near a quarter of a century? Has he no acquaintance with the ample military coat-tail of Gen. Jackson? Does he not know that his own party have run the last five Presidential races under that coat-tail? and that they are now running the sixth under the same cover? Yes, sir, that coat-tail was used, not only for Gen, Jackson himself, but has been clung to with the grip of death by every Democratic candidate since. You have never ventured, and dare not now venture, from under it. Your campaign papers have constantly been 'Old Hickories,' with rude likenesses of the old general upon them; hickory poles and hickory brooms your never-ending emblems. Mr. Polk himself was 'Young Hickory.' 'Little Hickory,' or something so; and even now your campaign paper here is proclaiming that Cass and Butler are of the 'Hickory stripe.' No, sir, you dare not give it up. Like a horde of hungry ticks, you have stuck to the tail of the Hermitage lion to the end of his life; and you are still sticking to it, and drawing a loathsome sustenance from it, after he is dead. A fellow once advertised that he had made a discovery by which he could make a new man out of an old one, and have enough of the stuff left to make a little yellow dog. Just such a discovery has Gen. Jackson's popularity been to you. You not only twice made President of him out of it, but you have enough of the stuff left to make Presidents of several comparatively small men since; and it is your chief reliance now to make still another.
"But the guy from Georgia also says that we’ve abandoned all our principles and are hiding behind General Taylor’s military coat; he thinks that’s really degrading. Well, that’s his belief, so let him have it. But can he not remember any other military coat that a certain other party has been hiding under for nearly twenty-five years? Does he not know about General Jackson's big military coat? Doesn’t he realize that his own party has run the last five Presidential races using that coat, and now they’re running the sixth one under the same cover? Yes, that coat was used not just for General Jackson himself, but every Democratic candidate since has clung to it for dear life. You’ve never dared to step outside of it, and you can’t now. Your campaign materials have always been 'Old Hickory,' featuring crude likenesses of the old general; hickory poles and hickory brooms are your never-ending symbols. Mr. Polk was even called 'Young Hickory.' 'Little Hickory,' or something like that; and even now your campaign material is claiming that Cass and Butler are of the 'Hickory stripe.' No, you can’t let it go. Like a swarm of hungry ticks, you’ve clung to the tail of the Hermitage lion until the end of his life, and you’re still clinging to it, drawing a disgusting sustenance from it even after he’s dead. Someone once claimed he discovered a way to turn an old man into a new one, with enough leftover material to create a little yellow dog. That’s exactly how General Jackson's popularity has been to you. You not only made him President twice from that, but you’ve also had enough of it left to make Presidents out of several smaller men since; and it's your main hope now to create yet another."
"Mr. Speaker, old horses and military coat-tails, or tails of any sort, are not figures of speech such as I would be the first to introduce into discussions here; but, as the gentleman from Georgia has thought fit to introduce them, he and you are welcome to all you have made, or can make, by them. If you have any more old horses, trot them out; any more tails, just cock them, and come at us.
"Mr. Speaker, old horses and military coat-tails, or tails of any kind, are not expressions I would typically use in our discussions here. However, since the gentleman from Georgia has decided to bring them up, he and you can have everything you’ve made or can make from them. If you have any more old horses, bring them out; any more tails, just show them, and come at us."
"I repeat, I would not introduce this mode of discussion here; but I wish gentlemen on the other side to understand, that the use of degrading figures is a game at which they may find themselves unable to take all the winnings. ["We give it up."] Ay, you give it up, and well you may; but for a very different reason from that which you would have us understand. The point—the power to hurt—of all figures, consists in the truthfulness of their application; and, understanding this, you may well give it up. They are weapons which hit you, but miss us.
"I'll say it again, I wouldn't bring this type of discussion here; but I want the guys on the other side to realize that using degrading figures is a game they might not be able to win. ["We give it up."] Yes, you give it up, and it's a good thing you do; but for a very different reason than you want us to believe. The key—the ability to hurt—of all figures lies in the truthfulness of how they’re used; and knowing this, it makes sense for you to walk away. They’re weapons that hit you, but miss us."
"But, in my hurry, I was very near closing on this subject of military tails before I was done with it. There is one entire article of the sort I have not discussed yet; I mean the military tail you Democrats are now engaged in dovetailing on to the great Michigander. Yes, sir, all his biographers (and they are legion) have him in hand, tying him to a military tail, like so many mischievous boys tying a dog to a bladder of beans. True, the material is very limited, but they are at it might and main. He invaded Canada without resistance, and he outvaded it without pursuit. As he did both under orders, I suppose there was, to him, neither credit nor discredit; but they are made to constitute a large part of the tail. He was not at Hull's surrender, but he was close by; he was volunteer aid to Gen. Harrison on the day of the battle of the Thames; and, as you said in 1840 Harrison was picking whortleberries two miles off while the battle was fought, I suppose it is a just conclusion, with you, to say Cass was aiding Harrison to pick whortleberries. This is about all, except the mooted question of the broken sword. Some authors say he broke it; some say he threw it away; and some others, who ought to know, say nothing about it. Perhaps it would be a fair historical compromise to say, if he did not break it, he did not do any thing else with it.
"But in my rush, I was almost ready to wrap up this discussion about military tails before I finished. There’s one whole article of this kind I haven’t touched on yet; I’m talking about the military tail you Democrats are now trying to attach to the great Michigander. Yes, sir, all his biographers (and there are many) have him in their sights, linking him to a military tail, like mischievous kids tying a dog to a balloon filled with beans. Sure, the material is quite limited, but they’re working hard at it. He invaded Canada without facing any resistance, and he got away from it without being pursued. Since he did both under orders, I guess there was no credit or blame in his eyes; yet those actions are made to form a big part of the tail. He wasn’t present at Hull’s surrender, but he was nearby; he served as a volunteer aide to Gen. Harrison on the day of the Battle of the Thames; and, as you said in 1840, Harrison was picking berries two miles away while the battle was happening, so I guess it's a reasonable conclusion for you to say Cass was helping Harrison pick berries. That’s basically it, except for the debated issue of the broken sword. Some writers say he broke it; some say he threw it away; and others, who should know better, say nothing about it at all. Maybe a fair historical compromise would be to say that if he didn’t break it, he certainly didn’t do anything else with it."
"By the way, Mr. Speaker, did you know I am a military hero? Yes sir: in the days of the Black-Hawk War, I fought, bled, and came away. Speaking of Gen. Cass's career reminds me of my own. I was not at Stillman's defeat, but I was about as near it as Cass was to Hull's surrender; and, like him, I saw the place very soon afterwards. It is quite certain I did not break my sword, for I had none to break; but I bent my musket pretty badly on one occasion. If Cass broke his sword, the idea is, he broke it in desperation: I bent the musket by accident. If Gen. Cass went in advance of me picking whortleberries,
"By the way, Mr. Speaker, did you know I'm a military hero? Yes, I am: during the Black Hawk War, I fought, bled, and came out alive. Speaking of Gen. Cass's career reminds me of my own. I wasn't at Stillman's defeat, but I was pretty close, just like Cass was to Hull's surrender; and, like him, I visited the site shortly after. It's clear I didn't break my sword because I didn't have one to break; but I did bend my musket pretty badly once. If Cass broke his sword, it's likely he did it in a moment of desperation; I bent my musket by accident. If Gen. Cass was out ahead of me picking huckleberries,
I guess I surpassed him in charges upon the wild onions. If he saw any live fighting Indians, it was more than I did, but I had a good many bloody struggles with the mosquitoes; and, although I never fainted from loss of blood, I can truly say I was often very hungry, "Mr. Speaker, if ever I should conclude to doff whatever our Democratic friends may suppose there is of black-cockade Federalism about me, and, thereupon, they shall take me up as their candidate for the Presidency, I protest that they shall not make fun of me, as they have of Gen. Cass, by attempting to write me into a military hero."
I guess I outdid him when it comes to the wild onions. If he encountered any live fighting Indians, it was definitely more than I did, but I had my fair share of bloody battles with mosquitoes; and, even though I never passed out from blood loss, I can honestly say I was often very hungry. "Mr. Speaker, if I ever decide to shed whatever our Democratic friends think is black-cockade Federalism in me and they choose to nominate me as their candidate for the Presidency, I insist that they don’t mock me like they did with Gen. Cass by trying to turn me into a military hero."
Congress adjourned on the 14th of August; but Mr. Lincoln went up to New England, and made various campaign speeches before he returned home. They were not preserved, and were probably of little importance.
Congress adjourned on August 14th; however, Mr. Lincoln traveled to New England and gave several campaign speeches before heading back home. These speeches were not recorded and were likely of little significance.
Soon after his return to Washington, to take his seat at the second session of the Thirtieth Congress, he received a letter from his father, which astonished and perhaps amused him. His reply intimates grave doubts concerning the veracity of his correspondent.
Soon after he returned to Washington to begin the second session of the Thirtieth Congress, he got a letter from his father that surprised and maybe even amused him. His response suggests he had serious doubts about the truthfulness of what his father wrote.
Washington, Dec. 24, 1848. My dear Father,—Your letter of the 7th was received night before last. I very cheerfully send you the twenty dollars, which sum you say is necessary to save your land from sale. It is singular that you should have forgotten a judgment against you; and it is more singular that the plaintiff should have let you forget it so long; particularly as I suppose you always had property enough to satisfy a judgment of that amount. Before you pay it, it would be well to be sure you have not paid, or at least that you cannot prove you have paid it.
Washington, Dec. 24, 1848. My dear Father,—I got your letter from the 7th the night before last. I'm happy to send you the twenty dollars you mentioned, which you need to save your land from being sold. It's strange that you forgot about a judgment against you; even stranger that the plaintiff has allowed you to forget it for so long, especially since I assume you’ve always had enough property to cover a judgment of that amount. Before you pay it, make sure you haven’t already paid it, or at least that you can’t prove you have.
Give my love to mother and all the connections.
Give my love to Mom and everyone else.
Affectionately your son,
Love, your son,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
The second session was a quiet one. Mr. Lincoln did nothing to attract public attention in any marked degree. He attended diligently and unobtrusively to the ordinary duties of his office, and voted generally with the Whig majority. One Mr. Gott, however, of New York, offered a resolution looking to the abolition of the slave-trade in the District of Columbia, and Mr. Lincoln was one of only three or four Northern Whigs who voted to lay the resolution on the table. At another time, however, Mr. Lincoln proposed a substitute for the Gott resolution, providing for gradual and compensated emancipation, with the consent of the people of the District, to be ascertained at a general election. This measure he evidently abandoned, and it died a natural death among the rubbish of "unfinished business." His record on the Wilmot Proviso has been thoroughly exposed, both by himself and Mr. Douglas, and in the Presidential campaign by his friends and foes. He said himself, that he had voted for it "about forty-two times." It is not likely that he had counted the votes when he made this statement, but spoke according to the best of his "knowledge and belief."
The second session was pretty uneventful. Mr. Lincoln didn’t do anything to draw significant public attention. He attended to his usual duties quietly and mostly voted with the Whig majority. However, a Mr. Gott from New York put forward a resolution aimed at ending the slave trade in the District of Columbia, and Mr. Lincoln was one of only three or four Northern Whigs who voted to set the resolution aside. At another point, Mr. Lincoln suggested an alternative to the Gott resolution that called for gradual and compensated emancipation, provided the people of the District approved it through a general election. He eventually dropped this idea, and it faded away among the other "unfinished business." His stance on the Wilmot Proviso has been thoroughly discussed, both by him and Mr. Douglas, and during the presidential campaign by both supporters and opponents. He claimed that he had voted for it "about forty-two times." It’s unlikely he had actually counted the votes when he said this, but he spoke based on his best "knowledge and belief."
The following letters are printed, not because they illustrate the author's character more than a thousand others would, but because they exhibit one of the many perplexities of Congressional life.
The letters below are included, not because they show the author's character better than many others would, but because they highlight one of the many complexities of Congressional life.
Springfield, April 25, 1849.
Springfield, April 25, 1849.
Dear Thompson,—A tirade is still kept up against me here for recommending T. R. King. This morning it is openly avowed that my supposed influence at Washington shall be broken down generally, and King's prospects defeated in particular. Now, what I have done in this matter, I have done at the request of you and some other friends in Tazewell; and I therefore ask you to either admit it is wrong, or come forward and sustain me. If the truth will permit, I propose that you sustain me in the following manner: copy the enclosed scrap in your own handwriting, and get everybody (not three or four, but three or four hundred) to sign it, and then send it to me. Also, have six, eight, or ten of our best known Whig friends there to write me individual letters, stating the truth in this matter as they understand it. Don't neglect or delay in the matter. I understand information of an indictment having been found against him about three years ago for gaming, or keeping a gaming-house, has been sent to the Department. I shall try to take care of it at the Department till your action can be had and forwarded on.
Dear Thompson, — There’s still a lot of criticism directed at me here for recommending T. R. King. This morning, it was openly stated that my supposed influence in Washington will be undermined overall, and King’s chances specifically. Now, what I’ve done in this matter was at the request of you and some other friends in Tazewell; so, I ask you to either acknowledge that it’s wrong or step up to support me. If the truth allows, I suggest that you back me in the following way: write the enclosed note in your own handwriting, get everyone (not just three or four, but three or four hundred) to sign it, and then send it to me. Also, have six, eight, or ten of our well-known Whig friends there write me individual letters explaining the truth about this situation as they see it. Don’t ignore or delay this matter. I’ve heard that information about an indictment from about three years ago for gaming, or running a gaming house, has been sent to the Department. I’ll try to manage it at the Department until I can get your response and forward it.
Yours as ever,
Always yours,
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
Washington, June 5, 1849.
Washington, June 5, 1849.
Dear William,—Your two letters were received last night. I have a great many letters to write, and so cannot write very long ones. There must be some mistake about Walter Davis saying I promised him the Post-office. I did not so promise him. I did tell him, that, if the distribution of the offices should fall into my hands, he should have something; and, if I shall be convinced he has said any more than this, I shall be disappointed.
Dear William, — I received your two letters last night. I have a lot of letters to write, so I can't write very long ones. There must be some misunderstanding about Walter Davis claiming I promised him the Post-office. I didn't make that promise. I did tell him that if the distribution of the offices came my way, he would get something; and if I find out that he has said anything more than this, I will be disappointed.
I said this much to him, because, as I understand, he is of good character, is one of the young men, is of the mechanics, and always faithful, and never troublesome, a Whig and is poor, with the support of a widow-mother thrown almost exclusively on him by the death of his brother. If these are wrong reasons, then I have been wrong; but I have certainly not been selfish in it, because, in my greatest need of friends, he was against me and for Baker.
I said this much to him because, as I understand it, he has a good character, is one of the younger guys, works in mechanics, is always dependable, and never causes trouble. He’s a Whig and is poor, with the responsibility of supporting a widowed mother left almost entirely on him after his brother passed away. If these reasons are wrong, then I’ve been mistaken; but I certainly haven't acted out of selfishness, because when I needed friends the most, he was against me and supported Baker.
Yours as ever,
Yours always,
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
P. S.—Let the above be confidential.
P.S.—Please keep the above information confidential.
CHAPTER XIII
LIKE most other public men in America, Mr. Lincoln made his bread by the practice of his profession, and the better part of his fame by the achievements of the politician. He was a lawyer of some note, and, compared with the crowds who annually take upon themselves the responsible office of advocate and attorney, he might very justly have been called a good one; for he regarded his office as a trust, and selected and tried his cases, not with a view to personal gain, but to the administration of justice between suitors. And here, midway in his political career, it is well enough to pause, and take a leisurely survey of him in his other character of country lawyer, from the time he entered the bar at Springfield until he was translated from it to the Presidential chair. It is unnecessary to remind the reader (for by this time it must be obvious enough) that the aim of the writer is merely to present facts and contemporaneous opinions, with as little comment as possible.
LIKE most public figures in America, Mr. Lincoln earned a living through his profession, and he gained much of his reputation from his accomplishments as a politician. He was a well-regarded lawyer, and when compared to the many who take on the serious responsibilities of advocate and attorney each year, he could rightly be seen as a good one; he viewed his role as a trust and chose and handled his cases not for personal gain, but to ensure justice for all involved. Now, midway through his political journey, it's a good time to pause and take a detailed look at him in his other role as a country lawyer, from the time he joined the bar in Springfield until he was elevated to the Presidential office. There's no need to remind the reader (as it should be quite clear by now) that the goal of the writer is simply to present facts and opinions from that time, with as little commentary as possible.
In the courts and at the bar-meetings immediately succeeding his death, his professional brethren poured out in volumes their testimony to his worth and abilities as a lawyer. But, in estimating the value of this testimony, it is fair to consider the state of the public mind at the time it was given,—the recent triumph of the Federal arms under his direction; the late overwhelming indorsement of his administration; the unparalleled devotion of the people to his person as exhibited at the polls; the fresh and bitter memories of the hideous tragedy that took him off; the furious and deadly passions it inspired in the one party, and the awe, indignation, and terror it inspired in the other. It was no time for nice and critical examinations, either of his mental or his moral character; and it might have been attended with personal danger to attempt them. For days and nights together it was considered treason to be seen in public with a smile on the face. Men who spoke evil of the fallen chief, or even ventured a doubt concerning the ineffable purity and saintliness of his life, were pursued by mobs, were beaten to death with paving-stones, or strung up by the neck to lampposts. If there was any rivalry, it was as to who should be foremost and fiercest among his avengers, who should canonize him in the most solemn words, who should compare him to the most sacred character in all history, sacred and profane. He was prophet, priest, and king; he was Washington; he was Moses; and there were not wanting even those who likened him to the God and Redeemer of all the earth. These latter thought they discovered in his lowly origin, his kindly nature, his benevolent precepts, and the homely anecdotes in which he taught the people, strong points of resemblance between him and the divine Son of Mary. Even at this day, men are not wanting in prominent positions in life, who knew Mr. Lincoln well, and who do not hesitate to make such a comparison.
In the courts and at the bar meetings right after his death, his colleagues shared their thoughts on his worth and skills as a lawyer in great detail. However, when considering the value of these statements, it's important to think about the public mood at that time—the recent success of the Federal forces under his leadership, the strong support of his administration, the people's extraordinary loyalty to him shown at the polls, the fresh and painful memories of the terrible tragedy that took his life, the fierce and deadly feelings it stirred in one political party, and the awe, anger, and fear it caused in the other. It wasn't a time for careful and critical evaluations of his intellect or character; trying to do so could have posed a personal risk. For days and nights, it was seen as treason to be out in public with a smile. People who spoke badly of the fallen leader or even dared to question the absolute purity and saintliness of his life were targeted by mobs, beaten to death with paving stones, or hanged from lampposts. If there was any competition, it was about who could be the most upfront and passionate among his avengers, who could canonize him in the most serious terms, and who could compare him to the most revered figures in all of history, both sacred and secular. He was a prophet, priest, and king; he was Washington; he was Moses; and some even compared him to the God and Savior of the world. These individuals believed they saw in his humble beginnings, his kind nature, his generous teachings, and the everyday stories he used to educate the people strong similarities between him and the divine Son of Mary. Even today, there are prominent individuals who knew Mr. Lincoln well and don’t hesitate to draw such comparisons.
For many years, Judge David Davis was the near friend and the intimate associate of Mr. Lincoln. He presided in the court where Lincoln was oftenest heard: year in and year out they travelled together from town to town, from county to county, riding frequently in the same conveyance, and lodging in the same room. Although a judge on the bench, Mr. Davis watched the political course of his friend with affectionate solicitude, and more than once interposed most effectually to advance his fortunes. When Mr. Lincoln ascended to the Presidency, it was well understood that no man enjoyed more confidential relations with him than Judge Davis. At the first opportunity, he commissioned Judge Davis an Associate Justice of that august tribunal, the Supreme Court of the United States; and, upon his death, Judge Davis administered upon his estate at the request of his family. Add to this the fact, that, among American jurists, Judge Davis's fame is, if not peerless, at least not excelled by that of any man whose reputation rests upon his labors as they appear in the books of Reports, and we may very fairly consider him a competent judge of the professional character of Mr. Lincoln. At Indianapolis, Judge Davis spoke of him as follows:—
For many years, Judge David Davis was a close friend and trusted associate of Mr. Lincoln. He presided over the court where Lincoln was most often heard; year after year, they traveled together from town to town, from county to county, frequently sharing the same ride and sleeping in the same room. Even as a judge, Mr. Davis followed his friend’s political path with caring attention and effectively stepped in more than once to help advance his career. When Mr. Lincoln became President, it was widely recognized that no one had a more confidential relationship with him than Judge Davis. At the first chance he got, he appointed Judge Davis as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States; and after Lincoln's death, Judge Davis managed his estate at the request of his family. Additionally, it’s worth noting that among American jurists, Judge Davis's reputation is, if not unmatched, at least equal to that of anyone known for their work as shown in legal reports. Therefore, we can reasonably view him as a qualified judge of Mr. Lincoln’s professional character. At Indianapolis, Judge Davis spoke of him as follows:—
"I enjoyed for over twenty years the personal friendship of Mr. Lincoln. We were admitted to the bar about the same time, and travelled for many years what is known in Illinois as the Eighth Judicial Circuit. In 1848, when I first went on the bench, the circuit embraced fourteen counties, and Mr. Lincoln went with the court to every county. Railroads were not then in use, and our mode of travel was either on horseback or in buggies.
"I enjoyed the personal friendship of Mr. Lincoln for over twenty years. We were both admitted to the bar around the same time and traveled for many years through what is known in Illinois as the Eighth Judicial Circuit. In 1848, when I first became a judge, the circuit included fourteen counties, and Mr. Lincoln accompanied the court to every county. Railroads weren’t in use back then, so we traveled either on horseback or in buggies."
"This simple life he loved, preferring it to the practice of the law in a city, where, although the remuneration would be greater, the opportunity would be less for mixing with the great body of the people, who loved him, and whom he loved. Mr. Lincoln was transferred from the bar of that circuit to the office of President of the United States, having been without official position since he left Congress in 1849. In all the elements that constitute the great lawyer, he had few equals. He was great both at nisi prius and before an appellate tribunal. He seized the strong points of a cause, and presented them with clearness and great compactness. His mind was logical and direct, and he did not indulge in extraneous discussion. Generalities and platitudes had no charms for him. An unfailing vein of humor never deserted him; and he was always able to chain the attention of court and jury, when the cause was the most uninteresting, by the appropriateness of his anecdotes.
"This simple life was what he cherished, preferring it to practicing law in a city where, despite the higher pay, there was less chance to connect with the broader community that loved him, and whom he loved in return. Mr. Lincoln moved from the bar of that circuit to the office of President of the United States, having been without an official role since leaving Congress in 1849. In all aspects that define a great lawyer, he had few equals. He excelled both at trial and before an appellate court. He identified the key points of a case and presented them clearly and concisely. His thinking was logical and straightforward, and he avoided irrelevant discussions. Generalities and clichés held no appeal for him. A constant sense of humor never left him; he could always capture the attention of the court and jury, even when the case was least interesting, with the relevance of his anecdotes."
"His power of comparison was large, and he rarely failed in a legal discussion to use that mode of reasoning. The framework of his mental and moral being was honesty, and a wrong cause was poorly defended by him. The ability which some eminent lawyers possess, of explaining away the bad points of a cause by ingenious sophistry, was denied him. In order to bring into full activity his great powers, it was necessary that he should be convinced of the right and justice of the matter which he advocated. When so convinced, whether the cause was great or small, he was usually successful. He read law-books but little, except when the cause in hand made it necessary; yet he was usually self-reliant, depending on his own resources, and rarely consulting his brother lawyers, either on the management of his case or on the legal questions involved.
"His ability to compare was extensive, and he rarely missed the chance to use that reasoning in a legal debate. The foundation of his mental and moral character was honesty, and he struggled to defend a wrong cause. He lacked the talent that some top lawyers have for cleverly explaining away the weaknesses of a case. To fully utilize his great abilities, he needed to be convinced of the rightness and fairness of the issue he was supporting. When he was convinced, regardless of whether the case was big or small, he was usually successful. He didn’t read law books much, except when it was necessary for the case at hand; yet he was generally self-sufficient, relying on his own judgment, and rarely consulted his fellow lawyers on how to handle his case or on the legal issues involved."
"Mr. Lincoln was the fairest and most accommodating of practitioners, granting all favors which he could do consistently with his duty to his client, and rarely availing himself of an unwary oversight of his adversary.
"Mr. Lincoln was the most fair and accommodating of professionals, granting every favor he could while still fulfilling his duty to his client, and he rarely took advantage of an opponent's careless mistake."
"He hated wrong and oppression everywhere; and many a man whose fraudulent conduct was undergoing review in a court of justice has writhed under his terrific indignation and rebukes. He was the most simple and unostentatious of men in his habits, having few wants, and those easily supplied.
"He hated injustice and oppression wherever he found them; and many a man whose dishonest actions were being examined in a courtroom has squirmed under his fierce anger and criticisms. He was the most humble and low-key person in his lifestyle, having few needs, and those were easy to meet."
"To his honor be it said, that he never took from a client, even when the cause was gained, more than he thought the service was worth and the client could reasonably afford to pay. The people where he practised law were not rich, and his charges were always small.
"To his credit, it's worth mentioning that he never took more from a client, even when he won the case, than he believed the service was worth and what the client could reasonably afford. The people he served in his legal practice weren't wealthy, and his fees were always modest."
"When he was elected President, I question whether there was a lawyer in the circuit, who had been at the bar as long a time, whose means were not larger. It did not seem to be one of the purposes of his life to accumulate a fortune. In fact, outside of his profession, he had no knowledge of the way to make money, and he never even attempted it.
"When he was elected President, I wonder if there was a lawyer in the circuit, who had been practicing for as long, whose financial situation wasn't better. It didn’t seem like one of his life goals was to build a fortune. In fact, outside of his profession, he had no idea how to make money, and he never even tried."
"Mr. Lincoln was loved by his brethren of the bar; and no body of men will grieve more at his death, or pay more sincere tributes to his memory. His presence on the circuit was watched for with interest, and never failed to produce joy and hilarity. When casually absent, the spirits of both bar and people were depressed. He was not fond of controversy, and would compromise a lawsuit whenever practicable."
"Mr. Lincoln was loved by his colleagues at the bar, and no group of people will mourn his death more or offer more genuine tributes to his memory. His presence on the circuit was anticipated with interest and always brought joy and laughter. When he was absent, the spirits of both the bar and the public were dull. He didn’t enjoy conflict and would settle a lawsuit whenever possible."
More or other evidence than this may, perhaps, be superfluous. Such an eulogium, from such a source, is more than sufficient to determine the place Mr. Lincoln is entitled to occupy in the history, or, more properly speaking, the traditions, of the Western bar. If Sir Matthew Hale had spoken thus of any lawyer of his day, he would have insured to the subject of his praise a place in the estimation of men only less conspicuous and honorable than that of the great judge himself. At the risk, however, of unnecessary accumulation, we venture to record an extract from Judge Drummond's address at Chicago:—
More evidence than this might be unnecessary. Such a tribute from such a prominent figure is more than enough to establish Mr. Lincoln's rightful place in the history, or more accurately, the traditions, of the Western bar. If Sir Matthew Hale had praised any lawyer in his time, he would have guaranteed that the person he admired would be regarded by others as almost as prominent and honorable as Hale himself. However, at the risk of adding to what's already been said, we’d like to include an excerpt from Judge Drummond's speech in Chicago:—
"With a probity of character known to all, with an intuitive insight into the human heart, with a clearness of statement which was in itself an argument, with uncommon power and felicity of illustration,—often, it is true, of a plain and homely kind,—and with that sincerity and earnestness of manner which carried conviction, he was, perhaps, one of the most successful jury lawyers we ever had in the State. He always tried a case fairly and honestly. He never intentionally misrepresented the evidence of a witness, nor the argument of an opponent. He met both squarely, and, if he could not explain the one or answer the other, substantially admitted it. He never misstated the law, according to his own intelligent view of it. Such was the transparent candor and integrity of his nature, that he could not well, or strongly, argue a side or a cause that he thought wrong. Of course, he felt it his duty to say what could be said, and to leave the decision to others; but there could be seen in such cases the inward struggles of his own mind. In trying a case, he might occasionally dwell too long upon, or give too much importance to, an inconsiderable point; but this was the exception, and generally he went straight to the citadel of the cause or question, and struck home there, knowing, if that were won, the outworks would necessarily fall. He could hardly be called very learned in his profession, and yet he rarely tried a cause without fully understanding the law applicable to it; and I have no hesitation in saying he was one of the ablest lawyers I have ever known. If he was forcible before a jury, he was equally so with the court. He detected, with unerring sagacity, the weak points of an opponent's argument, and pressed his own views with overwhelming strength. His efforts were quite unequal; and it might happen that he would not, on some occasions, strike one as at all remarkable. But let him be thoroughly roused,—let him feel that he was right, and that some principle was involved in his cause,—and he would come out with an earnestness of conviction, a power of argument, and a wealth of illustration, that I have never seen surpassed."
"With a character everyone respected, an intuitive understanding of people, a clear way of expressing himself that was convincing in itself, and a remarkable ability to illustrate his points—with a style that was often simple and straightforward—along with a sincerity and earnestness that won people over, he was probably one of the most successful trial lawyers we've ever had in the state. He always approached a case fairly and honestly. He never deliberately misrepresented a witness’s evidence or an opponent’s argument. He faced both directly and, if he couldn’t explain one or counter the other, he basically admitted it. He never misstated the law based on his own informed view. His sincere honesty and integrity made it difficult for him to argue for a side or cause he believed was wrong. Of course, he felt it was his duty to present whatever could be said and leave the decision to others; but in these cases, you could see his internal struggles. When trying a case, he might sometimes spend too much time on an unimportant detail; however, this was rare, and usually, he went directly to the heart of the issue, knowing that if he won that, the rest would necessarily fall. He couldn't be considered extremely knowledgeable in his profession, but he rarely took on a case without fully understanding the applicable law, and I can confidently say he was one of the most skilled lawyers I have ever known. If he was compelling before a jury, he was just as strong with the court. He had an uncanny ability to identify the weak points in an opponent's argument and pushed his views with great force. His performance varied greatly; at times, he might not seem particularly impressive. But when he was fully engaged—when he believed he was right and that some principle was at stake in his case—he would bring an intensity of conviction, a powerful argument, and an abundance of examples that I've never seen surpassed."
Mr. Lincoln's partnership with John T. Stuart began on the 27th of April, 1837, and continued until the 14th of April, 1841, when it was dissolved, in consequence of Stuart's election to Congress. In that same year (1841), Mr. Lincoln united in practice with Stephen T. Logan, late presiding judge of the district, and they remained together until 1845.
Mr. Lincoln's partnership with John T. Stuart started on April 27, 1837, and lasted until April 14, 1841, when it ended due to Stuart’s election to Congress. In that same year (1841), Mr. Lincoln joined forces with Stephen T. Logan, the former presiding judge of the district, and they worked together until 1845.
Soon afterwards he formed a copartnership with William H. Herndon, his friend, familiar, and, we may almost say, biographer,—a connection which terminated only when the senior partner took an affectionate leave of the old circuit, the old office, home, friends, and all familiar things, to return no more until he came a blackened corpse. "He once told me of you," says Mr. Whitney in one of his letters to Mr. Herndon, "that he had taken you in as partner, supposing that you had a system, and would keep things in order, but that he found that you had no more system than he had, but that you were a fine lawyer; so that he was doubly disappointed." 1
Soon after, he partnered up with William H. Herndon, who was his friend, confidant, and we could almost say, his biographer—a partnership that ended only when the senior partner said a heartfelt goodbye to the old circuit, the old office, home, friends, and everything familiar, never to return until he came back as a lifeless body. "He once told me about you," Mr. Whitney wrote in one of his letters to Mr. Herndon, "that he had brought you on board as a partner, thinking you had a system and would keep things organized, but he found out you had no more system than he did, though you were a great lawyer; so he felt doubly disappointed." 1
1 The following letter exhibits the character of his early practice, and gives us a glimpse into his social and political life;— Springfield, Dec. 23,1839. Dear—,—Dr. Henry will write you all the political news. I write this about some little matters of business. You recollect you told me you had drawn the Chicago Masack money, and sent it to the claimants. A d——d hawk-billed Yankee is here besetting me at every turn I take, saying that Robert Kenzie never received the eighty dollars to which he was entitled. Can you tell any thing about the matter? Again, old Mr. Wright, who lives up South Fork somewhere, is teasing me continually about some deeds, which he says he left with you, but which I can find nothing of. Can you tell where they are? The Legislature is in session, and has suffered the bank to forfeit its charter without benefit of clergy. There seems but little disposition to resuscitate it. Whenever a letter comes from you to Mrs.———, I carry it to her, and then I see Betty: she is a tolerable nice fellow now. Maybe I will write again when I get more time. Your friend as ever, A. Lincoln. P. S.—The Democratic giant is here, but he is not now worth talking about. A. L.
1 The following letter illustrates what his early practice was like and gives insight into his social and political life;— Springfield, Dec. 23, 1839. Dear—,—Dr. Henry will fill you in on all the political news. I'm writing about some minor business matters. You remember telling me you had taken the Chicago Masack money and sent it to the claimants. There's an annoying hawk-billed Yankee here bothering me at every turn, claiming that Robert Kenzie never received the eighty dollars he was due. Can you provide any information about that? Also, old Mr. Wright, who lives somewhere up South Fork, keeps pestering me about some deeds he says he left with you, but I can't find anything. Can you let me know where they are? The Legislature is in session and has allowed the bank to lose its charter with no chance of recovery. There doesn’t seem to be much interest in restoring it. Whenever a letter comes from you to Mrs.———, I take it to her, and then I see Betty: she’s quite a nice person now. Maybe I'll write again when I have more time. Your friend as always, A. Lincoln. P.S.—The Democratic giant is here, but he’s not worth discussing right now. A. L.
As already stated by Judge Davis, Mr. Lincoln was not "a great reader of law-books;" but what he knew he knew well, and within those limits was self-reliant and even intrepid. He was what is sometimes called "a case-lawyer,"—a man who reasoned almost entirely to the court and jury from analagous causes previously decided and reported in the books, and not from the elementary principles of the law, or the great underlying reasons for its existence. In consultation he was cautious, conscientious, and painstaking, and was seldom prepared to advise, except after careful and tedious examination of the authorities. He did not consider himself bound to take every case that was brought to him, nor to press all the points in favor of a client who in the main was right and entitled to recover. He is known to have been many times on the verge of quarrelling with old and valued friends, because he could not see the justice of their claims, and, therefore, could not be induced to act as their counsel. Henry McHenry, one of his New-Salem associates, brought him a case involving the title to a piece of land. McHenry had placed a family in a cabin which Mr. Lincoln believed to be situated on the other side of the adversary's line. He told McHenry that he must move the family out. "McHenry said he should not do it. 'Well,' said Mr. Lincoln, 'if you do not, I shall not attend to the suit.' McHenry said he did not care a d—n whether he did or not; that he (Lincoln) was not all the lawyer there was in town. Lincoln studied a while, and asked about the location of the cabin,... and then said, 'McHenry, you are right: I will attend to the suit,' and did attend to it, and gained it; and that was all the harsh words that passed."
As Judge Davis already noted, Mr. Lincoln wasn't "a great reader of law books;" but he understood what he knew thoroughly, and within those limits, he was independent and even fearless. He was what some might call "a case lawyer,"—someone who mainly reasoned to the court and jury based on similar cases that had been previously decided and recorded in the books, rather than on the basic principles of law or the fundamental reasons for its existence. In discussions, he was careful, conscientious, and diligent, and he rarely felt ready to advise without a thorough and tedious review of the relevant authorities. He didn’t believe he was obligated to take every case presented to him, nor to advocate for all the points in favor of a client who was mostly right and deserved to win. He was known to have been on the brink of arguing with old and valued friends because he couldn't see the justice in their claims and hence, couldn't be persuaded to represent them. Henry McHenry, one of his associates from New Salem, brought him a case involving the title to a piece of land. McHenry had set up a family in a cabin that Mr. Lincoln believed was located on the opposite side of the opponent's boundary line. He told McHenry that he needed to move the family out. "McHenry said he wouldn't do it. 'Well,' said Mr. Lincoln, 'if you don’t, I won’t handle the lawsuit.' McHenry claimed he didn't care at all whether Lincoln did or not, saying that Lincoln wasn't the only lawyer in town. Lincoln thought for a bit, asked about the location of the cabin,... and then said, 'McHenry, you’re right: I will handle the suit,' and he did handle it and won it; and that was all the harsh words exchanged."
"A citizen of Springfield," says Mr. Herndon, "who visited our office on business about a year before Mr. Lincoln's nomination, relates the following:—
"A citizen of Springfield," says Mr. Herndon, "who visited our office on business about a year before Mr. Lincoln's nomination, shares the following:—
"'Mr. Lincoln was seated at his table, listening very attentively to a man who was talking earnestly in a low tone. After the would-be client had stated the facts of his case, Mr. Lincoln replied, "Yes, there is no reasonable doubt but that I can gain your case for you. I can set a whole neighborhood at loggerheads; I can distress a widowed mother and her six fatherless children, and thereby get for you six hundred dollars, which rightfully belongs, it appears to me, as much to the woman and her children as it does to you. You must remember that some things that are legally right are not morally right. I shall not take your case, but will give you a little advice, for which I will charge you nothing. You seem to be a sprightly, energetic man. I would advise you to try your hand at making six hundred dollars in some other way."'"
"'Mr. Lincoln was sitting at his table, listening closely to a man who was speaking seriously in a quiet voice. After the potential client laid out the details of his situation, Mr. Lincoln responded, "Yes, there's no reasonable doubt that I could win your case for you. I could turn the whole neighborhood against each other; I could cause trouble for a widowed mother and her six fatherless kids, and in doing so, get you six hundred dollars, which I believe rightfully belongs to her and her children as much as it does to you. You need to understand that some things that are legally right aren't morally right. I won’t take your case, but I will offer you some free advice. You seem like a lively, driven man. I recommend you find another way to earn that six hundred dollars."'"
In the summer of 1841, Mr. Lincoln was engaged in a curious case. The circumstances impressed him very deeply with the insufficiency and danger of "circumstantial evidence;" so much so, that he not only wrote the following account of it to Speed, but another more extended one, which was printed in a newspaper published at Quincy, 111. His mind was full of it: he could think of nothing else. It is apparent that in his letter to Speed he made no pause to choose his words: there is nothing constrained, and nothing studied or deliberate about it; but its simplicity, perspicuity, and artless grace make it a model of English composition. What Goldsmith once said of Locke may better be said of this letter: "He never says more nor less than he ought, and never makes use of a word that he could have changed for a better."
In the summer of 1841, Mr. Lincoln was involved in a puzzling case. The situation left a strong impression on him about the limitations and risks of "circumstantial evidence;" so much so that he not only wrote the following account to Speed, but also a more detailed one, which was published in a newspaper in Quincy, IL. His mind was consumed by it: he couldn't think of anything else. It's clear that in his letter to Speed, he didn’t hesitate to choose his words: it feels natural and spontaneous, with no forced or calculated phrasing; its simplicity, clarity, and genuine charm make it a great example of English writing. What Goldsmith once said about Locke could be better said about this letter: "He never says more nor less than he ought, and never uses a word that he could have replaced with a better one."
Springfield, June 19,1841.
Springfield, June 19, 1841.
Dear Speed,—We have had the highest state of excitement here for a week past that our community has ever witnessed; and although the public feeling is somewhat allayed, the curious affair which aroused it is very far from being over yet, cleared of mystery. It would take a quire of paper to give you any thing like a full account of it, and I therefore only propose a brief outline. The chief personages in the drama are Archibald Fisher, supposed to be murdered, and Archibald Trailor, Henry Trailor, and William Trailor, supposed to have murdered him. The three Trailors are brothers: the first, Arch., as you know, lives in town; the second, Henry, in Clary's Grove; and the third, William, in Warren County; and Fisher, the supposed murdered, being without a family, had made his home with William. On Saturday evening, being the 29th of May, Fisher and William came to Henry's in a one-horse dearborn, and there staid over Sunday; and on Monday all three came to Springfield (Henry on horseback), and joined Archibald at Myers's, the Dutch carpenter. That evening at supper Fisher was missing, and so next morning some ineffectual search was made for him; and on Tuesday, at 1 o'clock, p.m., William and Henry started home without him. In a day or two Henry and one or two of his Clary-Grove neighbors came back for him again, and advertised his disappearance in the papers. The knowledge of the matter thus far had not been general, and here it dropped entirely, till about the 10th inst., when Keys received a letter from the postmaster in Warren County, that William had arrived at home, and was telling a very mysterious and improbable story about the disappearance of Fisher, which induced the community there to suppose he had been disposed of unfairly. Keys made this letter public, which immediately set the whole town and adjoining county agog. And so it has continued until yesterday. The mass of the people commenced a systematic search for the dead body, while Wickersbam was despatched to arrest Henry Trailor at the Grove, and Jim Maxcy to Warren to arrest William. On Monday last, Henry was brought in, and showed an evident inclination to insinuate that he knew Fisher to be dead, and that Arch, and William had killed him. He said he guessed the body could be found in Spring Creek, between the Beardstown Road and Hickox's mill. Away the people swept like a herd of buffalo, and cut down Hickox's mill-dam nolens volens, to draw the water out of the pond, and then went up and down, and down and up the creek, fishing and raking, and raking and ducking, and diving for two days, and, after all, no dead body found. In the mean time a sort of a scuffling-ground had been found in the brush in the angle, or point, where the road leading into the woods past the brewery, and the one leading in past the brick grove meet. From the scuffle-ground was the sign of something about the size of a man having been dragged to the edge of the thicket, where joined the track of some small wheeled carriage drawn by one horse, as shown by the road-tracks. The carriage-track led off toward Spring Creek. Near this drag-trail Dr. Merryman found two hairs, which, after a long scientific examination, he pronounced to be triangular human hair, which term, he says, includes within it the whiskers, the hair growing under the arms, and on other parts of the body; and he judged that these two were of the whiskers, because the ends were cut, showing that they had flourished in the neighborhood of the razor's operations. On Thursday last Jim Maxcy brought in William Trailor from Warren. On the same day Arch, was arrested, and put in jail. Yesterday (Friday) William was put upon his examining trial before May and Lavely. Archibald and Henry were both present. Lamborn prosecuted, and Logan, Baker, and your humble servant defended. A great many witnesses were introduced and examined, but I shall only mention those whose testimony seemed most important. The first of these was Capt. Ransdell. He swore, that, when William and Henry left Springfield for home on Tuesday before mentioned, they did not take the direct route,—which, you know, leads by the butcher-shop,—but that they followed the street north until they got opposite, or nearly opposite, May's new house, after which he could not see them from where he stood; and it was afterwards proved, that, in about an hour after they started, they came into the street by the butcher's shop from towards the brick-yard. Dr. Merryman and others swore to what is stated about the scuffle-ground, drag-trail, whiskers, and carriage-tracks. Henry was then introduced by the prosecution. He swore, that, when they started for home, they went out north, as Ransdell stated, and turned down west by the brick-yard into the woods, and there met Archibald; that they proceeded a small distance farther, when he was placed as a sentinel to watch for and announce the approach of any one that might happen that way; that William and Arch, took the dearborn out of the road a small distance to the edge of the thicket, where they stopped, and he saw them lift the body of a man into it; that they then moved off with the carriage in the direction of Hickox's mill, and he loitered about for something like an hour, when William returned with the carriage, but without Arch., and said they had put him in a safe place; that they went somehow, he did not know exactly how, into the road close to the brewery, and proceeded on to Clary's Grove. He also stated that some time during the day William told him that he and Arch, had killed Fisher the evening before; that the way they did it was by him (William) knocking him down with a club, and Arch, then choking him to death. An old man from Warren, called Dr. Gilmore, was then introduced on the part of the defence. He swore that he had known Fisher for several years; that Fisher had resided at his house a long time at each of two different spells,—once while he built a barn for him, and once while he was doctored for some chronic disease; that two or three years ago Fisher had a serious hurt in his head by the bursting of a gun, since which he had been subject to continued bad health and occasional aberration of mind. He also stated that on last Tuesday, being the same day that Maxcy arrested William Trailor, he (the doctor) was from home in the early part of the day, and on his return, about 11 o'clock, found Fisher at his house in bed, and apparently very unwell; that he asked him how he had come from Springfield; that Fisher said he had come by Peoria, and also told of several other places he had been at, more in the direction of Peoria, which showed that he at the time of speaking did not know where he had been wandering about in a state of derangement. He further stated, that in about two hours he received a note from one of Trail-or's friends, advising him of his arrest, and requesting him to go on to Springfield as a witness, to testify as to the state of Fisher's health in former times; that he immediately set off, calling up two of his neighbors as company, and, riding all evening and all night, overtook Maxcy and William at Lewiston in Fulton. County; That Maxcy refusing to discharge Trailor upon his statement, his two neighbors returned, and he came on to Springfield. Some question being made as to whether the doctor's story was not a fabrication, several acquaintances of his (among whom was the same postmaster who wrote to Keys, as before mentioned) were introduced as sort of compurgators, who swore that they knew the doctor to be of good character for truth and veracity, and generally of good character in every way. Here the testimony ended, and the Trailors were discharged, Arch, and William expressing, both in word and manner, their entire confidence that Fisher would be found alive at the doctor's by Galloway, Mallory, and Myers, who a day before had been despatched for that purpose; while Henry still protested that no power on earth could ever show Fisher alive. Thus stands this curious affair. When the doctor's story was first made public, it was amusing to scan and contemplate the countenances, and hear the remarks, of those who had been actively engaged in the search for the dead body: some looked quizzical, some melancholy, and some furiously angry. Porter, who had been very active, swore he always knew the man was not dead, and that he had not stirred an inch to hunt for him: Langford, who had taken the lead in cutting down Hickox's mill-dam, and wanted to hang Hickox for objecting, looked most awfully woebegone; he seemed the "wictim of hunrequited affection," as represented in the comic almanacs we used to laugh over. And Hart, the little drayman that hauled Molly home once, said it was too damned bad to have so much trouble, and no hanging, after all.
Dear Speed,—We’ve experienced the most intense excitement here over the past week that our community has ever seen; and although the public feeling has calmed down a bit, the curious case that triggered it is far from resolved or clear. It would take a lot of paper to give you a complete account, so I’ll just provide a brief outline. The main characters in this drama are Archibald Fisher, who is believed to have been murdered, and Archibald Trailor, Henry Trailor, and William Trailor, who are thought to have killed him. The three Trailor brothers are: the first, Arch. Fisher, as you know, lives in town; the second, Henry, is in Clary's Grove; and the third, William, resides in Warren County. Fisher, the presumed murder victim, had no family and had made his home with William. On Saturday evening, May 29th, Fisher and William went to Henry's place in a one-horse carriage and stayed over Sunday. The next day, all three headed to Springfield (Henry rode a horse), and met Archibald at Myers's, the Dutch carpenter. That evening at dinner, Fisher was missing, so the next morning some unsuccessful searches were made for him. On Tuesday, at 1 p.m., William and Henry left without him. A day or two later, Henry and a couple of his Clary-Grove neighbors returned to search for him and announced his disappearance in the papers. Until then, not many people knew about it, but it dropped from public view until around the 10th of the month, when Keys received a letter from the postmaster in Warren County that William had gotten home and was telling a mysterious and unlikely story about Fisher's disappearance, which led the people there to suspect something foul had happened. Keys shared this letter publicly, which immediately stirred up the entire town and surrounding county. The community began a systematic search for the body while Wickersham was sent to arrest Henry Trailor at the Grove, and Jim Maxcy went to Warren to arrest William. Last Monday, Henry was brought in and seemed to suggest that he knew Fisher was dead and that Arch and William had killed him. He said he thought the body could be found in Spring Creek, between the Beardstown Road and Hickox's mill. The crowd rushed off like a herd of buffalo, and took down Hickox's mill-dam nolens volens, to drain the pond, then they searched the creek for two days, fishing, raking, ducking, and diving, but no body was found. Meanwhile, they discovered a sort of scuffle area in the brush at the point where the road leading into the woods past the brewery meets the one going by the brick grove. From the scuffle area, there were signs that something roughly man-sized had been dragged to the edge of the thicket, where it connected with the tracks of a small wheeled carriage pulled by one horse, as indicated by the road tracks. Near this drag trail, Dr. Merryman found two hairs, which, after detailed scientific examination, he identified as triangular human hair, which he says includes whiskers, underarm hair, and hair from other parts of the body; and he suspected these were whiskers because the cut ends indicated they had been recently trimmed. Last Thursday, Jim Maxcy brought in William Trailor from Warren. On the same day, Arch was arrested and jailed. Yesterday (Friday), William was put on trial before May and Lavely, with Archibald and Henry both present. Lamborn prosecuted, and Logan, Baker, and I defended. Many witnesses were brought in and examined, but I’ll only mention those whose testimony seemed most significant. The first was Capt. Ransdell. He testified that when William and Henry left Springfield for home on the Tuesday previously mentioned, they did not take the direct route—the one that passes the butcher shop—but followed the street north until they were nearly opposite May's new house; after that, he could no longer see them from where he stood. It was later established that about an hour after they left, they appeared in the street near the butcher's shop coming from the direction of the brick yard. Dr. Merryman and others corroborated the details about the scuffle area, drag trail, hairs, and carriage tracks. Henry was then introduced by the prosecution. He swore that when they headed home, they went out north, as Ransdell stated, and turned west by the brick yard into the woods, where they met Archibald. He claimed they went a little further, and he was positioned as a lookout to signal anyone who approached; that William and Arch took the carriage a little off the road to the edge of the thicket, where he saw them lift a man's body into it; that they then left with the carriage towards Hickox's mill, while he lingered for about an hour, during which William returned with the carriage but without Arch, saying they had hidden him safely; that they somehow made their way close to the brewery and then continued to Clary's Grove. He also stated that at some point during the day, William told him that he and Arch had killed Fisher the night before; that they had done it by William knocking him down with a club, then Arch choking him to death. An elderly man from Warren, Dr. Gilmore, was then introduced on behalf of the defense. He testified that he had known Fisher for several years; that Fisher had lived in his house for extended periods on two occasions—once while he built a barn for him and once when he was treated for a chronic illness; that two or three years ago, Fisher suffered a serious head injury from a gunshot, after which he had experienced ongoing health issues and occasional mental confusion. He further stated that last Tuesday, the same day Maxcy arrested William Trailor, he (the doctor) was away from home early in the day, and upon returning around 11 o'clock, he found Fisher in bed at his house, apparently very unwell; that he asked Fisher how he had gotten from Springfield; that Fisher claimed he had come from Peoria and mentioned several other places he’d been, more towards Peoria, showing that he was confused about where he had been wandering. He also said that about two hours later, he received a note from one of Trailor's friends informing him of his arrest and asking him to come to Springfield as a witness regarding Fisher's previous health; that he immediately set off, bringing two neighbors along, and after riding all evening and all night, he caught up with Maxcy and William at Lewiston in Fulton County. Since Maxcy refused to release Trailor based on his statement, his two neighbors returned home, and he continued on to Springfield. Some questioned whether the doctor's story was real or made up, so several of his acquaintances (including the postmaster who had written to Keys, as mentioned earlier) were brought in as character witnesses, and they testified that they knew the doctor to be honest and of good reputation. This ended the testimony, and the Trailor brothers were released, with Arch and William expressing complete confidence that Fisher would be found alive at the doctor’s place by Galloway, Mallory, and Myers, who had been sent for that purpose a day earlier; while Henry insisted that no force on earth could ever prove Fisher was alive. So this is where this curious case stands. When the doctor's story first came to light, it was fascinating to watch the reactions of those who had been actively searching for the body: some looked skeptical, some forlorn, and some downright furious. Porter, who had been very active in the searches, insisted he always knew the man wasn’t dead and that he hadn’t lifted a finger to find him. Langford, who led the effort to tear down Hickox's mill-dam and wanted to hang Hickox for opposing him, appeared utterly miserable; he looked like the "wictim of unrequited affection" as portrayed in the comic almanacs we used to chuckle over. And Hart, the little drayman who once brought Molly home, said it was such a shame to go through all that trouble without any hanging at the end.
I commenced this letter on yesterday, since which I received yours of the 13th. I stick to my promise to come to Louisville. Nothing new here, except what I have written. I have not seen———since my last trip; and I am going out there as soon as I mail this letter.
I started this letter yesterday, and since then I've received yours from the 13th. I'm still committed to coming to Louisville. There's nothing new here, except what I've already written. I haven't seen———since my last trip, and I'm heading out there as soon as I mail this letter.
Yours forever,
Yours always,
Lincoln.
Lincoln.
On the 3d of December, 1839, Mr. Lincoln was admitted to practice in the Circuit Court of the United States; and on the same day the names of Stephen A. Douglas, S. H. Treat, Schuyler Strong, and two other gentlemen, were placed on the same roll. The "Little Giant" is always in sight!
On December 3, 1839, Mr. Lincoln was allowed to practice in the Circuit Court of the United States; and on that same day, the names of Stephen A. Douglas, S. H. Treat, Schuyler Strong, and two other individuals were added to the same list. The "Little Giant" is always around!
The first speech he delivered in the Supreme Court of the State was one the like of which will never be heard again, and must have led the judges to doubt the sanity of the new attorney. We give it in the form in which it seems to be authenticated by Judge Treat:—
The first speech he gave in the Supreme Court of the State was unlike anything that will ever be heard again, and it likely made the judges question the sanity of the new attorney. We present it in the version that appears to be verified by Judge Treat:—
"A case being called for hearing in the Court, Mr. Lincoln stated that he appeared for the appellant, and was ready to proceed with the argument. He then said, 'This is the first case I have ever had in this court, and I have therefore examined it with great care. As the Court will perceive, by looking at the abstract of, the record, the only question in the case is one of authority. I have not been able to find any authority sustaining my side of the case, but I have found several cases directly in point on the other side. I will now give these cases, and then submit the case.'"
"A case is being called for hearing in the Court, and Mr. Lincoln said that he was representing the appellant and was ready to move forward with the argument. He then said, 'This is the first case I’ve ever had in this court, so I’ve examined it very carefully. As the Court will see by looking at the abstract of the record, the only issue in this case is one of authority. I haven’t been able to find any authority supporting my side of the case, but I have found several cases that directly support the other side. I will now present these cases and then conclude the case.'"
The testimony of all the lawyers, his contemporaries and rivals, is in the same direction. "But Mr. Lincoln's love of justice and fair play," says Mr. Gillespie, "was his predominating trait. I have often listened to him when I thought he would certainly state his case out of Court. It was not in his nature to assume, or to attempt to bolster up, a false position. He would abandon his case first. He did so in the case of Buckmaster for the use of Denham vs. Beenes and Arthur, in our Supreme Court, in which I happened to be opposed to him. Another gentleman, less fastidious, took Mr. Lincoln's place, and gained the case."
The testimony from all the lawyers—his peers and competitors—points in the same direction. "But Mr. Lincoln's love for justice and fairness," says Mr. Gillespie, "was his defining characteristic. I've often listened to him when I thought he would definitely argue his case outside of court. It wasn't in his nature to take on or try to support a false position. He would rather drop his case. He did this in the case of Buckmaster for the use of Denham vs. Beenes and Arthur, in our Supreme Court, where I happened to be opposing him. Another attorney, who was less particular, took Mr. Lincoln's place and won the case."
In the Patterson trial—a case of murder which attained some celebrity—in Champaign County, Ficklin and Lamon prosecuted, and Lincoln and Swett defended. After hearing the testimony, Mr. Lincoln felt himself morally paralyzed, and said, "Swett, the man is guilty: you defend him; I can't." They got a fee of five hundred or a thousand dollars; of which Mr. Lincoln declined to take a cent, on the ground that it justly belonged to Swett, whose ardor, courage, and eloquence had saved the guilty man from justice.
In the Patterson trial—a murder case that gained some notoriety—in Champaign County, Ficklin and Lamon were the prosecutors, while Lincoln and Swett were the defense attorneys. After hearing the testimony, Mr. Lincoln felt morally conflicted and said, "Swett, the man is guilty: you defend him; I can't." They got a fee of five hundred or a thousand dollars; Mr. Lincoln refused to take any of it, believing that it rightly belonged to Swett, whose passion, bravery, and eloquence had kept the guilty man from facing justice.
It was probably his deep sense of natural justice, his irresistible propensity to get at the equities of the matter in hand, that made him so utterly impatient of all arbitrary or technical rules. Of these he knew very little,—less than an average student of six months: "Hence," says Judge Davis, "a child could make use of the simple and technical rules, the means and mode of getting at justice, better than Lincoln could." "In this respect," says Mr. Herndon, "I really think he was very deficient."
It was likely his strong sense of fairness and his natural instinct to get to the core of the issue that made him extremely intolerant of arbitrary or technical rules. He understood very little about these—less than the average student after six months: "Therefore," says Judge Davis, "a child could use the simple and technical rules, the methods and ways of achieving justice, better than Lincoln could." "In this regard," says Mr. Herndon, "I honestly believe he was quite lacking."
Sangamon County was originally in the First Judicial Circuit; but under the Constitution of 1848, and sundry changes in the Judiciary Acts, it became the Eighth Circuit. It was in 1848 that Judge Davis came on the bench for the first time. The circuit was a very large one, containing fourteen counties, and comprising the central portion of the State. Lincoln travelled all over it—first with Judge Treat and then with Judge Davis—twice every year, and was thus absent from Springfield and home nearly, if not quite, six months out of every twelve. "In my opinion," says Judge Davis, "Lincoln was as happy as he could be, on this circuit, and happy in no other place. This was his place of enjoyment. As a general rule, of a Saturday evening, when all the lawyers would go home [the judge means those who were close enough to get there and back by the time their cases were called] and see their families and friends, Lincoln would refuse to go." "It was on this circuit," we are told by an authority equally high, "that he shone as a nisi prius lawyer; it was on this circuit Lincoln thought, spoke, and acted; it was on this circuit that the people met, greeted, and cheered on the man; it was on this circuit that he cracked his jokes, told his stories, made his money, and was happy as nowhere in the world beside." When, in 1857, Sangamon County was cut off from the Eighth Circuit by the act creating the Eighteenth, "Mr. Lincoln would still continue with Judge Davis, first finishing his business in Sangamon."
Sangamon County was originally part of the First Judicial Circuit; however, under the Constitution of 1848 and various changes in the Judiciary Acts, it became the Eighth Circuit. In 1848, Judge Davis took the bench for the first time. The circuit was quite large, covering fourteen counties and making up the central part of the state. Lincoln traveled all over it—first with Judge Treat and then with Judge Davis—twice each year, which meant he was away from Springfield and home for nearly, if not exactly, six months out of every twelve. "In my opinion," Judge Davis said, "Lincoln was as happy as he could be on this circuit and happy nowhere else. This was where he found enjoyment. Usually, on Saturday evenings, when all the lawyers would head home [the judge refers to those who were close enough to get back by the time their cases were called] to see their families and friends, Lincoln would refuse to go." "It was on this circuit," an equally reputable source tells us, "that he excelled as a nisi prius lawyer; it was here Lincoln thought, spoke, and acted; it was here that the people met, greeted, and cheered him on; it was here that he cracked jokes, told stories, made money, and felt happier than anywhere else in the world." When, in 1857, Sangamon County was separated from the Eighth Circuit by the act that created the Eighteenth, "Mr. Lincoln continued to work with Judge Davis, first wrapping up his business in Sangamon."
On his return from one of these long journeys, he found that Mrs. Lincoln had taken advantage of his absence, and, with the connivance and assistance of his neighbor, Gourly, had placed a second story and a new roof on his house. Approaching it for the first time after this rather startling alteration, and pretending not to recognize it, he called to a man on the street, "Stranger, can you tell me where Lincoln lives? He used to live here."
On his return from one of these long trips, he discovered that Mrs. Lincoln had taken advantage of his absence and, with the help of his neighbor, Gourly, had put a second floor and a new roof on their house. As he approached the place for the first time after this surprising change and pretended not to recognize it, he called to a guy on the street, "Excuse me, can you tell me where Lincoln lives? He used to live here."
When Mr. Lincoln first began to "ride the circuit," he was too poor to own horseflesh or vehicle, and was compelled to borrow from his friends. But in due time he became the proprietor of a horse, which he fed and groomed himself, and to which he was very much attached. On this animal he would set out from home, to be gone for weeks together, with no baggage but a pair of saddle-bags, containing a change of linen, and an old cotton umbrella, to shelter him from sun or rain. When he got a little more of this world's goods, he set up a one-horse buggy,—a very sorry and shabby-looking affair, which he generally used when the weather promised to be bad. But the lawyers were always glad to see him, and the landlords hailed his coming with pleasure. Yet he was one of those peculiar, gentle, uncomplaining men, whom those servants of the public who keep "hotels" would generally put off with the most indifferent accommodations. It was a very significant remark of a lawyer thoroughly acquainted with his habits and disposition, that "Lincoln was never seated next the landlord at a crowded table, and never got a chicken liver or the best cut from the roast." If rooms were scarce, and one, two, three, or four gentlemen were required to lodge together, in order to accommodate some surly man who "stood upon his rights," Lincoln was sure to be one of the unfortunates. Yet he loved the life, and never went home without reluctance.
When Mr. Lincoln first started "riding the circuit," he was too broke to own a horse or a wagon, so he had to borrow from his friends. But eventually, he became the owner of a horse that he fed and groomed himself, and he became very attached to it. He would leave home on this horse, often for weeks, with just a pair of saddlebags that held a change of clothes and an old cotton umbrella to protect him from the sun or rain. Once he had a bit more money, he bought a one-horse buggy—a pretty shabby looking thing—that he mostly used when the weather looked bad. The lawyers were always happy to see him, and the landlords welcomed his arrival. However, he was one of those gentle, uncomplaining types who often ended up with the least favorable accommodations at hotels. A lawyer who knew him well once pointed out, "Lincoln was never seated next to the landlord at a crowded table and never got a chicken liver or the best cut from the roast." If rooms were limited and one, two, three, or four gentlemen had to share to make space for a difficult guest who "stood on his rights," Lincoln was usually one of the unlucky ones. Still, he loved that lifestyle and never wanted to go home.
From Mr. S. O. Parks of Lincoln, himself a most reputable lawyer, we have two or three anecdotes, which we give in his own language:—
From Mr. S. O. Parks of Lincoln, who is a highly respected lawyer, we have a couple of anecdotes, which we share in his own words:—
"I have often said, that, for a man who was for the quarter of a century both a lawyer and a politician, he was the most honest man I ever knew. He was not only morally honest, but intellectually so. He could not reason falsely: if he attempted it, he failed. In politics he never would try to mislead. At the bar, when he thought he was wrong, he was the weakest lawyer I ever saw. You know this better than I do. But I will give you an example or two which occurred in this county, and which you may not remember.
"I’ve often said that, for a man who spent a quarter of a century as both a lawyer and a politician, he was the most honest person I ever knew. He was not just morally honest, but intellectually honest as well. He couldn’t reason incorrectly; if he tried, he simply couldn’t do it. In politics, he would never try to mislead anyone. In the courtroom, when he thought he was wrong, he was the weakest lawyer I ever saw. You know this better than I do. But I’ll give you an example or two that happened in this county, which you might not remember."
"A man was indicted for larceny: Lincoln, Young, and myself defended him. Lincoln was satisfied by the evidence that he was guilty, and ought to be convicted. He called Young and myself aside, and said, 'If you can say any thing for the man, do it. I can't: if I attempt, the jury will see that I think he is guilty, and convict him, of course.' The case was submitted by us to the jury without a word. The jury failed to agree; and before the next term the man died. Lincoln's honesty undoubtedly saved him from the penitentiary.
"A man was charged with theft: Lincoln, Young, and I defended him. Lincoln believed the evidence showed he was guilty and should be convicted. He pulled Young and me aside and said, 'If you can say anything in his defense, do it. I can't: if I try, the jury will see that I think he's guilty, and they'll convict him for sure.' We submitted the case to the jury without saying a word. The jury couldn't reach a decision; and before the next term, the man died. Lincoln's honesty definitely kept him out of prison."
"In a closely-contested civil suit, Lincoln had proved an account for his client, who was, though he did not know it at the time, a very slippery fellow. The opposing attorney then proved a receipt clearly covering the entire cause of action. By the time he was through, Lincoln was missing. The court sent for him to the hotel. 'Tell the judge,' said he, 'that I can't come: my hands are dirty; and I came over to clean them!'
"In a tight civil lawsuit, Lincoln had presented a case for his client, who, although he was unaware at the time, was quite a shady character. The opposing attorney then provided a receipt that clearly addressed the whole issue. By the time he finished, Lincoln was nowhere to be found. The court requested him at the hotel. 'Tell the judge,' he said, 'that I can't come: my hands are dirty; and I came over to clean them!'"
"In the case of Harris and Jones vs. Buckles, Harris wanted Lincoln to assist you and myself. His answer was characteristic: 'Tell Harris it's no use to waste money on me in that case: he'll get beat.'"
"In the case of Harris and Jones vs. Buckles, Harris wanted Lincoln to help you and me. His response was typical: 'Tell Harris it’s no use to waste money on me in that case: he’ll get beat.'"
Mr. Lincoln was prone to adventures in which pigs were the other party. The reader has already enjoyed one from the pen of Miss Owen; and here is another, from an incorrigible humorist, a lawyer, named J. H. Wickizer:—
Mr. Lincoln often found himself in amusing situations involving pigs. The reader has already appreciated one tale from Miss Owen; now, here’s another from a relentless jokester, a lawyer named J. H. Wickizer:—
"In 1855 Mr. Lincoln and myself were travelling by buggy from Woodford County Court to Bloomington, 111.; and, in passing through a little grove, we suddenly heard the terrific squealing of a little pig near by us. Quick as thought Mr. Lincoln leaped out of the buggy, seized a club, pounced upon the old sow, and beat her lustily: she was in the act of eating one of her young ones. Thus he saved the pig, and then remarked, 'By jing! the unnatural old brute shall not devour her own progeny!' This, I think, was his first proclamation of freedom."
"In 1855, Mr. Lincoln and I were traveling by buggy from Woodford County Court to Bloomington, IL. As we passed through a small grove, we suddenly heard the terrible squealing of a pig nearby. Quick as a flash, Mr. Lincoln jumped out of the buggy, grabbed a club, and pounced on the old sow, beating her energetically; she was in the act of eating one of her piglets. He saved the pig and then said, 'By gosh! The unnatural old brute won’t eat her own offspring!' I believe this was his first declaration of freedom."
But Mr. Wickizer gives us another story, which most happily illustrates the readiness of Mr. Lincoln's wit:—
But Mr. Wickizer shares another story that perfectly showcases Mr. Lincoln's quick wit:—
"In 1858, in the court at Bloomington, Mr. Lincoln was engaged in a case of no great importance; but the attorney on the other side, Mr. S———, a young lawyer of fine abilities (now a judge of the Supreme Court of the State), was always very sensitive about being beaten, and in this case manifested unusual zeal and interest. The case lasted until late at night, when it was finally submitted to the jury. Mr. S———spent a sleepless night in anxiety, and early next morning learned, to his great chagrin, that he had lost the case. Mr. Lincoln met him at the Court House, and asked him what had become of his case. With lugubrious countenance and melancholy tone, Mr. S-said, 'It's gone to hell.'—'Oh, well!' replied Lincoln, 'then you'll see it again!'"
"In 1858, in the court at Bloomington, Mr. Lincoln was involved in a case that wasn't very significant; however, the attorney on the other side, Mr. S———, a young lawyer with great skills (now a judge of the Supreme Court of the State), was always very sensitive about losing, and in this instance showed an unusual amount of enthusiasm and concern. The case went on until late at night when it was finally handed over to the jury. Mr. S——— spent a sleepless night worrying, and early the next morning found out, to his great disappointment, that he had lost the case. Mr. Lincoln ran into him at the Court House and asked what had happened with his case. With a long face and a sad tone, Mr. S——— said, 'It's gone to hell.'—'Oh, well!' Lincoln replied, 'then you'll see it again!'"
Although the humble condition and disreputable character of some of his relations and connections were the subject of constant annoyance and most painful reflections, he never tried to shake them off, and never abandoned them when they needed his assistance. A son of his foster-brother, John Johnston, was arrested in———County for stealing a watch.
Although the low status and questionable character of some of his relatives and acquaintances often bothered him and caused him distress, he never attempted to distance himself from them and never turned his back on them when they needed his help. A son of his foster-brother, John Johnston, was arrested in———County for stealing a watch.
Mr. Lincoln went to the same town to address a mass meeting while the poor boy was in jail. He waited until the dusk of the evening, and then, in company with Mr. H. C. Whitney, visited the prison. "Lincoln knew he was guilty," says Mr. Whitney, "and was very deeply affected,—more than I ever saw him. At the next term of the court, upon the State's Attorney's consent, Lincoln and I went to the prosecution witnesses, and got them to come into open court, and state that they did not care to presecute." The boy was released; and that evening, as the lawyers were leaving the town in their buggies, Mr. Lincoln was observed to get down from his, and walk back a short distance to a poor, distressed-looking young man who stood by the roadside. It was young Johnston. Mr. Lincoln engaged for a few moments apparently in earnest and nervous conversation with him, then giving him some money, and returning to his buggy, drove on.
Mr. Lincoln went to the same town to speak at a large meeting while the young boy was in jail. He waited until dusk, and then, along with Mr. H. C. Whitney, visited the prison. "Lincoln knew he was guilty," Mr. Whitney said, "and was very deeply affected—more than I have ever seen him. At the next court session, with the State's Attorney's agreement, Lincoln and I approached the prosecution witnesses and got them to come to court and say that they did not want to press charges." The boy was released; and that evening, as the lawyers were leaving town in their buggies, Mr. Lincoln was seen getting out of his, walking back a short distance to a poor, distressed-looking young man standing by the roadside. It was young Johnston. Mr. Lincoln engaged in what seemed to be an earnest and anxious conversation with him for a few moments, then gave him some money before returning to his buggy and driving off.
A thousand tales could be told of Mr. Lincoln's amusing tricks and eccentricities on these quiet rides from county to county, in company with judges and lawyers, and of his quaint sayings and curious doings at the courts in these Western villages. But, much against our will, we are compelled to make selections, and present a few only, which rest upon the most undoubted authority.
A thousand stories could be shared about Mr. Lincoln's entertaining tricks and quirks during these peaceful rides from county to county, alongside judges and lawyers, as well as his fun sayings and strange actions at the courts in these Western towns. However, against our wishes, we have to choose a few to present that are based on the most reliable sources.
It is well known that he used to carry with him, on what Mr. Stuart calls "the tramp around the circuit," ordinary school-books,—from Euclid down to an English grammar,—and study them as he rode along, or at intervals of leisure in the towns where he stopped. He supplemented these with a copy of Shakspeare, got much of it by rote, and recited long passages from it to any chance companion by the way.
It’s well known that he used to bring along, on what Mr. Stuart calls "the tramp around the circuit," regular schoolbooks—from Euclid to an English grammar—and study them as he rode or during breaks in the towns where he stopped. He added a copy of Shakespeare, memorized a lot of it, and recited long passages to any random companion he met along the way.
He was intensely fond of cutting wood with an axe; and he was often seen to jump from his buggy, seize an axe out of the hands of a roadside chopper, take his place on the log in the most approved fashion, and, with his tremendous long strokes, cut it in two before the man could recover from his surprise.
He really loved chopping wood with an axe; he would often hop out of his buggy, grab an axe from a roadside worker, take his spot on the log just right, and with his huge long strokes, split it in two before the guy could even get over his shock.
It was this free life that charmed him, and reconciled him to existence. Here he forgot the past, with all its cruelties and mortifications: here were no domestic afflictions to vex his weary spirit and to try his magnanimous heart.
It was this carefree life that captivated him and made him at peace with living. Here he forgot the past, with all its harshness and humiliations: here there were no family troubles to annoy his tired soul and test his generous heart.
"After he had returned from Congress," says Judge Davis, "and had lost his practice, Goodrich of Chicago proposed to him to open a law-office in Chicago, and go into partnership with him. Goodrich had an extensive practice there. Lincoln refused to accept, and gave as a reason, that he tended to consumption; that, if he went to Chicago, he would have to sit down and study hard, and it would kill him; that he would rather go around the circuit—the Eighth Judicial Circuit—than to sit down and die in Chicago."
"After he got back from Congress," says Judge Davis, "and had lost his law practice, Goodrich from Chicago suggested that he open a law office in Chicago and partner with him. Goodrich had a large practice there. Lincoln turned him down, explaining that he was prone to tuberculosis; if he moved to Chicago, he would have to sit down and study hard, and it would be the end of him; he would rather travel the circuit—the Eighth Judicial Circuit—than sit down and wither away in Chicago."
In the summer of 1857, at a camp-meeting in Mason County, one Metzgar was most brutally murdered. The affray took place about half a mile from the place of worship, near some wagons loaded with liquors and provisions. Two men, James H. Norris and William D. Armstrong, were indicted for the crime. Norris was tried in Mason County, convicted of manslaughter, and sentenced to the penitentiary for the term of eight years. But Armstrong, the popular feeling being very high against him in Mason, "took a change of venue to Cass County," and was there tried (at Beardstown) in the spring of 1858. Hitherto Armstrong had had the services of two able counsellors, but now their efforts were supplemented by those of a most determined and zealous volunteer.
In the summer of 1857, at a camp meeting in Mason County, a man named Metzgar was brutally murdered. The incident happened about half a mile from the place of worship, near some wagons filled with liquor and supplies. Two men, James H. Norris and William D. Armstrong, were charged with the crime. Norris was tried in Mason County, found guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to eight years in prison. However, due to strong public sentiment against him in Mason, Armstrong "requested a change of venue to Cass County," where he was tried (in Beardstown) in the spring of 1858. Until then, Armstrong had the support of two skilled lawyers, but now their efforts were joined by a very determined and passionate volunteer.
Armstrong was the son of Jack and Hannah Armstrong of New Salem, the child whom Mr. Lincoln had rocked in the cradle while Mrs. Armstrong attended to other household duties. His life was now in imminent peril: he seemed clearly guilty; and, if he was to be saved, it must be by the interposition of some power which could deface that fatal record in the Norris trial, refute the senses of witnesses, and make a jury forget themselves and their oaths. Old Hannah had one friend whom she devoutly believed could accomplish this. She wrote to Mr. Lincoln, and he replied that he would defend the boy. (She says she has lost his letter.) Afterwards she visited him at Springfield, and prepared him for the event as well as she could, with an understanding weakened by a long strain of severe and almost hopeless reflection.
Armstrong was the son of Jack and Hannah Armstrong from New Salem, the child that Mr. Lincoln had rocked in the cradle while Mrs. Armstrong took care of other household chores. His life was now in serious danger: he appeared clearly guilty; and if he was going to be saved, it had to be through some power that could erase that damning record in the Norris trial, contradict the perceptions of witnesses, and get a jury to disregard their own beliefs and oaths. Old Hannah had one friend she truly believed could make this happen. She wrote to Mr. Lincoln, and he replied that he would defend the boy. (She says she has lost his letter.) Later, she visited him in Springfield and prepared him for the event as best as she could, though her understanding was clouded by a long period of distressing and nearly hopeless contemplation.
When the trial came on, Mr. Lincoln appeared for the defence. His colleague, Mr. Walker, had possessed him of the record in the Norris case; and, upon close and anxious examination, he was satisfied that the witnesses could, by a well-sustained and judicious cross-examination, be made to contradict each other in some important particulars. Mr. Walker "handled" the victims of this friendly design, while Mr. Lincoln sat by and suggested questions. Nevertheless, to the unskilled mind, the testimony seemed to be absolutely conclusive against the prisoner, and every word of it fell like a new sentence of death. Norris had beaten the murdered man with a club from behind, while Armstrong had pounded him in the face with a slung-shot deliberately prepared for the occasion; and, according to the medical men, either would have been fatal without the other. But the witness whose testimony bore hardest upon Armstrong swore that the crime was committed about eleven o'clock at night, and that he saw the blows struck by the light of a moon nearly full, and standing in the heavens about where the sun would stand at ten o'clock in the morning. It is easy to pervert and even to destroy evidence like this; and here Mr. Lincoln saw an opportunity which nobody had dreamed of on the Norris trial. He handed to an officer of the court an almanac, and told him to give it back to him when he should call for it in presence of the jury. It was an almanac of the year previous to the murder.
When the trial started, Mr. Lincoln represented the defense. His colleague, Mr. Walker, had shared the record from the Norris case with him, and after a thorough and careful review, he was confident that a smart and effective cross-examination could lead the witnesses to contradict each other on some key details. Mr. Walker questioned the witnesses involved in this well-planned approach, while Mr. Lincoln sat next to him, suggesting questions. However, to an inexperienced observer, the testimony seemed overwhelmingly against the accused, and each statement felt like a new death sentence. Norris had struck the victim with a club from behind, while Armstrong had hit him in the face with a slung-shot that was specifically made for that moment; according to the medical experts, either attack would have been fatal on its own. But the witness who provided the most damaging testimony against Armstrong claimed that the crime occurred around eleven at night, and that he observed the blows by the light of a nearly full moon, positioned in the sky much like the sun would be at ten in the morning. This kind of evidence is easy to twist or even discredit, and here Mr. Lincoln saw an opportunity that no one had considered during the Norris trial. He handed an almanac to a court officer and asked him to return it when he requested it in front of the jury. It was an almanac from the year before the murder.
"Mr. Lincoln," says Mr. Walker, "made the closing argument for the defence. At first he spoke slowly, and carefully reviewed the whole testimony,—picked it all to pieces, and showed that the man had not received his wounds at the place or time named by the witnesses, but afterwards, and at the hands of some one else" "The evidence bore heavily upon his client," says Mr. Shaw, one of the counsel for the prosecution. "There were many witnesses, and each one seemed to add one more cord that seemed to bind him down, until Mr. Lincoln was something in the situation of Gulliver after his first sleep in Lilliput. But, when he came to talk to the jury (that was always his forte), he resembled Gulliver again. He skilfully untied here and there a knot, and loosened here and there a peg, until, fairly getting warmed up, he raised himself in his full power, and shook the arguments of his opponents from him as if they were cobwebs." In due time he called for the almanac, and easily proved by it, that, at the time the main witness declared the moon was shining in great splendor, there was, in fact, no moon at all, but black darkness over the whole scene. In the "roar of laughter" and undisguised astonishment succeeding this apparent demonstration, court, jury, and counsel forgot to examine that seemingly conclusive almanac, and let it pass without a question concerning its genuineness.1
"Mr. Lincoln," Mr. Walker says, "made the final argument for the defense. At first, he spoke slowly and carefully went over all the testimony—he tore it apart and showed that the man hadn’t been injured at the time or place that the witnesses claimed, but later, and at the hands of someone else." "The evidence was stacked against his client," says Mr. Shaw, one of the prosecutors. "There were many witnesses, and each one seemed to add another cord that kept him tied down, until Mr. Lincoln was a bit like Gulliver after his first sleep in Lilliput. But when he began to address the jury (that was always his strength), he turned back into Gulliver. He skillfully untied a knot here and loosened a peg there, and as he got fired up, he stood tall and brushed off his opponents' arguments like they were cobwebs." Eventually, he asked for the almanac and easily demonstrated that, at the time the main witness claimed the moon was shining brightly, there was actually no moon at all, just complete darkness over everything. In the "roar of laughter" and surprise that followed this clear demonstration, the court, jury, and attorneys forgot to check the authenticity of that seemingly decisive almanac and let it go without questioning its validity.
In conclusion, Mr. Lincoln drew a touching picture of Jack Armstrong (whose gentle spirit alas! had gone to that place of coronation for the meek), and Hannah,—this sweet-faced old lady with the silver locks,—welcoming to their humble cabin a strange and penniless boy, to whom Jack, with that Christian benevolence which distinguished him through life, became as a father, and the guileless Hannah even more than a mother. The boy, he said, stood before them pleading for the life of his benefactors' son,—the staff of the widow's declining years.
In conclusion, Mr. Lincoln painted a heartfelt picture of Jack Armstrong (whose gentle spirit, unfortunately, had gone to that place of honor for the meek) and Hannah—this sweet-faced old lady with silver hair—welcoming a strange and broke boy into their humble home. Jack, with the kind-heartedness that defined him throughout his life, became like a father to the boy, and the innocent Hannah even more like a mother. The boy, he said, stood before them pleading for the life of his benefactor's son—the support of the widow in her later years.
1 Mr. E. J. Loomis, assistant in charge of the "Nautical Almanac" office, Washington, D.C., under date of Aug. 1,1871, says,— "Referring to the 'Nautical Almanac' for 1857, I find, that, between the hours of ten and eleven o'clock on the night of the 29th of August, 1857, the moon was within one hour of setting. "The computed time of its setting on that night is 11 h. 57 m.,—three minutes before midnight. "The moon was only two days past its first quarter, and could hardly be mistaken for 'nearly full.'" "In the case of the People vs. Armstrong, I was assisting prosecuting counsel. The prevailing belief at that time, and I may also say at the present, in Cass County, was as follows:— "Mr. Lincoln, previous to the trial, handed an almanac of the year previous to the murder to an officer of the court, stating that he might call for one during the trial, and, if he did, to send him that one. An important witness for the People had fixed the time of the murder to be in the night, near a camp-meeting; 'that the moon was about in the same place that the sun would be at ten o'clock in the morning, and was nearly full,'therefore he could see plainly, &c. At the proper time, Mr. Lincoln called to the officer for an almanac; and the one prepared for the occasion was shown by Mr. 'Lincoln, he reading from it at the time referred to by the witness 'The moon had already set;' that in the roar of laughter the jury and opposing counsel forgot to look at the date. Mr. Carter, a lawyer of this city (Beardstown), who was present at, but not engaged in, the Armstrong case, says he is satisfied that the almanac was of the year previous, and thinks he examined it at the time. This was the general impression in the court-room. I have called on the sheriff who officiated at that time (James A. Dick), who says that he saw a 'Goudy's Almanac' lying upon Mr. Lincoln's table during the trial, and that Mr. Lincoln took it out of his own pocket. Mr. Dick does not know the date of it. I have seen several of the petit jurymen who sat upon the case, who only recollect that the almanac floored the witness. But one of the jurymen, the foreman, Mr. Milton Logan, says that it was the one for the year of the murder, and no trick about it; that he is willing to make an affidavit that he examined it as to date, and that it was an almanac of the year of the murder. My own opinion is, that when an almanac was called for by Mr. Lincoln, two were brought, one of the year of the murder, and one of the year previous; that Mr. Lincoln was entirely innocent of any deception in the matter. I the more think this, from the fact that Armstrong was not cleared by any want of testimony against him, but by the irresistible appeal of Mr. Lincoln in his favor."—Henry Shaw.
1 Mr. E. J. Loomis, the assistant in charge of the "Nautical Almanac" office in Washington, D.C., wrote on August 1, 1871, — "While looking at the 'Nautical Almanac' for 1857, I discovered that between 10 and 11 PM on the night of August 29, 1857, the moon was about an hour away from setting. It was calculated to set that night at 11:57 PM, which is three minutes before midnight. The moon was just two days past its first quarter, so it couldn’t have been mistaken for 'nearly full.' During the People vs. Armstrong case, I was assisting the prosecuting attorney. At that time, and I would say even today in Cass County, the common belief was that Mr. Lincoln gave a court officer an almanac from the year before the murder, indicating he might need it during the trial and to send it to him if he called for it. An important witness for the prosecution claimed the murder happened at night, near a camp meeting, stating 'the moon was about where the sun would be at 10 in the morning, and was nearly full,' suggesting he could see everything clearly, etc. When the moment arrived, Mr. Lincoln asked the officer for the almanac, and the one prepared for the occasion was presented by Mr. Lincoln, who read from it at the time mentioned by the witness: 'The moon had already set;' in the ensuing laughter, the jury and opposing counsel forgot to verify the date. Mr. Carter, a lawyer from Beardstown, who was present but not involved in the Armstrong case, believes the almanac was from the prior year and thinks he looked at it at that time. This sentiment was common in the courtroom. I spoke with the sheriff who presided at that time (James A. Dick), who said he saw a 'Goudy's Almanac' on Mr. Lincoln's table during the trial and that Mr. Lincoln took it from his own pocket. Mr. Dick is unsure about the date. I've talked to several jurors who served on the case, and they only recall that the almanac shocked the witness. However, the foreman, Mr. Milton Logan, claims it was for the year of the murder and insists there was no trick; he is willing to sign an affidavit stating that he checked the date and verified it was the almanac for the year of the murder. I believe that when Mr. Lincoln requested an almanac, two were brought — one from the year of the murder and one from the previous year — and that Mr. Lincoln was completely innocent of any deception. I feel this even more strongly because Armstrong wasn’t acquitted due to a lack of evidence against him, but rather he was saved by Mr. Lincoln’s powerful argument on his behalf." —Henry Shaw.
"The last fifteen minutes of his speech," his colleague declares, "was as eloquent as I ever heard; and such the power and earnestness with which he spoke to that jury, that all sat as if entranced, and, when he was through, found relief in a gush of tears." "He took the jury by storm," says one of the prosecutors. "There were tears in Mr. Lincoln's eyes while he spoke, but they were genuine. His sympathies were fully enlisted in favor of the young man, and his terrible sincerity could not help but arouse the same passion in the jury. I have said a hundred times that it was Lincoln's speech that saved that criminal from the gallows." In the language of Hannah, who sat by enchanted, "he told the stories about our first acquaintance,—what I did for him, and how I did it;" and she thinks it "was truly eloquent."
"The last fifteen minutes of his speech," his colleague declares, "were the most eloquent I've ever heard; the power and passion with which he spoke to that jury had everyone captivated, and when he finished, they all let their tears flow." "He completely won over the jury," says one of the prosecutors. "There were real tears in Mr. Lincoln's eyes while he spoke, and they were sincere. He was truly invested in helping the young man, and his deep honesty stirred the same feelings in the jury. I've said many times that it was Lincoln's speech that saved that man from death." In the words of Hannah, who sat spellbound, "he shared the stories about our first meeting—what I did for him, and how I did it;" and she thinks it "was truly moving."
"As to the trial," continues Hannah, "Lincoln said to me, 'Hannah, your son will be cleared before sundown.' He and the other lawyers addressed the jury, and closed the case. I went down at Thompson's pasture: Stator came to me, and told me soon that my son was cleared and a free man. I went up to the Court House: the jury shook hands with me, so did the Court, so did Lincoln. We were all affected, and tears, streamed down Lincoln's eyes. He then remarked to me, 'Hannah, what did I tell you? I pray to God that William may be a good boy hereafter; that this lesson may prove in the end a good lesson to him and to all.'... After the trial was over, Lincoln came down to where I was in Beardstown. I asked him what he charged me; told him I was poor. He said, 'Why, Hannah, I sha'n't charge you a cent,—never. Any thing I can do for you I will do for you willing and freely without charges.' He wrote to me about some land which some men were trying to get from me, and said, 'Hannah, they can't get your land. Let them try it in the Circuit Court, and then you appeal it; bring it to Supreme Court, and I and Herndon will attend to it for nothing.'"
"As for the trial," Hannah continues, "Lincoln told me, 'Hannah, your son will be cleared before sundown.' He and the other lawyers spoke to the jury and wrapped up the case. I went down to Thompson's pasture, and Stator came to me, quickly telling me that my son was cleared and a free man. I headed up to the Court House: the jury shook hands with me, as did the Court and Lincoln. We were all emotional, and tears streamed down Lincoln's face. He then said to me, 'Hannah, what did I tell you? I pray to God that William becomes a good boy from now on; that this experience will turn out to be a valuable lesson for him and for everyone.'... After the trial was finished, Lincoln came to where I was in Beardstown. I asked him how much he was charging me, explaining that I was poor. He said, 'Well, Hannah, I won't charge you a cent—never. If there's anything I can do for you, I will do it willingly and freely, without any charge.' He wrote to me about some land that some men were trying to take from me, and said, 'Hannah, they can't take your land. Let them try in the Circuit Court, and then you can appeal it; bring it to the Supreme Court, and I and Herndon will handle it for nothing.'"
This boy William enlisted in the Union army. But in 1863 Hannah concluded she "wanted" him. She does not say that William was laboring under any disability, or that he had any legal right to his discharge. She merely "wanted" him, and wrote Mr. Lincoln to that effect. He replied promptly by telegraph:—
This boy William joined the Union army. But in 1863, Hannah decided she "wanted" him. She doesn't mention that William was facing any issues, or that he had any legal right to leave. She just "wanted" him, and wrote to Mr. Lincoln about it. He replied quickly by telegram:—
September, 1863.
September 1863.
Mrs. Hannah Armstrong,—I have just ordered the discharge of your boy William, as you say, now at Louisville, Ky.
Mrs. Hannah Armstrong, I have just ordered the release of your son William, who you mentioned is currently in Louisville, KY.
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
For many years Mr. Lincoln was the attorney of the Illinois Central Railway Company; and, having rendered in some recent causes most important and laborious services, he presented a bill in 1857 for five thousand dollars. He pressed for his money, and was referred to some under-official who was charged with that class of business. Mr. Lincoln would probably have modified his bill, which seemed exorbitant as charges went among country lawyers, but the company treated him with such rude insolence, that he contented himself with a formal demand, and then immediately instituted suit on the claim. The case was tried at Bloomington before Judge Davis; and, upon affidavits of N. B. Judd, O. H.
For many years, Mr. Lincoln was the attorney for the Illinois Central Railway Company, and after providing significant and demanding services in some recent cases, he submitted a bill in 1857 for five thousand dollars. He pushed for his payment but was directed to a lower-level official responsible for that type of business. Mr. Lincoln might have been willing to reduce his bill, which seemed excessive compared to what country lawyers typically charged, but the company treated him with such disrespect that he settled for a formal demand and quickly filed a lawsuit to claim his payment. The case was heard in Bloomington before Judge Davis, and based on affidavits from N. B. Judd, O. H.
Browning, S. T. Logan, and Archy Williams, respecting the value of the services, was decided in favor of the plaintiff, and judgment given for five thousand dollars. This was much more money than Mr. Lincoln had ever had at one time.
Browning, S. T. Logan, and Archy Williams, acknowledging the worth of the services, was ruled in favor of the plaintiff, and a judgment of five thousand dollars was awarded. This was far more money than Mr. Lincoln had ever possessed at one time.
In the summer of 1859 Mr. Lincoln went to Cincinnati to argue the celebrated McCormick reaping-machine case. Mr. Edwin M. Stanton, whom he never saw before, was one of his colleagues, and the leading counsel in the case; and although the other gentlemen engaged received him with proper respect, Mr. Stanton treated him with such marked and habitual discourtesy, that he was compelled to withdraw from the case. When he reached home he said that he had "never been so brutally treated as by that man Stanton;" and the facts justified the statement.
In the summer of 1859, Mr. Lincoln went to Cincinnati to argue the famous McCormick reaping machine case. Mr. Edwin M. Stanton, whom he had never met before, was one of his colleagues and the lead attorney in the case. Although the other gentlemen involved treated him with due respect, Mr. Stanton was consistently rude to him, forcing him to step back from the case. When he got home, he said he had "never been treated so brutally as by that man Stanton," and the facts backed up that claim.
CHAPTER XIV
WE have seen already, from one of his letters to Mr. Herndon, that Mr. Lincoln was personally quite willing to be a candidate for Congress the second time. But his "honor" forbade: he had given pledges, and made private arrangements with other gentlemen, to prevent "the district from going to the enemy." Judge Logan was nominated in his place; and, although personally one of the most popular men in Illinois, he was sadly beaten, in consequence of the record which the Whig party had made "against the war." It was well as it was; for, if Mr. Lincoln had been the candidate, he would have been still more disastrously defeated, since it was mainly the votes he had given in Congress which Judge Logan found it so difficult to explain and impossible to defend.
We have already seen, from one of his letters to Mr. Herndon, that Mr. Lincoln was personally quite willing to run for Congress a second time. But his "honor" held him back: he had made promises and private arrangements with other gentlemen to keep "the district from going to the enemy." Judge Logan was nominated in his place; and, although he was one of the most popular men in Illinois, he was unfortunately beaten due to the record that the Whig party had established "against the war." It turned out for the best; because if Mr. Lincoln had been the candidate, he would have lost even more disastrously, since it was primarily the votes he had cast in Congress that Judge Logan found so hard to explain and impossible to defend.
Mr. Lincoln was an applicant, and a very urgent one, for the office of Commissioner of the General Land-Office in the new Whig administration. He moved his friends to urge him in the newspapers, and wrote to some of his late associates in Congress (among them Mr. Schenck of Ohio), soliciting their support. But it was all of no avail; Mr. Justin Butterfield (also an Illinoisian) beat him in the race to Washington, and got the appointment. It is said by one of Mr. Lincoln's numerous biographers, that he often laughed over his failure to secure this great office, pretending to think it beneath his merits; but we can find no evidence of the fact alleged, and have no reason to believe it.
Mr. Lincoln was a candidate, and a very eager one, for the position of Commissioner of the General Land-Office in the new Whig administration. He encouraged his friends to promote him in the newspapers and reached out to some of his former colleagues in Congress (including Mr. Schenck of Ohio), asking for their support. But it was all for nothing; Mr. Justin Butterfield (also from Illinois) won the race to Washington and received the appointment. One of Mr. Lincoln's many biographers claims that he often laughed about his failure to secure this important office, pretending to think it was beneath him; however, we have no evidence to support this claim and no reason to believe it.
Mr. Fillmore subsequently offered him the governorship of Oregon. The news reached him whilst away at court at Tremont or Bloomington. Mr. Stuart and others "coaxed him to take it;" the former insisting that Oregon would soon become a State, and he one of its senators. Mr. Lincoln saw it all, and said he would accept "if his wife would consent." But his wife "refused to do so;" and time has shown that she was right, as she usually was when it came to a question of practical politics.
Mr. Fillmore later offered him the governorship of Oregon. He heard the news while he was away at court in Tremont or Bloomington. Mr. Stuart and others "encouraged him to take it," with Stuart insisting that Oregon would soon become a state, and he would be one of its senators. Mr. Lincoln understood everything and said he would accept "if his wife agreed." But his wife "refused," and time has shown that she was right, as she usually was when it came to practical politics.
From the time of his retirement from Congress to 1854, when the repeal of the Missouri Compromise and the Kansas-Nebraska Bill broke the hollow truce of 1856, which Mr. Clay and his compeers fondly regarded as a peace, Mr. Lincoln's life was one of comparative political inactivity. He did not believe that the sectional agitations could be permanently stilled by the devices which then seemed effectual to the foremost statesmen of either party and of both sections. But he was not disposed to be forward in the renewal of them. He probably hoped against conviction that time would allay the animosities which endangered at once the Union and the principles of free government, which had thus far preserved a precarious existence among the North American States.
From the time he retired from Congress until 1854, when the repeal of the Missouri Compromise and the Kansas-Nebraska Bill shattered the fragile peace of 1856 that Mr. Clay and his colleagues naively thought would last, Mr. Lincoln led a relatively inactive political life. He didn’t think that the regional tensions could be permanently resolved by the strategies that appeared effective to the leading politicians of both parties and regions at the time. However, he wasn’t inclined to push for a restart of those conflicts. He likely held onto the hope, even if it felt unrealistic, that time would ease the hostilities threatening both the Union and the principles of free government, which had so far managed to survive in a fragile state among the North American states.
Coming home to Springfield from the Tremont court in 1850 in company with Mr. Stuart, he said, "The time will come when we must all be Democrats or Abolitionists. When that time comes, my mind is made up. The 'slavery question' can't be compromised."—"So is my mind made up," replied his equally firm companion; and at that moment neither doubted on which side he would find the other when the great struggle took place.
Coming home to Springfield from the Tremont court in 1850 with Mr. Stuart, he said, "There will come a time when we all have to choose between being Democrats or Abolitionists. When that time comes, I know where I stand. The 'slavery issue' can't be negotiated."—"I feel the same way," replied his equally resolute companion; and in that moment, neither doubted which side they would support when the major conflict happened.
The Whig party everywhere, in Congress and in their conventions, local and national, accepted the compromise of 1850 under the leadership of Mr. Clay and Mr. Webster. Mr. Lincoln did the same; for, from the hour that party lines were distinctly and closely drawn in his State, he was an unswerving party man. But although he said nothing against those measures, and much in favor of them, it is clear that he accepted the result with reluctance. He spoke out his disapproval of the Fugitive Slave Law as it was passed, believing and declaring wherever he went, that a negro man apprehended as a slave should have the privilege of a trial by jury, instead of the summary processes provided by the law.
The Whig party, both in Congress and at their local and national conventions, went along with the compromise of 1850 under the leadership of Mr. Clay and Mr. Webster. Mr. Lincoln did the same; from the moment party divisions became clear in his state, he was a loyal party member. However, even though he didn’t openly criticize those measures and often supported them, it’s obvious he accepted the outcome reluctantly. He voiced his disapproval of the Fugitive Slave Law as it was enacted, believing and stating wherever he went that a Black man accused of being a slave should have the right to a trial by jury, rather than being subjected to the quick procedures outlined by the law.
"Mr. Lincoln and I were going to Petersburg in 1850, I think," says Mr. Herndon. "The political world was dead: the compromises of 1850 seemed to settle the negro's fate. Things were stagnant; and all hope for progress in the line of freedom seemed to be crushed out. Lincoln was speculating with me about the deadness of things, and the despair which arose out of it, and deeply regretting that his human strength and power were limited by his nature to rouse and stir up the world. He said gloomily, despairingly, sadly, 'How hard, oh! how hard it is to die and leave one's country no better than if one had never lived for it! The world is dead to hope, deaf to its own death-struggle, made known by a universal cry, What is to be done? Is any thing to be done? Who can do any thing? and how is it to be done? Did you ever think of these things?'"
"Mr. Lincoln and I were heading to Petersburg in 1850, I believe," says Mr. Herndon. "The political scene was stagnant: the compromises of 1850 seemed to set the fate of the Black community. Progress felt impossible; all hope for freedom seemed crushed. Lincoln was pondering with me about the dullness of everything and the despair that came from it, deeply regretting that his ability to inspire and motivate the world was limited by his nature. He said gloomily, despairingly, sadly, 'How hard, oh! how hard it is to die and leave one's country no better off than if one had never lived for it! The world is hopeless, deaf to its own struggles for survival, crying out universally, What can we do? Is there anything that can be done? Who can do anything? And how can it be done? Have you ever thought about these things?'"
In 1850 Mr. Lincoln again declined to be a candidate for Congress; and a newspaper called "The Tazewell Mirror" persisting in naming him for the place, he published a letter, refusing most emphatically to be considered a candidate. The concluding sentence alleged that there were many men among the Whigs of the district who would be as likely as he to bring "the district right side up."
In 1850, Mr. Lincoln once again turned down the chance to run for Congress. When a newspaper called "The Tazewell Mirror" continued to suggest him for the position, he published a letter firmly stating that he did not want to be considered a candidate. In the final sentence, he claimed that there were many men among the Whigs in the district who would be just as capable as he was of "setting the district straight."
Until the death of his excellent step-mother, Sarah Bush Lincoln, Mr. Lincoln never considered himself free for a moment from the obligation to look after and care for her family. She had made herself his mother; and he regarded her and her children as near relatives,—much nearer than any of the Hankses.
Until the death of his wonderful stepmother, Sarah Bush Lincoln, Mr. Lincoln never felt free from the responsibility to look after and care for her family. She had become like a mother to him; he saw her and her children as close relatives—much closer than any of the Hankses.
The limit of Thomas Lincoln's life was rapidly approaching. Mrs. Chapman, his step-daughter, wrote Mr. Lincoln to that effect; and so did John Johnston. He began to fear that the straitened circumstances of the household might make them think twice before they sent for a doctor, or procured other comforts for the poor old man, which he needed, perhaps, more than drugs. He was too busy to visit the dying man, but sent him a kind message, and directed the family to get whatever was wanted upon his credit.
The end of Thomas Lincoln’s life was coming fast. Mrs. Chapman, his stepdaughter, wrote to Mr. Lincoln about it, and so did John Johnston. He started to worry that their difficult financial situation might make them hesitate to call a doctor or get other comforts for the elderly man, which he might need even more than medicine. He was too busy to visit the dying man, but he sent him a heartfelt message and instructed the family to get whatever they needed on his credit.
Springfield, Jan. 12,1851.
Springfield, Jan. 12, 1851.
Dear Brother,—On the day before yesterday I received a letter from Harriet, written at Greenup. She says she has just returned from your house, and that father is very low, and will hardly recover. She also says that you have written me two letters, and that, although you do not expect me to come now, you wonder that I do not write. I received both your letters; and, although I have not answered them, it is not because I have forgotten them, or not been interested about them, but because it appeared to me I could write nothing which could do any good. You already know I desire that neither father nor mother shall be in want of any comfort, either in health or sickness, while they live; and I feel sure you have not failed to use my name, if necessary, to procure a doctor or any thing else for father in his present sickness. My business is such that I could hardly leave home now, if it were not, as it is, that my own wife is sick a-bed. (It is a case of baby sickness, and, I suppose, is not dangerous.) I sincerely hope father may yet recover his health; but, at all events, tell him to remember to call upon and confide in our great and good and merciful Maker, who will not turn away from him in any extremity. He notes the fall of a sparrow, and numbers the hairs of our heads; and he will not forget the dying man who puts his trust in him. Say to him, that, if we could meet now, it is doubtful whether it would not be more painful than pleasant; but that, if it be his lot to go now, he will soon have a joyous meeting with loved ones gone before, and where the rest of us, through the help of God, hope ere long to join them.
Dear Brother, — The day before yesterday, I got a letter from Harriet, written in Greenup. She says she just came back from your place, and that Dad is really down and probably won’t recover. She also mentioned that you’ve written me two letters, and even though you don’t expect me to come right now, you’re curious about why I haven’t written back. I got both of your letters, and even though I haven’t replied, it’s not because I forgot about them or didn’t care; it’s just that I felt like I couldn’t say anything that would help. You know I want to make sure neither Dad nor Mom lacks any comfort, whether they’re healthy or sick, while they’re alive; and I’m sure you’ve used my name if you needed to get a doctor or anything else for Dad during this illness. My work is such that I can hardly leave home right now, especially since my wife is sick in bed. (It’s just a case of pregnancy sickness, and I suppose it’s not dangerous). I sincerely hope Dad can recover his health, but at the very least, tell him to remember to reach out to and trust in our great, good, and merciful Creator, who won’t turn away from him in any hardship. He cares about everything, even the fall of a sparrow, and counts the hairs on our heads; He won’t forget the dying man who puts his faith in Him. Tell him that, if we could meet now, it might end up being more painful than pleasant; but if it’s his time to go now, he will soon have a joyful reunion with loved ones who have passed before, and the rest of us, with God’s help, hope to join them before long.
Write me again when you receive this.
Write to me again when you get this.
Affectionately,
With love,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
Before and after the death of Thomas Lincoln, John Johnston and Mr. Lincoln had a somewhat spirited correspondence regarding John's present necessities and future plans. John was idle, thriftless, penniless, and as much disposed to rove as poor old Tom had been in his earliest and worst days. This lack of character and enterprise on John's part added seriously to Mr. Lincoln's anxieties concerning his step-mother, and greatly embarrassed his attempts to provide for her. At length he wrote John the following energetic exhortation, coupled with a most magnanimous pecuniary offer. It is the letter promised in a previous chapter, and makes John an intimate acquaintance of the reader:—
Before and after Thomas Lincoln's death, John Johnston and Mr. Lincoln exchanged a lively correspondence about John's current needs and future plans. John was unemployed, careless with money, broke, and just as inclined to wander as poor old Tom had been during his toughest times. This lack of motivation and ambition on John's part heightened Mr. Lincoln's worries about his stepmother and made it difficult for him to support her. Eventually, he sent John an urgent letter, along with a very generous financial offer. This is the letter mentioned in a previous chapter, making John a familiar character to the reader:—
Dear Johnston,—Your request for eighty dollars, I do not think it best to comply with now. At the various times when I have helped you a little, you have said to me, "We can get along very well now;" but in a very short time I find you in the same difficulty again. Now, this can only happen by some defect in your conduct. What that defect is, I think I know. You are not lazy, and still you are an idler. I doubt whether, since I saw you, you have done a good whole day's work in any one day. You do not very much dislike to work, and still you do not work much, merely because it does not seem to you that you could get much for it. This habit of uselessly wasting time is the whole difficulty; and it is vastly important to you, and still more so to your children, that you should break the habit. It is more important to them, because they have longer to live, and can keep out of an idle habit before they are in it easier than they can get out after they are in.
Dear Johnston,—I don’t think it’s a good idea to grant your request for eighty dollars right now. Every time I’ve helped you in the past, you’ve told me, "We’re doing fine now," but soon after, I see you in the same trouble again. This can only happen due to something you’re doing wrong. I think I know what that is. You’re not lazy, but you are an idler. I question whether you’ve done a solid day’s work since we last met. You don’t mind working too much, but you don’t put in the effort because you don’t believe you’ll get much in return for it. This habit of wasting time is the main issue; it’s crucial for you, and even more so for your kids, that you break this habit. It’s more important for them because they have more time ahead of them and can avoid becoming idle more easily than they can escape it once they're in it.
You are now in need of some money; and what I propose is, that you shall go to work, "tooth and nail," for somebody who will give you money for it. Let father and your boys take charge of things at home, prepare for a crop, and make the crop, and you go to work for the best money-wages, or in discharge of any debt you owe, that you can get; and, to secure you a fair reward for your labor, I now promise you, that, for every dollar you will, between this and the first of next May, get for your own labor, either in money or as your own indebtedness, I will then give you one other dollar. By this, if you hire yourself at ten dollars a month, from me you will get ten more, making twenty dollars a month for your work. In this I do not mean you shall go off to St. Louis, or the lead-mines, or the gold-mines in California; but I mean for you to go at it for the best wages you can get close to home, in Cole's County. Now, if you will do this, you will be soon out of debt, and, what is better, you will have a habit that will keep you from getting in debt again. But, if I should now clear you out of debt, next year you would be just as deep in as ever. You say you would almost give your place in heaven for $70 or $80. Then you value your place in heaven very cheap; for I am sure you can, with the offer I make, get the seventy or eighty dollars for four or five months' work. You say, if I will furnish you the money, you will deed me the land, and, if you don't pay the money back, you will deliver possession. Nonsense! If you can't now live with the land, how will you then live without it? You have always been kind to me, and I do not mean to be unkind to you. On the contrary, if you will but follow my advice, you will find it worth more than eighty times eighty dollars to you.
You need some money right now, and what I suggest is that you go to work really hard for someone who will pay you for it. Let your dad and the guys take care of things at home, get ready for a crop, and grow it, while you focus on getting the best pay for your work, or to pay off any debts you have. To make sure you get a fair reward for your effort, I promise that for every dollar you earn from now until the first of next May, whether in cash or used to reduce your debt, I will give you an additional dollar. This means if you manage to secure a job at ten dollars a month, I will give you another ten, bringing your total to twenty dollars a month for your work. I’m not suggesting you head off to St. Louis, or the lead or gold mines in California; instead, I want you to get the best wages you can find nearby in Cole's County. If you do this, you'll quickly get out of debt and, even better, you'll develop a habit that will prevent you from falling into debt again. However, if I were to clear your debts now, next year you’d just be in the same situation as before. You mentioned you'd nearly trade your spot in heaven for $70 or $80. Then you clearly don’t value your spot in heaven very highly, since I’m sure you can earn that amount with the offer I’ve made in just four or five months of work. You said that if I give you the money, you’ll transfer the land to me, and if you can’t pay me back, you’ll let me take possession. That’s absurd! If you can’t manage to live with the land now, how will you cope without it? You have always treated me well, and I don’t want to be unkind to you. On the contrary, if you just follow my advice, it will be worth much more than eighty times eighty dollars to you.
Affectionately your brother,
Love, your brother,
A. Lincoln
Abraham Lincoln
Again he wrote:—
He wrote again:—
Shelbyville, Nov. 4, 1851.
Shelbyville, Nov. 4, 1851.
Dear Brother,—When I came into Charleston day before yesterday, I learned that you are anxious to sell the land where you live, and move to Missouri. I have been thinking of this ever since, and cannot but think such a notion is utterly foolish. What can you do in Missouri better than here? Is the land any richer? Can you there, any more than here, raise corn and wheat and oats without work? Will anybody there, any more than here, do your work for you? If you intend to go to work, there is no better place than right where you are: if you do not intend to go to work, you cannot get along anywhere. Squirming and crawling about from place to place can do no good. You have raised no crop this year; and what you really want is to sell the land, get the money, and spend it. Part with the land you have, and, my life upon it, you will never after own a spot big enough to bury you in. Half you will get for the land you will spend in moving to Missouri, and the other half you will eat and drink and wear out, and no foot of land will be bought. Now, I feel it is my duty to have no hand in such a piece of foolery. I feel that it is so even on your own account, and particularly on mother's account. The eastern forty acres I intend to keep for mother while she lives: if you will not cultivate it, it will rent for enough to support her; at least, it will rent for something. Her dower in the other two forties she can let you have, and no thanks to me. Now, do not misunderstand this letter: I do not write it in any unkindness. I write it in order, if possible, to get you to face the truth, which truth is, you are destitute because you have idled away all your time. Your thousand pretences for not getting along better are all nonsense: they deceive nobody but yourself. Go to work is the only cure for your case.
Dear Brother, — When I arrived in Charleston the day before yesterday, I learned that you want to sell the land where you live and move to Missouri. I've been thinking about this ever since, and I can't help but feel that this idea is completely foolish. What can you do in Missouri that’s better than here? Is the land any richer? Can you grow corn, wheat, and oats there any easier than here without putting in the effort? Will anyone there do your work for you, any more than here? If you're planning to work, there’s no better place than right where you are; if you’re not planning to work, you won’t get by anywhere. Moving from place to place won’t do you any good. You haven’t grown any crops this year, and what you really want is to sell the land, get the cash, and spend it. If you give up the land you have, I assure you, you will never own even a little piece of land again. Half of what you get from selling the land will go towards moving to Missouri, and the other half will be spent on food, drinks, and clothes, leaving you with nothing to buy land. I feel it’s my responsibility to not be involved in such foolishness. I feel this is true for your sake, and especially for mother's sake. I plan to keep the eastern forty acres for mother while she’s alive; if you won't cultivate it, it can be rented out for enough to support her, at least something. She can let you have her share of the other two forties, and I won’t take credit for that. Now, please don’t misinterpret this letter: I’m not writing it to be unkind. I’m writing it to hopefully get you to face the truth, which is that you’re in this situation because you’ve wasted all your time. Your many excuses for not doing better are all nonsense; they only deceive you. The only real solution for your situation is to go to work.
A word to mother. Chapman tells me he wants you to go and live with him. If I were you, I would try it a while. If you get tired of it (as I think you will not), you can return to your own home. Chapman feels very kindly to you; and I have no doubt he will make your situation very pleasant.
A message for Mom. Chapman told me he wants you to come live with him. If I were you, I would give it a shot for a bit. If you end up not liking it (which I don't think will happen), you can always come back home. Chapman is pretty fond of you, and I’m sure he’ll make things nice for you.
Sincerely your son,
Love, your son,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
And again:—
And again:—
Shelbyville, Nov. 9,1851.
Shelbyville, Nov. 9, 1851.
Dear Brother,—When I wrote you before, I had not received your letter. I still think as I did; but if the land can be sold so that I get three hundred dollars to put to interest for mother, I will not object, if she does not. But, before I will make a deed, the money must be had, or secured beyond all doubt, at ten per cent.
Dear Brother,—When I wrote to you last, I hadn't received your letter. I still feel the same way I did; but if the land can be sold so that I get three hundred dollars to invest for Mom, I won't object, as long as she agrees. However, before I sign any paperwork, the money must be available or secured without a doubt, at ten percent.
As to Abram, I do not want him, on my own account; but I understand he wants to live with me, so that he can go to school, and get a fair start in the world, which I very much wish him to have. When I reach home, if I can make it convenient to take, I will take him, provided there is no mistake between us as to the object and terms of my taking him.
As for Abram, I don’t want him for my own sake; but I get that he wants to live with me so he can go to school and have a solid start in life, which I really want for him too. When I get home, if it works out for me to take him in, I will do so, as long as we’re clear on the purpose and terms of me bringing him along.
In haste as ever,
Always in a hurry,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
On the 1st of July, 1852, Mr. Lincoln was chosen by a public meeting of his fellow-citizens at Springfield to deliver in their hearing a eulogy upon the life and character of Henry Clay; and on the 16th of the same month he complied with their request. Such addresses are usually called orations; but this one scarcely deserved the name. He made no effort to be eloquent, and in no part of it was he more than ordinarily animated. It is true that he bestowed great praise upon Mr. Clay; but it was bestowed in cold phrases and a tame style, wholly unlike the bulk of his previous compositions. In truth, Mr. Lincoln was never so devoted a follower of Mr. Clay as some of his biographers have represented him. He was for another man in 1836, most probably for another in 1840, and very ardently for another in 1848. Dr. Holland credits him with a visit to Mr. Clay at Ashland, and an interview which effectually cooled his ardor in behalf of the brilliant statesman. But, in fact, Mr. Lincoln never troubled himself to make such a pilgrimage to see or hear any man,—much less Mr. Clay. None of his friends—Judge Davis, Mr. Herndon, Mr. Speed, or any one else, so far as we are able to ascertain—ever heard of the visit. If it had been made at any time after 1838, it could scarcely have been concealed from Mr. Speed; and we are compelled to place it along with the multitude of groundless stories which have found currency with Mr. Lincoln's biographers.
On July 1, 1852, Mr. Lincoln was selected by a public meeting of his fellow citizens in Springfield to give a eulogy on the life and character of Henry Clay; he fulfilled their request on the 16th of that month. These kinds of speeches are usually called orations; however, this one hardly deserved that title. He didn't try to be eloquent, and at no point was he more than normally energetic. It's true he praised Mr. Clay a lot, but he did so in muted phrases and a dull style, completely unlike most of his earlier works. In reality, Mr. Lincoln was never as devoted a supporter of Mr. Clay as some of his biographers claim. He backed another candidate in 1836, likely another in 1840, and was very supportive of someone else in 1848. Dr. Holland attributes a visit to Mr. Clay at Ashland to him, claiming it cooled his enthusiasm for the brilliant statesman. However, Mr. Lincoln never made an effort to visit or listen to any man, let alone Mr. Clay. None of his friends—Judge Davis, Mr. Herndon, Mr. Speed, or anyone else, as far as we can tell—ever heard of this visit. If it happened anytime after 1838, it would have been hard to keep it from Mr. Speed, and we have to categorize it with the many unfounded stories that have circulated among Mr. Lincoln's biographers.
If the address upon Clay is of any historical value at all, it is because it discloses Mr. Lincoln's unreserved agreement with Mr. Clay in his opinions concerning slavery and the proper method of extinguishing it. They both favored gradual emancipation by the voluntary action of the people of the Slave States, and the transportation of the whole negro population to Africa as rapidly as they should be freed from service to their masters: it was a favorite scheme with Mr. Lincoln then, as it was long after he became President of the United States. "Compensated" and "voluntary emancipation," on the one hand, and "colonization" of the freedmen on the other, were essential parts of every "plan" which sprung out of his own individual mind. On this occasion, after quoting Mr. Clay, he said, "This suggestion of the possible ultimate redemption of the African race and African continent was made twenty-five years ago. Every succeeding year has added strength to the hope of its realization. May it indeed be realized! Pharaoh's country was cursed with plagues, and his hosts were drowned in the Red Sea, for striving to retain a captive people who had already served them more than four hundred years. May like disasters never befall us! If, as the friends of colonization hope, the present and coming generations of our countrymen shall by any means succeed in freeing our land from the dangerous presence of slavery, and at the same time restoring a captive people to their long-lost fatherland, with bright prospects for the future, and this, too, so gradually that neither races nor individuals shall have suffered by the change, it will indeed be a glorious consummation. And if to such a consummation the efforts of Mr. Clay shall have contributed, it will be what he most ardently wished; and none of his labors will have been more valuable to his country and his kind."
If the speech about Clay holds any historical significance, it’s because it shows Mr. Lincoln fully agreeing with Mr. Clay on his views about slavery and how to end it. They both supported gradual emancipation through the voluntary actions of the people in the Slave States, along with transporting the entire Black population to Africa as quickly as they were freed from serving their masters. This was a favored plan of Mr. Lincoln at that time and even long after he became President of the United States. "Compensated" and "voluntary emancipation," as well as "colonization" of the freed people, were key elements of every "plan" that originated from his own thinking. On this occasion, after quoting Mr. Clay, he remarked, "This suggestion of the possible ultimate redemption of the African race and African continent was made twenty-five years ago. Every year since has strengthened the hope of it coming true. May it indeed come true! Pharaoh's country was afflicted with plagues, and his army was drowned in the Red Sea, for trying to hold onto a captive people who had already served them for over four hundred years. May similar disasters never happen to us! If, as the supporters of colonization hope, the current and future generations of our countrymen manage to free our land from the dangerous presence of slavery, while also returning a captive people to their long-lost homeland, with bright prospects for the future, and doing this gradually enough that neither races nor individuals suffer through the change, it would truly be a glorious outcome. And if Mr. Clay’s efforts help achieve such an outcome, it would be what he most passionately desired; and none of his work will have been more valuable to his country and his people."
During the campaign of 1852, Judge Douglas took the stump for Pierce "in twenty-eight States out of the thirty-one." His first speech was at Richmond, Va. It was published extensively throughout the Union, and especially in Illinois. Mr. Lincoln felt an ardent desire to answer it, and, according to his own account, got the "permission" of the "Scott Club" of Springfield to make the speech under its auspices. It was a very poor effort. If it was distinguished by one quality above another, it was by its attempts at humor; and all those attempts were strained and affected, as well as very coarse. He displayed a jealous and petulant temper from the first sentence to the last, wholly beneath the dignity of the occasion and the importance of the topic. Considered as a whole, it may be said that none of his public performances was more unworthy of its really noble author than this one. The reader has doubtless observed in the course of this narrative, as he will in the future, that Mr. Douglas's great success in obtaining place and distinction was a standing offence to Mr. Lincoln's self-love and individual ambition. He was intensely jealous of him, and longed to pull him down, or outstrip him in the race for popular favor, which they united in considering "the chief end of man." Some of the first sentences of this speech before the "Scott Club" betray this feeling in a most unmistakable and painful manner. "This speech [that of Mr. Douglas at Richmond] has been published with high commendations in at least one of the Democratic papers in this State, and I suppose it has been and will be in most of the others. When I first saw it and read it, I was reminded of old times, when Judge Douglas was not so much greater man than all the rest of us, as he is now,—of the Harrison campaign twelve years ago, when I used to hear and try to answer many of his speeches; and believing that the Richmond speech, though marked with the same species of 'shirks and quirks' as the old ones, was not marked with any greater ability, I was seized with a strange inclination to attempt an answer to it; and this inclination it was that prompted me to seek the privilege of addressing you on this occasion."
During the 1852 campaign, Judge Douglas spoke for Pierce "in twenty-eight States out of the thirty-one." His first speech was in Richmond, Va. It was widely published across the country, especially in Illinois. Mr. Lincoln felt a strong urge to respond, and according to his own account, got the "permission" of the "Scott Club" of Springfield to make the speech under their support. It was a poor effort. If it stood out for one reason more than others, it was for its attempts at humor; all those attempts were forced and unnatural, as well as quite crude. He showed a jealous and petulant attitude from the first sentence to the last, which was entirely beneath the dignity of the occasion and the significance of the topic. Overall, none of his public performances was more unworthy of its genuinely noble author than this one. The reader has probably noticed throughout this narrative, and will continue to do so, that Mr. Douglas's significant success in gaining status and recognition was a constant source of offense to Mr. Lincoln's self-esteem and personal ambition. He was intensely jealous of him and wanted to bring him down or surpass him in the race for public favor, which they both viewed as "the chief end of man." Some of the opening sentences of this speech before the "Scott Club" reveal this feeling in a very clear and painful way. "This speech [that of Mr. Douglas at Richmond] has been published with high praise in at least one of the Democratic papers in this State, and I assume it has been and will be in most others. When I first saw it and read it, I was reminded of old times, when Judge Douglas was not that much greater than all the rest of us, as he is now,—of the Harrison campaign twelve years ago, when I used to hear and try to respond to many of his speeches; and believing that the Richmond speech, while displaying the same kind of 'shirks and quirks' as the old ones, wasn’t marked by any greater talent, I felt a strange urge to try to respond to it; and this urge is what led me to seek the opportunity to speak to you today."
In the progress of his remarks, Mr. Lincoln emphatically indorsed Mr. Douglas's great speech at Chicago in 1850, in defence of the compromise measures, which Mr. Lincoln pronounced the work of no party, but which, "for praise or blame," belonged to Whigs and Democrats alike. The rest of the address was devoted to a humorous critique upon Mr. Douglas's language in the Richmond speech, to ridicule of the campaign biographies of Pierce, to a description of Gens. Shields and Pierce wallowing in the ditch in the midst of a battle, and to a most remarkable account of a militia muster which might have been seen at Springfield a few years previous. Mr. Douglas had expressed great confidence in the sober judgment of the people, and at the same time had, rather inconsistently as well as indecently, declared that Providence had saved us from one military administration by the timely removal of Gen. Taylor. To this Mr. Lincoln alluded in his closing paragraph, which is given as a fair sample of the whole:—
In the course of his speech, Mr. Lincoln strongly endorsed Mr. Douglas's important address in Chicago in 1850, defending the compromise measures, which Mr. Lincoln stated were not the work of any single party but, "for praise or blame," belonged to both Whigs and Democrats. The remainder of the address focused on a humorous critique of Mr. Douglas's language in the Richmond speech, mocking the campaign biographies of Pierce, describing Gens. Shields and Pierce stuck in a ditch during a battle, and providing a memorable account of a militia muster that had occurred in Springfield a few years earlier. Mr. Douglas expressed strong confidence in the sensible judgment of the people while also, quite inconsistently and inappropriately, claiming that Providence had protected us from a military administration by the timely removal of Gen. Taylor. Mr. Lincoln referenced this in his closing paragraph, which serves as a good example of the overall tone:—
"Let us stand by our candidate as faithfully as he has always stood by our country, and I much doubt if we do not perceive a slight abatement in Judge Douglas's confidence in Providence, as well as in the people. I suspect that confidence is not more firmly fixed with the judge than it was with the old woman whose horse ran away with her in a buggy. She said she 'trusted in Providence till the britchin' broke, and then she didn't know what on airth to do.' The chance is, the judge will see the 'britchin' broke;' and then he can at his leisure bewail the fate of Locofocoism as the victim of misplaced confidence."
"Let's stand by our candidate just like he has always stood by our country, and I seriously doubt that we won't notice a slight dip in Judge Douglas's faith in Providence, as well as in the people. I suspect his confidence is no more secure than that of the old woman whose horse ran away with her in a buggy. She said she 'trusted in Providence until the harness broke, and then she didn't know what on earth to do.' Chances are, the judge will see the 'harness' break; and then he can take his time lamenting the fate of Locofocoism as the victim of misplaced trust."
On the 4th of January, 1854, Mr. Douglas, Chairman of the Committee on Territories, of the Senate of the United States, reported a bill to establish a territorial government in Nebraska. This bill contained nothing in relation to the Missouri Compromise, which still remained upon the statute-book, although the principle on which it was based had been violated in the Compromise legislation of 1850. A Whig Senator from Kentucky gave notice, that, when the Committee's bill came before the Senate, he would move an amendment repealing the Missouri Compromise. With this admonition in mind, the Committee instructed Mr. Douglas to report a substitute, which he did on the 23d of the same month. The substitute made two Territories out of Nebraska, and called one of them Kansas. It annulled the Missouri Compromise, forbade its application to Kansas, Nebraska, or any other territory, and, as amended and finally passed, fixed the following rules:... "It being the true intent and meaning of this act not to legislate slavery into any Territory or State, nor to exclude it therefrom, but to leave the people thereof perfectly free to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the Constitution of the United States." Mr. Douglas had long since denounced his imprecations upon "the ruthless hand" that should disturb that ancient compact of peace between the sections; and now he put forth his own ingenious hand to do the deed, and to take the curse, in both of which he was eminently successful. Not that the Missouri Act may not have been repugnant to the Constitution, for no court had ever passed upon it; but it was enacted for a holy purpose, was venerable in age, was consecrated in the hearts of the people by the unsurpassed eloquence of the patriots of a previous generation, and having the authority of law, of reason, and of covenant, it had till then preserved the Union, as its authors designed it should; and, being in truth a sacred thing, it was not a proper subject for the "ruthless" interference of mere politicians, like those who now devoted it to destruction. If, upon a regularly heard and decided issue, the Supreme Court should declare it unconstitutional, the recision of the compact could be attributed to no party,—neither to slavery nor to antislavery,—and the peace of the country might still subsist. But its repeal by the party that did it—a coalition of Southern Whigs and Democrats with Northern Democrats—was evidence of a design to carry slavery into the region north of 36° 30'; or the legislation was without a purpose at all. It was the first aggression of the South; but be it remembered in common justice, that she was tempted to it by the treacherous proffers of a restless but powerful Northern leader, who asked no recompense but her electoral votes. In due time he opened her eyes to the nature of the fraud; and, if he carried through the Kansas-Nebraska Act to catch the votes of the South in 1856, it cost him no inconvenience to give it a false and startling construction to catch the votes of the North in 1860. In the repeal of the Compromise, the Northern Democrats submitted with reluctance to the dictation of Douglas and the South. It was the great error of the party,—the one disastrous error of all its history. The party succeeded in 1856 only by the nomination of Mr. Buchanan, who was out of the country when the Kansas-Nebraska Act was passed, and who was known to have opposed it. But the questions which grew out of it, the false and disingenuous construction of the act by its author, the slavery agitations in Kansas and throughout the country, disrupted the party at Charleston, and made possible Mr. Lincoln's election by a minority of the votes cast. And to the Whig party, whose Senators and Representatives from the South voted for the Douglas Bill in a body, the renewal of the slavery agitation, invited and insured by their action, was the signal of actual dissolution.
On January 4, 1854, Mr. Douglas, Chairman of the Senate Committee on Territories, reported a bill to create a territorial government in Nebraska. This bill didn't mention the Missouri Compromise, which was still officially in place, even though its principle had already been undermined by the Compromise legislation of 1850. A Whig Senator from Kentucky announced that when the Committee's bill came to the Senate, he would propose an amendment to repeal the Missouri Compromise. Keeping this warning in mind, the Committee instructed Mr. Douglas to provide a substitute bill, which he did on the 23rd of the same month. The substitute divided Nebraska into two territories, naming one of them Kansas. It repealed the Missouri Compromise, prohibited its application to Kansas, Nebraska, or any other territory, and, as amended and finally passed, established the following rules:... "It being the true intent and meaning of this act not to legislate slavery into any Territory or State, nor to exclude it therefrom, but to leave the people thereof perfectly free to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the Constitution of the United States." Mr. Douglas had long condemned "the ruthless hand" that would disturb that long-standing agreement of peace between the sections; and now he was the one actively undermining it, successfully taking on that burden. Not that the Missouri Act might not have been at odds with the Constitution, since no court had ever ruled on it; but it was enacted for a noble purpose, was respected for its age, and was honored in the hearts of the people due to the unmatched eloquence of the patriots of a previous generation, and having the backing of law, reason, and agreement, it had until then kept the Union intact, as its authors had intended. Being genuinely a sacred agreement, it was not appropriate for mere politicians, like those now leading its downfall, to interfere. If, after a fair legal review, the Supreme Court declared it unconstitutional, the repeal of the compact could not be blamed on any party—neither those for slavery nor against it—allowing peace to remain in the country. However, its repeal by the coalition of Southern Whigs and Democrats with Northern Democrats indicated a plan to spread slavery into the territory north of 36° 30'; or it was completely purposeless. This marked the South's first aggressive move; yet, it should be noted that they were lured into it by the deceitful promises of a restless but influential Northern leader, who sought nothing in return but her electoral votes. He eventually revealed to her the nature of the betrayal; and, although he advanced the Kansas-Nebraska Act to secure Southern votes in 1856, it was easy for him to twist it in an alarming new direction to win Northern votes in 1860. In the repeal of the Compromise, Northern Democrats reluctantly complied with the demands of Douglas and the South. This was the party's major mistake—the single disastrous error in all its history. The party only succeeded in 1856 by nominating Mr. Buchanan, who was out of the country when the Kansas-Nebraska Act was passed and who had been known to oppose it. However, the issues that arose from it, the misleading and dishonest interpretation of the act by its author, and the slavery conflicts in Kansas and across the nation tore the party apart at Charleston, leading to Mr. Lincoln's election by a minority of the votes cast. As for the Whig party, whose Southern Senators and Representatives unanimously supported the Douglas Bill, the resurgence of the slavery conflict, prompted and ensured by their actions, signaled their actual dissolution.
Up to this date, Mr. Lincoln's views of slavery, and how they were formed, are as well known to the reader as they can be made known from the materials left behind for a history of them. It is clear that his feelings on the subject were inspired by individual cases of apparent hardship which had come under his observation. John Hanks, on the last trip to New Orleans, was struck by Lincoln's peculiarly active sympathy for the servile race, and insists, that, upon sight of their wrongs, "the iron entered his heart." In a letter to Mr. Speed, which will shortly be presented, Mr. Lincoln confesses to a similar experience in 1841, and speaks with great bitterness of the pain which the actual presence of chained and manacled slaves had given him. Indeed, Mr. Lincoln was not an ardent sympathizer with sufferings of any sort, which he did not witness with the eye of flesh. His compassion might be stirred deeply by an object present, but never by an object absent and unseen. In the former case he would most likely extend relief, with little inquiry into the merits of the case, because, as he expressed it himself, it "took a pain out of his own heart;" and he devoutly believed that every such act of charity or mercy sprung from motives purely selfish. None of his public acts, either before or after he became President, exhibits any special tenderness for the African race, or any extraordinary commiseration of their lot. On the contrary, he invariably, in words and deeds, postponed the interests of the blacks to the interests of the whites, and expressly subordinated the one to the other. When he was compelled, by what he deemed an overruling necessity, founded on both military and political considerations, to declare the freedom of the public enemy's slaves, he did so with avowed reluctance, and took pains to have it understood that his resolution was in no wise affected by sentiment. He never at any time favored the admission of negroes into the body of electors, in his own State or in the States of the South. He claimed that those who were incidentally liberated by the Federal arms were poor-spirited, lazy, and slothful; that they could be made soldiers only by force, and willing laborers not at all; that they seemed to have no interest in the cause of their own race, but were as docile in the service of the Rebellion as the mules that ploughed the fields or drew the baggage-trains; and, as a people, were useful only to those who were at the same time their masters and the foes of those who sought their good. With such views honestly formed, it is no wonder that he longed to see them transported to Hayti, Central America, Africa, or anywhere, so that they might in no event, and in no way, participate in the government of his country. Accordingly, he was, from the beginning, as earnest a colonizationist as Mr. Clay, and, even during his Presidency, zealously and persistently devised schemes for the deportation of the negroes, which the latter deemed cruel and atrocious in the extreme. He believed, with his rival, that this was purely a "white man's government;" but he would have been perfectly willing to share its blessings with the black man, had he not been very certain that the blessings would disappear when divided with such a partner. He was no Abolitionist in the popular sense; did not want to break over the safeguards of the Constitution to interfere with slavery where it had a lawful existence; but, wherever his power rightfully extended, he was anxious that the negro should be protected, just as women and children and unnaturalized men are protected, in life, limb, property, reputation, and every thing that nature or law makes sacred. But this was all: he had no notion of extending to the negro the privilege of governing him and other white men, by making him an elector. That was a political trust, an office to be exercised only by the superior race.
Up to now, Mr. Lincoln's views on slavery and how they developed are as well known to the reader as they can be based on the records left behind for their history. It's clear that his feelings on the issue were shaped by individual cases of obvious suffering he witnessed. John Hanks, on his last trip to New Orleans, noticed Lincoln's unusually strong empathy for enslaved people and insisted that, upon seeing their injustices, "the iron entered his heart." In a letter to Mr. Speed, which will be presented soon, Mr. Lincoln admits to a similar experience in 1841 and speaks bitterly about the pain he felt from seeing chained and shackled slaves. In fact, Mr. Lincoln wasn't someone who passionately sympathized with suffering unless he saw it firsthand. His compassion could be deeply moved by something present, but never by something absent and unseen. In the former case, he would likely offer help without much concern for the details, because, as he said, it "took a pain out of his own heart," and he firmly believed that every act of charity or mercy came from purely selfish motives. None of his public actions, either before or after he became President, show any special compassion for the African race or extraordinary pity for their circumstances. On the contrary, he consistently prioritized the interests of white people over those of Black people, explicitly putting the former above the latter. When he felt forced by what he saw as an overwhelming necessity, based on military and political reasons, to free the slaves of the public enemy, he did so with clear hesitation and made it known that his decision was not influenced by sentiment. He never supported allowing Black people to vote, whether in his own state or in the Southern states. He argued that those who were freed by the Federal troops were weak, lazy, and unmotivated; that they could only be made into soldiers through coercion and would never be willing workers; that they seemed uninterested in the plight of their own race but were as obedient to the cause of the Rebellion as the mules that plowed the fields or carried baggage; and, as a group, they were only valuable to those who were simultaneously their masters and the enemies of those who sought their welfare. With such beliefs honestly held, it's no surprise that he wished to see them moved to Haiti, Central America, Africa, or anywhere else, so they could never, in any form, have a role in governing his country. Therefore, from the beginning, he was as committed to colonization as Mr. Clay, and even during his presidency, he actively and persistently created plans for the deportation of Black people, which others deemed cruel and extremely harsh. He believed, like his rival, that this was fundamentally a "white man's government;" however, he would have been perfectly willing to share its benefits with Black people, had he not been sure that these benefits would vanish if shared with such partners. He was not an Abolitionist in the popular sense; he did not want to break the protections of the Constitution to interfere with slavery where it was legally established; but wherever he had legitimate authority, he wanted to ensure that Black people were protected, just like women, children, and non-citizens are protected in terms of life, safety, property, reputation, and everything that nature or law makes sacred. But that was all: he had no intention of granting Black people the privilege of governing him and other white men by becoming voters. That was a political responsibility, a position to be filled only by the superior race.
It was therefore as a white man, and in the interests of white men, that he threw himself into the struggle to keep the blacks out of the Territories. He did not want them there either as slaves or freemen; but he wanted them less as slaves than as freemen. He perceived clearly enough the motives of the South in repealing the Missouri Compromise. It did, in fact, arouse him "like a fire-bell in the night." He felt that a great conflict impended; and, although he had as yet no idea that it was an "irrepressible conflict between opposing and enduring forces," which must end in making all free or all slave, he thought it was serious enough to demand his entire mind and heart; and he freely gave them both.
It was as a white man, and for the benefit of white men, that he invested himself in the fight to keep black people out of the Territories. He didn’t want them there either as slaves or as free men; however, he preferred them to be absent as free men rather than as slaves. He understood well enough the reasons behind the South’s decision to repeal the Missouri Compromise. It truly stirred him "like a fire-bell in the night." He sensed that a significant conflict was brewing; and, although he didn't yet realize it was an "irrepressible conflict between opposing and enduring forces," which would ultimately result in everyone being either free or enslaved, he believed it was serious enough to require his full attention and commitment; and he willingly devoted both.
Mr. Gillespie gives the substance of a conversation with him, which, judging from the context, must have taken place about this time. Prefacing with the remark that the slavery question was the only one "on which he (Mr. Lincoln) would become excited," he says,—
Mr. Gillespie shares the gist of a conversation he had with him, which, based on the context, likely occurred around this time. He starts by noting that the slavery issue was the only topic "that would get him (Mr. Lincoln) worked up," and he says,—
"I recollect meeting with him once at Shelbyville, when he remarked that something must be done, or slavery would overrun the whole country. He said there were about six hundred thousand non-slaveholding whites in Kentucky to about thirty-three thousand slaveholders; that, in the convention then recently held, it was expected that the delegates would represent these classes about in proportion to their respective numbers; but, when the convention assembled, there was not a single representative of the non-slaveholding class: every one was in the interest of the slaveholders; 'and,' said he, 'the thing is spreading like wildfire over the country. In a few years we will be ready to accept the institution in Illinois, and the whole country will adopt it.' I asked him to what he attributed the change that was going on in public opinion. He said he had put that question to a Kentuckian shortly before, who answered by saying, 'You might have any amount of land, money in your pocket, or bank-stock, and, while travelling around, nobody would be any wiser; but, if you had a darkey trudging at your heels, everybody would see him, and know that you owned a slave.' 'It is the most glittering, ostentatious, and displaying property in the world; and now,' says he, 'if a young man goes courting, the only inquiry is, how many negroes he or she owns. The love for slave property was swallowing up every other mercenary possession. Its ownership betokened, not only the possession of wealth, but indicated the gentleman of leisure, who was above and scorned labor.' These things Mr. Lincoln regarded as highly seductive to the thoughtless and giddy-headed young men who looked upon work as vulgar and ungentlemanly. Mr. Lincoln was really excited, and said, with great earnestness, that this spirit ought to be met, and, if possible, checked; that slavery was a great and crying injustice, an enormous national crime, and that we could not expect to escape punishment for it. I asked him how he would proceed in his efforts to check the spread of slavery. He confessed he did not see his way clearly. I think he made up his mind from that time that he would oppose slavery actively. I know that Mr. Lincoln always contended that no man had any right other than mere brute force gave him to a slave. He used to say that it was singular that the courts would hold that a man never lost his right to his property that had been stolen from him, but that he instantly lost his right to himself if he was stolen. Mr. Lincoln always contended that the cheapest way of getting rid of slavery was for the nation to buy the slaves, and set them free."
"I remember meeting him once in Shelbyville when he said that something had to be done, or slavery would take over the whole country. He mentioned that there were about six hundred thousand non-slaveholding white people in Kentucky compared to about thirty-three thousand slaveholders. In the convention that had recently taken place, it was expected that the delegates would represent these groups in proportion to their numbers, but when the convention met, there wasn't a single representative from the non-slaveholding class; everyone there was in favor of the slaveholders. 'And,' he stated, 'the issue is spreading like wildfire across the country. In a few years, we’ll be ready to accept slavery here in Illinois, and the entire country will adopt it.' I asked him what he thought was causing this shift in public opinion. He told me he had asked a Kentuckian just before, who responded by saying, 'You could have all the land and money you want, and no one would know, but if you had a slave following you around, everyone would see him and know you owned a slave.' 'It’s the most eye-catching and showy property in the world; and now,' he said, 'if a young man is courting, the only question asked is how many slaves he or she owns. The obsession with owning slaves was overshadowing all other forms of wealth. Owning slaves not only symbolized wealth but also indicated a gentleman of leisure who looked down on work.' Mr. Lincoln believed these ideas were incredibly tempting to thoughtless young men who saw labor as beneath them. He was genuinely passionate and stated seriously that this mindset needed to be confronted and, if possible, stopped; that slavery was a serious injustice, a major national crime, and that we couldn’t expect to avoid consequences for it. I asked him how he would go about trying to stop the spread of slavery. He admitted he didn’t see a clear path forward. I think from that moment he decided he would actively oppose slavery. I know that Mr. Lincoln always argued that no man had any right to a slave except for the brute force that allowed him to do so. He often pointed out that it was odd that the courts would affirm a man's right to property stolen from him but that he would instantly lose his right to himself if he were kidnapped. Mr. Lincoln consistently maintained that the most effective way to end slavery would be for the nation to purchase the slaves and free them."
If the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill awakened Lincoln from his dream of security regarding the slavery question, which he hoped had been put to rest by the compromises of 1820 and 1850, it did the same with all likeminded people in the North. From that moment the Abolitionists, on the one hand, discerned a hope, not only of restricting slavery, but of ultimate emancipation; and the Southern Disunionists, on the other, who had lately met with numerous and signal defeats in their own section, perceived the means of inflaming the popular heart to the point of disunion. A series of agitations immediately began,—incessant, acrimonious, and in Kansas murderous and bloody,—which destroyed the Whig party at once, and continued until they severed the Democratic party at Charleston. All other issues were as chaff to this,—slavery or no slavery in the Territories,—while the discussion ranged far back of this practical question, and involved the much broader one, whether slavery possessed inherent rights under the Constitution. The Whigs South having voted for the repeal of the compromise, and the Whigs North against it, that party was practically no more. Some of its members went into the Know-Nothing lodges; some enlisted under the Abolition flag, and others drifted about and together until they formed themselves into a new organization, which they called Republican. It was a disbanded army; and, released from the authority of discipline and party tradition, a great part of the members engaged for a while in political operations of a very disreputable character. But the better class, having kept themselves unspotted from the pollution of Know-Nothingism, gradually but speedily formed the Republican party, which in due time drew into its mighty ranks nearly all the elements of opposition to the Democracy. Such a Whig was Mr. Lincoln, who lost no time in taking his ground. In Illinois the new party was not (in 1854) either Abolitionist, Republican, Know-Nothing, Whig, or Democratic, for it was composed of odds and ends of all; but simply the Anti-Nebraska party, of which Mr. Lincoln soon became the acknowledged leader.
If the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill jolted Lincoln awake from his dream of feeling secure about slavery, which he thought had been settled by the compromises of 1820 and 1850, it did the same for everyone else in the North who felt similarly. From that point on, the Abolitionists saw a chance not only to limit slavery but also to achieve full emancipation; meanwhile, the Southern Disunionists, who had recently suffered several significant defeats in their own region, recognized an opportunity to stir up public sentiment to the point of secession. A wave of unrest quickly began—relentless, bitter, and in Kansas, violent and bloody—which immediately destroyed the Whig party and continued until it split the Democratic party at Charleston. All other issues were insignificant compared to this—slavery or no slavery in the Territories—while the debate extended far beyond this practical matter to the much larger question of whether slavery had inherent rights under the Constitution. The Southern Whigs had voted for the repeal of the compromise, while the Northern Whigs voted against it, effectively ending the party. Some members joined the Know-Nothing movement, some enlisted under the Abolition banner, and others wandered until they united into a new organization they called the Republican party. It was like a disbanded army; free from the constraints of discipline and party tradition, many members briefly engaged in politically questionable activities. However, the more principled members, having avoided the taint of Know-Nothingism, quickly and gradually formed the Republican party, which eventually attracted nearly all factions opposing the Democrats. Mr. Lincoln was one such Whig who wasted no time in taking his stand. In Illinois, the new party was not yet clearly Abolitionist, Republican, Know-Nothing, Whig, or Democratic, as it was made up of a mix of all these groups; it was simply the Anti-Nebraska party, of which Mr. Lincoln soon became the recognized leader.
Returning from Washington, Mr. Douglas attempted to speak at Chicago; but he was not heard, and, being hissed and hooted by the populace of the city, betook himself to more complaisant audiences in the country. Early in October, the State Fair being in progress there, he spoke at Springfield. His speech was ingenious, and, on the whole, able: but he was on the defensive; and the consciousness of the fact, both on his own part and that of the audience, made him seem weaker than he really was. By common consent the Anti-Nebraska men put up Mr. Lincoln to reply; and he did reply with such power as he had never exhibited before. He was not the Lincoln who had spoken that tame address over Clay in 1852, or he who had deformed his speech before the "Scott Club" with petty jealousies and gross vulgarisms, but a new and greater Lincoln, the like of whom no one in that vast multitude had ever heard before. He felt that he was addressing the people on a living and vital question, not merely for the sake of speaking, but to produce conviction, and achieve a great practical result. How he succeeded in his object may be gathered from the following extracts from a leading editorial in "The Springfield Journal," written by Mr. Herndon:—
Returning from Washington, Mr. Douglas tried to speak in Chicago, but he wasn't heard and was hissed and booed by the crowd. So, he turned to more welcoming audiences in the countryside. Early in October, during the State Fair, he spoke in Springfield. His speech was clever and generally well-done, but he was on the defensive, and both he and the audience felt this, making him seem weaker than he actually was. By common agreement, the Anti-Nebraska supporters chose Mr. Lincoln to respond, and he did so with a power he had never shown before. He was not the same Lincoln who had delivered that dull speech over Clay in 1852, nor the one who had ruined his speech at the "Scott Club" with petty grievances and crude remarks, but a new and improved Lincoln like no one in that vast crowd had ever heard before. He understood he was addressing the people about a significant and relevant issue, not just speaking to be heard, but to create belief and achieve a meaningful outcome. How well he succeeded can be seen in the following excerpts from a leading editorial in "The Springfield Journal," written by Mr. Herndon:—
"This Anti-Nebraska speech of Mr. Lincoln was the profoundest, in our opinion, that he has made in his whole life. He felt upon his soul the truths burn which he uttered, and all present felt that he was true to his own soul. His feelings once or twice swelled within, and came near stifling utterance.... He quivered with emotion. The whole house was as still as death.
"This Anti-Nebraska speech by Mr. Lincoln was, in our opinion, the most impactful he has ever given. He deeply felt the truths he spoke, and everyone present could see that he was genuine. His emotions surged within him a couple of times, almost blocking his ability to speak.... He was visibly moved. The entire room was completely silent."
"He attacked the Nebraska Bill with unusual warmth and energy; and all felt that a man of strength was its enemy, and that he intended to blast it if he could by strong and manly efforts. He was most successful, and the house approved the glorious triumph of truth by loud and continued huzzas. Women waved their white handkerchiefs in token of woman's silent but heartfelt assent. Douglas felt the sting: the animal within was roused, because he frequently interrupted Mr. Lincoln. His friends felt that he was crushed by Lincoln's powerful argument, manly logic, and illustrations from nature around us. The Nebraska Bill was shivered, and, like a tree of the forest, was torn and rent asunder by hot bolts of truth.... Mr. Lincoln exhibited Douglas in all the attitudes he could be placed in a friendly debate. He exhibited the bill in all its aspects to show its humbuggery and falsehood; and, when thus torn to rags, cut into slips, held up to the gaze of the vast crowd, a kind of scorn and mockery was visible upon the face of the crowd and upon the lips of the most eloquent speaker.... At the conclusion of this speech, every man, woman, and child felt that it was unanswerable.... He took the heart captive, and broke like a sun over the understanding."
"He attacked the Nebraska Bill with surprising passion and energy; and everyone could see that a strong man was against it, and that he aimed to destroy it with bold and sincere efforts. He was incredibly successful, and the house celebrated the triumph of truth with loud and sustained cheers. Women waved their white handkerchiefs as a sign of silent but genuine approval. Douglas felt the pressure: the beast within him was stirred, as he often interrupted Mr. Lincoln. His supporters sensed he was overwhelmed by Lincoln's compelling argument, strong logic, and examples drawn from nature around us. The Nebraska Bill was shattered, and like a tree in the forest, it was torn apart by fierce bolts of truth.... Mr. Lincoln portrayed Douglas in every possible way during their friendly debate. He exposed the bill in all its facets to highlight its deceit and falsehood; and, when it was shredded, cut into pieces, and held up for the vast crowd to see, there was a clear sense of scorn and mockery on the faces in the crowd and on the lips of the most eloquent speaker.... At the end of this speech, every man, woman, and child felt that it was irrefutable.... He captured hearts and illuminated the understanding like the rising sun."
Mr. Douglas rose to reply. He was excited, angry, imperious in his tone and manner, and his voice loud and shrill. Shaking his forefinger at the Democratic malcontents with furious energy, and declaiming rather than debating, he occupied to little purpose the brief interval remaining until the adjournment for supper. Then, promising to resume his address in the evening, he went his way; and that audience "saw him no more." Evening came, but not the orator. Many fine speeches were made during the continuance of that fair upon the one absorbing topic,—speeches by the ablest men in Illinois,—Judge Trumbull, Judge Breese, Col. Taylor (Democratic recusants), and Stephen A. Douglas and John Calhoun (then Surveyor-General of Nebraska). But it is no shame to any one of these, that their really impressive speeches were but slightly appreciated, nor long remembered, beside Mr. Lincoln's splendid and enduring performance,—enduring in the memory of his auditors, although preserved upon no written or printed page.
Mr. Douglas stood up to respond. He was excited, angry, and commanding in his tone and manner, and his voice was loud and shrill. Shaking his finger at the disgruntled Democrats with intense energy and more theatrically than reasonably debating, he made little effective use of the short time left before the break for supper. After promising to continue his speech in the evening, he left, and that audience "never saw him again." Evening arrived, but the speaker did not. Many great speeches were delivered during that fair on the central topic—speeches by some of the most capable men in Illinois—Judge Trumbull, Judge Breese, Col. Taylor (the discontented Democrats), and Stephen A. Douglas and John Calhoun (then Surveyor-General of Nebraska). However, it’s no discredit to any of these men that their powerful speeches were only slightly recognized and soon forgotten compared to Mr. Lincoln's remarkable and lasting performance—memorable to those who listened, even though it wasn’t captured in any written or printed form.
Among those whom the State Fair brought to Springfield for political purposes, were some who were neither Whigs, Democrats, Know-Nothings, nor yet mere Anti-Nebraska men: there were the restless leaders of the then insignificant Abolition faction. Chief among them was Owen Lovejoy; and second to him, if second to any, was William H. Herndon. But the position of this latter gentleman was one of singular embarrassment. According to himself, he was an Abolitionist "sometime before he was born," and hitherto he had made his "calling and election sure" by every word and act of a life devoted to political philanthropy and disinterested political labors. While the two great national parties divided the suffrages of the people, North and South, every thing in his eyes was "dead." He detested the bargains by which those parties were in the habit of composing sectional troubles, and sacrificing the "principle of freedom." When the Whig party "paid its breath to time," he looked upon its last agonies as but another instance of divine retribution. He had no patience with time-servers, and regarded with indignant contempt the "policy" which would postpone the natural rights of an enslaved race to the success of parties and politicians. He stood by at the sacrifice of the Whig party in Illinois with the spirit of Paul when he "held the clothes of them that stoned Stephen." He believed it was for the best, and hoped to see a new party rise in its place, great in the fervor of its faith, and animated by the spirit of Wilberforce, Garrison, and the Lovejoys. He was a fierce zealot, and gloried proudly in his title of "fanatic;" for it was his conviction that fanatics were at all times the salt of the earth, with power to save it from the blight that follows the wickedness of men. He believed in a God, but it was the God of nature,—the God of Socrates and Plato, as well as the God of Jacob. He believed in a Bible, but it was the open scroll of the universe; and in a religion clear and well defined, but it was a religion that scorned what he deemed the narrow slavery of verbal inspiration. Hot-blooded, impulsive, brave morally and physically, careless of consequences when moved by a sense of individual duty, he was the very man to receive into his inmost heart the precepts of Mr. Seward's "higher law." If he had pledged faith to slavery, no peril of life or body could have induced him to violate it. But he held himself no party to the compromises of the Constitution, nor to any law which recognized the justice of human bondage; and he was therefore free to act as his God and nature prompted.
Among those drawn to Springfield for political reasons by the State Fair were people who weren’t Whigs, Democrats, Know-Nothings, or merely Anti-Nebraska men; they were the restless leaders of the then-minor Abolition movement. Leading the group was Owen Lovejoy, with William H. Herndon as a close second. However, Herndon found himself in a uniquely awkward position. He claimed to be an Abolitionist “well before he was born,” and until now, he had made his “calling and election sure” through every word and action of a life dedicated to political philanthropy and selfless political work. While the two major national parties split the votes of the people, North and South, he saw everything as “dead.” He hated the deals those parties made to resolve sectional issues, sacrificing the “principle of freedom.” When the Whig Party “paid its breath to time,” he viewed its final struggles as just another example of divine retribution. He had no patience for those who adapted to the times and looked at the “policy” that would postpone the natural rights of an enslaved race in favor of party and politician success with righteous disdain. He stood by as the Whig Party fell apart in Illinois, reminiscent of Paul “holding the clothes of them that stoned Stephen.” He believed it was for the greater good and hoped a new party would emerge in its place, one that was strong in its convictions and inspired by the spirit of Wilberforce, Garrison, and the Lovejoys. He was a passionate advocate, proudly embracing the label of “fanatic;” he believed that fanatics were always the salt of the earth, capable of saving it from the consequences of human wickedness. He believed in God, but it was the God of nature—the God of Socrates and Plato, as well as the God of Jacob. He believed in a Bible, but it was the universe’s open scroll; and in a clear and well-defined religion, but it was a faith that rejected what he viewed as the narrow bondage of literal interpretation. Hot-headed, impulsive, and morally and physically brave, unconcerned about consequences when driven by a sense of individual duty, he was exactly the kind of person to truly embrace the ideas of Mr. Seward’s “higher law.” If he had pledged loyalty to slavery, no threat to his life or body could have made him betray that commitment. But he didn’t consider himself bound by the compromises of the Constitution
Now, Mr. Herndon had determined to make an Abolitionist out of Mr. Lincoln when the proper time should arrive; and that time would be only when Mr. Lincoln could change front and "come out" without detriment to his personal aspirations. For, although Mr. Herndon was a zealot in the cause, he loved his partner too dearly to wish him to espouse it while it was unpopular and politically dangerous to belong to it. "I cared nothing for the ruin of myself," said he; "but I did not wish to see Mr. Lincoln sacrificed." He looked forward to a better day, and, in the mean time, was quite willing that Mr. Lincoln should be no more than a nominal Whig, or a strong Anti-Nebraska man; being quite sure, that, when the auspicious moment arrived, he would be able to present him to his brethren as a convert over whom there would surely be great joy. Still, there was a bare chance that he might lose him. Mr. Lincoln was beset by warm friends and by old coadjutors, and besought to pause in his antislavery course while there was yet time. Among these there was none more earnest or persuasive than John T. Stuart, who was but the type of a class. Tempted on the one side to be a Know-Nothing, and on the other side to be an Abolitionist, Mr. Lincoln said, as if in some doubt of his real position, "I think I am still a Whig." But Mr. Herndon was more than a match for the full array against him. An earnest man, instant in season and out of season, he spoke with the eloquence of apparent truth and of real personal love. Moreover, Mr. Lincoln's preconceptions inclined him to the way in which Mr. Herndon desired him to walk; and it is not surprising that in time he was, not only almost, but altogether, persuaded by a friend and partner, whose opportunities to reach and convince his wavering mind were, daily and countless. "From 1854 to 1860," says Mr. Herndon, "I kept putting in Lincoln's hands the speeches and sermons of Theodore Parker, the speeches of Phillips and Beecher. I took 'The Anti-slavery Standard' for years before 1856, 'The Chicago Tribune,' and 'The New York Tribune;' kept them in my office, kept them purposely on my table, and would read to Lincoln good, sharp, and solid things well put. Lincoln was a natural antislavery man, as I think, and yet he needed watching,—needed hope, faith, energy; and I think I warmed him. Lincoln and I were just the opposite one of another. He was cautious and practical; I was spontaneous, ideal, and speculative. He arrived at truths by reflection; I, by intuition; he, by reason; I, by my soul. He calculated; I went to toil asking no questions, never doubting. Lincoln had great faith in my intuitions, and I had great faith in his reason."
Now, Mr. Herndon was determined to turn Mr. Lincoln into an Abolitionist when the right time came; and that time would only be when Mr. Lincoln could switch his stance and "come out" without harming his personal ambitions. Although Mr. Herndon was passionate about the cause, he cared too much for his partner to want him to take a stand while it was unpopular and politically risky. "I didn’t care about my own ruin," he said; "but I didn't want to see Mr. Lincoln sacrificed." He looked forward to a brighter future and, in the meantime, was perfectly fine with Mr. Lincoln being nothing more than a nominal Whig or a strong Anti-Nebraska supporter; he was confident that when the right moment arrived, he would be able to present him to his peers as a convert who would surely bring great joy. Still, there was a slim chance that he might lose him. Mr. Lincoln was surrounded by supportive friends and former allies who urged him to reconsider his anti-slavery stance while there was still time. Among them, none was more fervent or persuasive than John T. Stuart, who represented a common perspective. Torn between becoming a Know-Nothing on one side and an Abolitionist on the other, Mr. Lincoln expressed uncertainty about his true position, saying, "I think I am still a Whig." But Mr. Herndon was more than capable of facing the full opposition against him. He was earnest, always ready to speak, and communicated with the eloquence of genuine truth and real personal affection. Furthermore, Mr. Lincoln's existing beliefs leaned towards the path that Mr. Herndon wanted him to follow, so it’s no surprise that eventually he was not only almost but fully persuaded by a friend and partner whose chances to reach and sway his unsure mind were numerous and daily. "From 1854 to 1860," Mr. Herndon says, "I kept putting in Lincoln's hands the speeches and sermons of Theodore Parker, the speeches of Phillips and Beecher. I subscribed to 'The Anti-slavery Standard' for years before 1856, 'The Chicago Tribune,' and 'The New York Tribune;' I kept them in my office, intentionally on my desk, and read Lincoln sharp and solid arguments well made. Lincoln was naturally anti-slavery, as I believe, but he needed guidance—he needed hope, faith, and energy; and I think I inspired him. Lincoln and I were exactly opposites. He was cautious and practical; I was spontaneous, idealistic, and speculative. He arrived at truths through reflection; I, through intuition; he, through reason; I, through my soul. He calculated; I worked hard, asking no questions and never doubting. Lincoln had great faith in my intuitions, and I had great faith in his reasoning."
Of course such a man as we have described Mr. Herndon to be could have nothing but loathing and disgust for the secret oaths, the midnight lurking, and the proscriptive spirit of Know-Nothingism. "A number of gentlemen from Chicago," says he, "among them the editor of 'The Star of the West,' an Abolitionist paper published in Chicago, waited on me in my office, and asked my advice as to the policy of going into Know-Nothing Lodges, and ruling them for freedom. I opposed it as being wrong in principle, as well as a fraud on the lodges, and wished to fight it out in open daylight. Lincoln was opposed to Know-Nothingism, but did not say much in 1854 or 1855 (did afterwards). I told Lincoln what was said, and argued the question with him often, insisting that, as we were advocating freedom for the slave in tendency under the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, it was radically wrong to enslave the religious ideas and faith of men. The gentlemen who waited on me as before stated asked me if I thought that Mr. Lincoln could be trusted for freedom. I said to them, 'Can you trust yourselves? If you can, you can trust Lincoln forever.'"
Of course, a man like Mr. Herndon, as we've described him, would have nothing but hatred and disgust for the secret oaths, the sneaky meetings, and the exclusionary spirit of Know-Nothingism. "A group of gentlemen from Chicago," he said, "including the editor of 'The Star of the West,' an Abolitionist newspaper published in Chicago, came to my office and asked for my advice on whether to join Know-Nothing Lodges and take control of them for freedom. I opposed it, arguing that it was wrong in principle and a deception against the lodges, and I preferred to confront it openly. Lincoln was against Know-Nothingism but didn’t speak much about it in 1854 or 1855 (he did later). I shared what was said with Lincoln and debated it often, insisting that since we were promoting freedom for the slave in tendency under the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, it was fundamentally wrong to enslave people's religious beliefs and faith. The gentlemen who came to see me asked if I thought Mr. Lincoln could be trusted for freedom. I replied, 'Can you trust yourselves? If you can, you can trust Lincoln forever.'"
With this explanation of the political views of Mr. Herndon, and his personal relations to Mr. Lincoln, the reader will more easily understand what follows.
With this explanation of Mr. Herndon's political views and his personal relationship with Mr. Lincoln, readers will find it easier to understand what comes next.
"This State Fair," continues Mr. Herndon, "called thousands to the city. We Abolitionists all assembled here, taking advantage of the fair to organize and disseminate our ideas. As soon as Lincoln had finished his speech, Lovejoy, who had been in the hall, rushed up to the stand, and notified the crowd that there would be a meeting there in the evening: subject, Freedom. I had been with the Abolitionists that day, and knew their intentions: namely, to force Lincoln with our organization, and to take broader and deeper and more radical views and ideas than in his speech, which was simply Historic Kansas.... He (Lincoln) had not then announced himself for freedom, only discussed the inexpediency of repealing the Missouri Compromise Line. The Abolitionists that day determined to make Lincoln take a stand. I determined he should not at that time, because the time had not yet come when Lincoln should show his hand. When Lovejoy announced the Abolition gathering in the evening, I rushed to Lincoln, and said, 'Lincoln, go home; take Bob and the buggy, and leave the county: go quickly, go right off, and never mind the order of your going.' Lincoln took a hint, got his horse and buggy, and did leave quickly, not noting the order of his going. He staid away till all conventions and fairs were over."
"This State Fair," Mr. Herndon continues, "drew thousands to the city. We Abolitionists all gathered here to take advantage of the fair to organize and spread our ideas. As soon as Lincoln finished his speech, Lovejoy, who had been in the hall, rushed up to the stage and informed the crowd that there would be a meeting that evening: topic, Freedom. I had been with the Abolitionists that day and knew their plans: to pressure Lincoln through our organization and to push for broader, deeper, and more radical views than what he presented in his speech, which was mainly about Historic Kansas.... He (Lincoln) hadn't declared himself for freedom yet; he only talked about the impracticality of repealing the Missouri Compromise Line. The Abolitionists that day decided to make Lincoln take a stand. I decided he should not at that time, because the time hadn’t come for Lincoln to reveal his position. When Lovejoy announced the Abolition meeting in the evening, I rushed to Lincoln and said, 'Lincoln, go home; take Bob and the buggy, and get out of the county: go quickly, don’t worry about the order of your leaving.' Lincoln took the hint, got his horse and buggy, and left quickly, not paying attention to the order of his departure. He stayed away until all conventions and fairs were over."
But the speech against the repeal of the Compromise signally impressed all parties opposed to Mr. Douglas's late legislation,—Whigs, Abolitionists, and Democratic Free-soilers,—who agreed with perfect unanimity, that Mr. Lincoln should be pitted against Mr. Douglas wherever circumstances admitted of their meeting. As one of the evidences of this sentiment, Mr. William Butler drew up a paper addressed to Mr. Lincoln, requesting and "urging him to follow Douglas up until the election." It was signed by Mr. Butler, William Jayne, P. P. Eads, John Cassady, B. F. Irwin, and many others. Accordingly, Lincoln "followed" Douglas to Peoria, where the latter had an appointment, and again replied to him, in much the same spirit, and with the same arguments, as before. The speech was really a great one, almost perfectly adapted to produce conviction upon a doubting mind. It ought to be carefully read by every one who desires to know Mr. Lincoln's power as a debater, after his intellect was matured and ripened by years of hard experience. On the general subject of slavery and negroes in the Union, he spoke as follows:—
But the speech against the repeal of the Compromise left a strong impression on all the groups that opposed Mr. Douglas's recent legislation—Whigs, Abolitionists, and Democratic Free-soilers—who unanimously agreed that Mr. Lincoln should be placed against Mr. Douglas wherever circumstances allowed for their meeting. As evidence of this sentiment, Mr. William Butler wrote a letter to Mr. Lincoln, requesting and urging him to pursue Douglas until the election. It was signed by Mr. Butler, William Jayne, P. P. Eads, John Cassady, B. F. Irwin, and many others. So, Lincoln "followed" Douglas to Peoria, where Douglas had an appointment, and once again responded to him, in much the same spirit and using the same arguments as before. The speech was truly impressive, almost perfectly designed to persuade a doubtful audience. It should be read carefully by anyone who wants to understand Mr. Lincoln's skill as a debater, after his intellect had matured and been shaped by years of hard experience. On the general topic of slavery and Black people in the Union, he spoke as follows:—
"Before proceeding, let me say, I think I have no prejudice against the Southern people: they are just what we would be in their situation. If slavery did not now exist among them, they would not introduce it: if it did now exist amongst us, we should not instantly give it up. This I believe of the masses North and South. Doubtless there are individuals on both sides who would not hold slaves under any circumstances, and others would gladly introduce slavery anew if it were out of existence. We know that some Southern men do free their slaves, go North, and become tip-top Abolitionists; while some Northern men go South, and become cruel slave-masters.
"Before I continue, I want to say that I don’t have any bias against people from the South; they are simply what we would be if we were in their position. If slavery didn’t currently exist among them, they wouldn’t start it; if it existed among us, we wouldn’t just give it up right away. That’s how I see the general population in both the North and South. Of course, there are individuals on both sides who wouldn’t own slaves no matter what, and others who would happily reinstate slavery if it were no longer in place. We know that some Southern men do free their slaves, move North, and become staunch Abolitionists, while some Northern men go South and become harsh slave masters."
"When Southern people tell us they are no more responsible for the origin of slavery than we, I acknowledge the fact. When it is said that the institution exists, and that it is very difficult to get rid of it in any satisfactory way, I can understand and appreciate the saying. I surely will not blame them for not doing what I should not know how to do myself. If all earthly power were given me, I should not know what to do as to the existing institution. My first impulse would be to free all the existing slaves, and send them to Liberia,—to their own native land; but a moment's reflection would convince me that whatever of high hope (as I think there is) there may be in this, in the long run, its sudden execution is impossible. If they were all landed there in a day, they would all perish in the next ten days; and there are not surplus shipping and surplus money enough in the world to carry them there in many times ten days. What then? Free them all, and keep them among us as underlings? Is it quite certain that this betters their condition? I think I would not hold one in slavery at any rate, yet the point is not clear enough to me to denounce people upon. What next? Free them, and make them politically and socially our equals? My own feelings will not admit of this; and, if mine would, we all know that those of the great mass of white people would not. Whether this feeling accords with justice and sound judgment is not the sole question, if, indeed, it is any part of it. A universal feeling, whether well or ill founded, cannot be safely disregarded. We cannot, then, make them equals. It does seem to me that systems of gradual emancipation might be adopted; but for their tardiness in this I will not undertake to judge our brethren of the South. When they remind us of their constitutional rights, I acknowledge them, not grudgingly, but fully and fairly; and I would give them any legislation for the reclaiming of their fugitives which should not in its stringency be more likely to carry a free man into slavery than our ordinary criminal laws are to hang an innocent one.
"When Southern people tell us they are no more responsible for the origin of slavery than we are, I accept that. When they say that the institution exists and that it’s very hard to eliminate it in a satisfactory way, I get it and I appreciate that viewpoint. I certainly won't blame them for not doing something that I wouldn't know how to do myself. If I had all the power in the world, I wouldn't know how to handle the existing institution. My first instinct would be to free all the existing slaves and send them to Liberia—back to their own homeland; but after a moment's thought, I’d realize that despite any high hopes (and I believe there are some), its rapid execution is impossible. If everyone were sent there in a single day, they would all die within the next ten days; and there aren't enough ships or money in the world to take them there in multiple ten-day periods. So then what? Free them all and keep them as subservients among us? Is it really certain that this improves their situation? I think I wouldn't keep a single one in slavery regardless, but the matter isn't clear enough for me to condemn others over it. What next? Free them and make them politically and socially our equals? My own feelings won’t allow me to accept that; and even if mine did, we all know the majority of white people would not. Whether this sentiment aligns with justice and sound judgment isn’t the only question, if it is even part of it. A widespread feeling, whether justified or not, cannot be easily overlooked. Therefore, we cannot make them equals. It seems to me that systems of gradual emancipation could be implemented; however, I won't judge our Southern brothers for their slow progress on this. When they remind us of their constitutional rights, I recognize them, not begrudgingly, but completely and openly; and I would support any legislation aimed at reclaiming their fugitives, as long as it doesn’t put a free man in danger of being enslaved more than our usual criminal laws put an innocent person at risk of hanging.
"But all this, to my judgment, furnishes no more excuse for permitting slavery to go into our own free territory than it would for reviving the African slave-trade by law. The law which forbids the bringing of slaves from Africa, and that which has so long forbidden the taking them to Nebraska, can hardly be distinguished on any moral principle; and the repeal of the former could find quite as plausible excuses as that of the latter.
"But all of this, in my opinion, provides no more justification for allowing slavery to extend into our own free territory than it would for legally reinstating the African slave trade. The law that prohibits bringing slaves in from Africa and the one that has long prohibited taking them to Nebraska can hardly be differentiated on any moral grounds; and the repeal of the former could find just as reasonable excuses as that of the latter."
"But Nebraska is urged as a great Union-saving measure. Well, I, too, go for saving the Union. Much as I hate slavery, I would consent to the extension of it, rather than see the Union dissolved, just as I would consent to any great evil to avoid a greater one. But, when I go to Union-saving, I must believe, at least, that the means I employ have adaptation to the end. To my mind, Nebraska has no such adaptation. 'It hath no relish of salvation in it.' It is an aggravation, rather, of the only one thing which ever endangers the Union. When it came upon us, all was peace and quiet. The nation was looking to the forming of new bonds of Union, and a long course of peace and prosperity seemed to lie before us. In the whole range of possibility, there scarcely appears to me to have been any thing out of which the slavery agitation could have been revived, except the project of repealing the Missouri Compromise. Every inch of territory we owned already had a definite settlement of the slavery question, and by which all parties were pledged to abide. Indeed, there was no uninhabited country on the continent which we could acquire, if we except some extreme Northern regions, which are wholly out of the question. In this state of the case, the Genius of Discord himself could scarcely have invented a way of getting us by the ears, but by turning back and destroying the peace measures of the past.
"But Nebraska is being promoted as a great way to save the Union. Well, I’m all for saving the Union too. As much as I hate slavery, I’d agree to its expansion rather than see the Union break apart, just as I would accept any significant evil to avoid a bigger one. However, when it comes to saving the Union, I need to believe that the methods I use actually work towards that goal. To me, Nebraska doesn’t fit that bill. 'It has no taste of salvation in it.' Instead, it worsens the one issue that has ever threatened the Union. When this situation arose, everything was peaceful and calm. The nation was focused on forming new bonds of Union, and it seemed like we were headed for a long stretch of peace and prosperity. In all possible scenarios, it seems to me that the only thing that could reignite the slavery debate was the idea of repealing the Missouri Compromise. Every bit of land we owned already had a clear resolution of the slavery issue, and everyone was committed to respecting it. In fact, there was no uninhabited land on the continent available for us to take, except some far Northern regions, which are completely off the table. Given this situation, even the Spirit of Discord could hardly have come up with a way to get us fighting again except by rolling back and undoing the peace agreements of the past."
"The structure, too, of the Nebraska Bill is very peculiar. The people are to decide the question of slavery for themselves; but when they are to decide, or how they are to decide, or whether, when the question is once decided, it is to remain so, or is to be subject to an indefinite succession of new trials, the law does not say. Is it to be decided by the first dozen settlers who arrive there, or is it to await the arrival of a hundred? Is it to be decided by a vote of the people, or a vote of the Legislature, or, indeed, on a vote of any sort? To these questions the law gives no answer. There is a mystery about this; for, when a member proposed to give the Legislature express authority to exclude slavery, it was hooted down by the friends of the bill. This fact is worth remembering. Some Yankees in the East are sending emigrants to Nebraska to exclude slavery from it; and, so far as I can judge, they expect the question to be decided by voting in some way or other. But the Missourians are awake too. They are within a stone's-throw of the contested ground. They hold meetings and pass resolutions, in which not the slightest allusion to voting is made. They resolve that slavery already exists in the Territory; that more shall go there; and that they, remaining in Missouri, will protect it, and that Abolitionists shall be hung or driven away. Through all this, bowie-knives and six-shooters are seen plainly enough, but never a glimpse of the ballot-box. And really, what is the result of this? Each party within having numerous and determined backers without, is it not probable that the contest will come to blows and bloodshed? Could there be a more apt invention to bring about a collision and violence on the slavery question than this Nebraska project is? I do not charge or believe that such was intended by Congress; but if they had literally formed a ring, and placed champions within it to fight out the controversy, the fight could be no more likely to come off than it is. And, if this fight should begin, is it likely to take a very peaceful, Union-saving turn? Will not the first drop of blood so shed be the real knell of the Union?"
"The structure of the Nebraska Bill is quite unusual. The people are meant to decide the issue of slavery for themselves; however, the law doesn't specify when they're supposed to decide, how they're supposed to decide, or whether the decision will be permanent or subject to endless new votes. Is it supposed to be decided by the first few settlers who get there, or will it wait for a hundred? Will it be determined by a vote of the people, a vote of the Legislature, or any type of vote at all? The law provides no answers to these questions. There's something mysterious about this; when a member suggested giving the Legislature clear authority to ban slavery, supporters of the bill rejected it loudly. This is important to note. Some people from the East are sending settlers to Nebraska to prohibit slavery, and as far as I can tell, they expect the issue to be resolved by some sort of voting. But the Missourians are also very alert. They're just a short distance away from the disputed area. They hold meetings and pass resolutions that make no mention of voting. They declare that slavery already exists in the Territory, that more people will come, and that they will protect it from Missouri while making sure Abolitionists are either hanged or driven out. Through all of this, weapons like bowie knives and revolvers are very visible, but there's never a mention of a ballot box. So, what is likely to happen? Each side has strong and committed supporters outside, making it probable that the conflict will escalate to violence. Could there be a better way to encourage fighting and bloodshed over the slavery issue than this Nebraska proposal? I don't accuse or believe that Congress intended this; but if they had literally created a ring and placed fighters inside to settle the argument, it could hardly be more certain than it is now. And if this conflict were to start, do you think it would remain peaceful and save the Union? Won't the first drop of blood shed signal the true end of the Union?"
No one in Mr. Lincoln's audience appreciated the force of this speech more justly than did Mr. Douglas himself. He invited the dangerous orator to a conference, and frankly proposed a truce. What took place between them was explicitly set forth by Mr. Lincoln to a little knot of his friends, in the office of Lincoln & Herndon, about two days after the election. We quote the statement of B. F. Irwin, explicitly indorsed by P. L. Harrison and Isaac Cogdale, all of whom are already indifferently well known to the reader. "W. H. Herndon, myself, P. L. Harrison, and Isaac Cogdale were present. What Lincoln said was about this: that the day after the Peoria debate in 1854, Douglas came to him (Lincoln), and flattered him that he (Lincoln) understood the Territorial question from the organization of the government better than all the opposition in the Senate of the United States; and he did not see that he could make any thing by debating it with him; and then reminded him (Lincoln) of the trouble they had given him, and remarked that Lincoln had given him more trouble than all the opposition in the Senate combined; and followed up with the proposition, that he would go home, and speak no more during the campaign, if Lincoln would do the same: to which proposition Lincoln acceded." This, according to Mr. Irwin's view of the thing, was running Douglas "into his hole," and making "him holler, Enough."
No one in Mr. Lincoln's audience understood the impact of this speech more accurately than Mr. Douglas himself. He invited the challenging speaker to a meeting and openly suggested a truce. What happened between them was clearly explained by Mr. Lincoln to a small group of his friends in the office of Lincoln & Herndon, about two days after the election. We quote the statement from B. F. Irwin, which was fully supported by P. L. Harrison and Isaac Cogdale, all of whom are already somewhat well-known to the reader. "W. H. Herndon, myself, P. L. Harrison, and Isaac Cogdale were present. What Lincoln said was this: that the day after the Peoria debate in 1854, Douglas came to him (Lincoln) and complimented him, saying that he (Lincoln) understood the Territorial question regarding government organization better than anyone in the Senate opposed to him; and he didn’t think he could gain anything by debating it with him. Then he reminded Lincoln of the trouble they had caused him, noting that Lincoln had given him more trouble than all the opposition in the Senate combined, and followed up with the suggestion that he would go home and stop speaking during the campaign if Lincoln would do the same: to which Lincoln agreed." According to Mr. Irwin's perspective, this was Douglas being cornered and crying, "Enough."
Handbills and other advertisements announced that Judge Douglas would address the people of Lacon the day following the Peoria encounter; and the Lacon Anti-Nebraska people sent a committee to Peoria to secure Mr. Lincoln for a speech in reply. He readily agreed to go, and on the way said not a word of the late agreement to the gentleman who had him in charge. Judge Douglas observed the same discreet silence among his friends. Whether they had both agreed to go to Lacon before this agreement was made, or had mutually contrived this clever mode of deception, cannot now be determined. But, when they arrived at Lacon, Mr. Douglas said he was too hoarse to speak, although, "a large portion of the people of the county assembled to hear him." Mr. Lincoln, with unheard-of magnanimity, "informed his friends that he would not like to take advantage of the judge's indisposition, and would not address the people." His friends could not see the affair in the same light, and "pressed him for a speech;" but he persistently and unaccountably "refused."
Handbills and other ads stated that Judge Douglas would speak to the people of Lacon the day after the Peoria encounter, and the Lacon Anti-Nebraska committee sent someone to Peoria to secure Mr. Lincoln for a responding speech. He agreed to go without hesitation, and on the way, he didn’t mention the recent agreement to the person escorting him. Judge Douglas maintained the same careful silence among his associates. Whether they both planned to go to Lacon before this agreement was made or had cleverly conspired to deceive everyone isn't clear now. However, when they arrived in Lacon, Mr. Douglas claimed he was too hoarse to speak, even though “a large portion of the people of the county assembled to hear him.” Mr. Lincoln, with unexpected generosity, “told his friends that he wouldn’t want to take advantage of the judge's condition and wouldn’t address the people.” His friends didn’t see it that way and “urged him for a speech,” but he stubbornly and inexplicably “refused.”
Of course, Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas met no more during the campaign. Mr. Douglas did speak at least once more (at Princeton), but Mr. Lincoln scrupulously observed the terms of the agreement. He came home, wrote out his Peoria speech, and published it in seven consecutive issues of "The Illinois Daily Journal;" but he never spoke nor thought of speaking again. When his friends insisted upon having a reason for this most unexpected conduct, he gave the answer already quoted from Mr. Irwin.
Of course, Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas didn't meet again during the campaign. Mr. Douglas did speak at least once more (in Princeton), but Mr. Lincoln strictly followed the terms of their agreement. He went home, wrote out his Peoria speech, and published it in seven consecutive issues of "The Illinois Daily Journal"; but he never spoke or even considered speaking again. When his friends pressed him for an explanation for this surprising behavior, he quoted Mr. Irwin's response.
The election took place on the 7th of November. During his absence, Mr. Lincoln had been announced as a candidate for the House of Representatives of the Illinois Legislature. William Jayne took the responsibility of making him a candidate. Mrs. Lincoln, however, "saw Francis, the editor, and had Lincoln's name taken out." When Mr. Lincoln returned, Jayne (Mrs. Lincoln's old friend "Bill") went to see him. "I went to see him," says Jayne, "in order to get his consent to run. This was at his house. He was then the saddest man I ever saw,—the gloomiest. He walked up and down the floor, almost crying; and to all my persuasions to let his name stand in the paper, he said, 'No, I can't. You don't know all. I say you don't begin to know one-half, and that's enough.' I did, however, go and have his name re-instated; and there it stood. He and Logan were elected by about six hundred majority." Mr. Jayne had caused originally both Judge Logan and Mr. Lincoln to be announced, and they were both elected. But, after all, Mrs. Lincoln was right, and Jayne and Lincoln were both wrong. Mr. Lincoln was a well-known candidate for the United States Senate, in the place of Mr. Shields, the incumbent, who had voted for the Kansas-Nebraska Bill; and, when the Legislature met and showed a majority of Anti-Nebraska men, he thought it a necessary preliminary of his candidacy that he should resign his seat in the House. He did so, and Mr. Jayne makes the following acknowledgment: "Mr. Lincoln resigned his seat, finding out that the Republicans, the Anti-Nebraska men, had carried the Legislature. A. M. Broadwell ran as a Whig Anti-Nebraska man, and was badly beaten. The people of Sangamon County was down on Lincoln,—hated him." None can doubt that even the shame of taking a woman's advice might have been preferable to this!
The election was held on November 7th. While he was away, Mr. Lincoln was put forward as a candidate for the House of Representatives in the Illinois Legislature. William Jayne took the initiative to nominate him. However, Mrs. Lincoln "saw Francis, the editor, and had Lincoln's name removed." When Mr. Lincoln returned, Jayne, who was an old friend of Mrs. Lincoln ("Bill"), went to visit him. "I went to see him," Jayne says, "to get his consent to run. This was at his house. He was the saddest man I had ever seen—the gloomiest. He paced back and forth, almost in tears; and despite all my attempts to convince him to let his name stay in the paper, he said, 'No, I can't. You don't know everything. I say you don’t even begin to know half of it, and that’s enough.' I did, however, go and have his name put back in, and there it stayed. He and Logan were elected by about a six hundred vote majority." Mr. Jayne had initially arranged for both Judge Logan and Mr. Lincoln to be announced, and both were elected. But in the end, Mrs. Lincoln was right, while Jayne and Lincoln were both mistaken. Mr. Lincoln was a well-known candidate for the United States Senate, taking the place of Mr. Shields, the current senator, who had voted for the Kansas-Nebraska Bill; and when the Legislature convened and showed a majority of Anti-Nebraska supporters, he thought it was necessary to resign his seat in the House as a first step in his candidacy. He did resign, and Mr. Jayne notes: "Mr. Lincoln resigned his seat, realizing that the Republicans, the Anti-Nebraska supporters, had taken control of the Legislature. A. M. Broadwell ran as a Whig Anti-Nebraska candidate and lost badly. The people of Sangamon County were against Lincoln—they hated him." No one can doubt that even the shame of taking a woman's advice might have been better than this!
But Mr. Lincoln "had set his heart on going to the United States Senate." Counting in the Free-soil Democrats, who had revolted against Mr. Douglas's leadership, and been largely supported the Whigs in the late elections, there was now on joint ballot a clear Anti-Nebraska majority of two. A Senator was to be chosen to succeed Mr. Shields; and Mr. Lincoln had a right to expect the place. He had fairly earned the distinction, and nobody in the old Whig party was disposed to withhold it. But a few Abolitionists doubted his fidelity to their extreme views; and five Anti-Nebraska Senators and Representatives, who had been elected as Democrats, preferred to vote for a Senator with antecedents like their own. The latter selected Judge Trumbull as their candidate, and clung to him manfully through the whole struggle. They were five only in number; but in the situation of affairs then existing they were the sovereign five. They were men of conceded integrity, of good abilities in debate, and extraordinary political sagacity. Their names ought to be known to posterity, for their unfriendliness at this juncture saved Mr. Lincoln to the Republicans of Illinois, to be brought forward at the critical moment as a fresh and original candidate for the Presidency. They were Judd of Cook County, Palmer of Macoupin, Cook of La Salle, Baker and Allen of Madison. They called themselves Democrats, and, with the modesty peculiar to bolters, claimed to be the only "Simon-pure." "They could not act with the Democrats from principle, and would not act with the Whigs from policy;" but, holding off from the caucuses of both parties, they demanded that all Anti-Nebraska should come to them, or sacrifice the most important fruits of their late victory at the polls. But these were not the only enemies Mr. Lincoln could count in the body of his party. The Abolitionists suspected him, and were slow to come to his support. Judge Davis went to Springfield, and thinks he "got some" of this class "to go for" him; but it is probable they were "got" in another way. Mr. Lovejoy was a member, and required, as the condition of his support and that of his followers, that Mr. Lincoln should pledge himself to favor the exclusion of slavery from all the Territories of the United States. This was a long step in advance of any that Mr. Lincoln had previously taken. He was, as a matter of course, opposed to the introduction of slavery into the Territories north of the line of 36° 30'; but he had, up to this time, regarded all south of that as being honestly open to slavery. The villany of obliterating that line, and the necessity of its immediate restoration,—in short, the perfect sanctity of the Missouri settlement,—had formed the burden of all his speeches in-the preceding canvass. But these opinions by no means suited the Abolitionists, and they required him to change them forthwith. He thought it would be wise to do so, considering the peculiar circumstances of his case; but, before committing himself finally, he sought an understanding with Judge Logan. He told the judge what he was disposed to do, and said he would act upon the inclination, if the judge would not regard it as "treading upon his toes." The judge said he was opposed to the doctrine proposed; but, for the sake of the cause in hand, he would cheerfully risk his "toes." And so the Abolitionists were accommodated: Mr. Lincoln quietly made the pledge, and they voted for him.
But Mr. Lincoln "had set his heart on going to the United States Senate." Counting the Free-soil Democrats, who had rebelled against Mr. Douglas's leadership and largely supported the Whigs in the recent elections, there was now a clear Anti-Nebraska majority of two on joint ballot. A Senator was to be chosen to succeed Mr. Shields; and Mr. Lincoln had a right to expect the position. He had fairly earned the recognition, and nobody in the old Whig party was inclined to deny it. However, a few Abolitionists questioned his loyalty to their extreme views; and five Anti-Nebraska Senators and Representatives, who had been elected as Democrats, preferred to vote for a Senator with backgrounds similar to theirs. They chose Judge Trumbull as their candidate and stood by him firmly throughout the entire struggle. Though they were only five in number, in the current political situation, they held significant power. They were men of acknowledged integrity, strong debate skills, and remarkable political insight. Their names should be remembered by future generations because their opposition at this time allowed Mr. Lincoln to remain with the Republicans of Illinois to be presented at a crucial moment as a new and original candidate for the Presidency. They were Judd from Cook County, Palmer from Macoupin, Cook from La Salle, Baker, and Allen from Madison. They identified as Democrats, and, with the typical modesty of party defectors, claimed to be the only "true" ones. "They could not align with the Democrats on principle and would not align with the Whigs for strategic reasons;" instead, by distancing themselves from the caucuses of both parties, they insisted that all Anti-Nebraska supporters unite with them, or risk losing the significant benefits of their recent electoral victory. But these were not the only obstacles Mr. Lincoln faced within his party. The Abolitionists were suspicious of him and were slow to offer their support. Judge Davis went to Springfield and believed he "got some" of this group to back him; however, it’s likely they were persuaded in another way. Mr. Lovejoy was a member and demanded, as a condition of his support and that of his followers, that Mr. Lincoln promise to advocate for the exclusion of slavery from all the Territories of the United States. This was a significant step beyond any position Mr. Lincoln had previously taken. He was, of course, opposed to bringing slavery into the Territories north of the line of 36° 30'; but until that point, he had considered all land south of that line as rightfully open to slavery. The wrongdoing of eliminating that line and the need for its immediate restoration—in essence, the complete sanctity of the Missouri Compromise—had been the focus of all his speeches during the previous campaign. But these views did not fit the expectations of the Abolitionists, and they insisted that he change them immediately. He thought it might be wise to do so, given the unique circumstances he faced; but before making a final commitment, he sought to discuss it with Judge Logan. He explained to the judge what he was inclined to do, asking if the judge would be okay with it, saying he didn’t want to "tread on his toes." The judge expressed his opposition to the proposed doctrine but said he would willingly risk his "toes" for the sake of the cause at hand. Consequently, the Abolitionists were satisfied: Mr. Lincoln quietly made the promise, and they voted for him.
On the eighth day of February, 1855, the two Houses met in convention to choose a Senator. On the first ballot, Mr. Shields had forty-one votes, and three Democratic votes were scattered. Mr. Lincoln had forty-five, Mr. Trumbull five, and Mr. Koerner two. On the seventh ballot, the Democrats left Shields, and, with two exceptions, voted for Gov. Matte-son. In addition to the party strength, Matteson received also the votes of two of the anti-Nebraska Democrats. That stout little knot, it was apparent, was now breaking up. For many reasons the Whigs detested Matteson most heartily, and dreaded nothing so much as his success. But of that there now appeared to be great danger; for, unless the Whigs abandoned Lincoln and went for Trumbull, the five Anti-Nebraska men would unite on Matteson, and elect him. Mr. Gillespie went to Lincoln for advice. "He said unhesitatingly, 'You ought to drop me, and go for Trumbull: that is the only way you can defeat Matteson.' Judge Logan came up about that time, and insisted on running Lincoln still; but the latter said, 'If you do, you will lose both Trumbull and myself; and I think the cause, in this case, is to be preferred to men.' We adopted his suggestion, and turned upon Trumbull, and elected him, although it grieved us to the heart to give up Mr. Lincoln. This, I think, shows that Mr. Lincoln was capable of sinking himself for the cause in which he was engaged." It was with great bitterness of spirit that the Whigs accepted this hard alternative. Many of them accused the little squad of Anti-Nebraska Democrats of "ungenerous and selfish" motives. One of them, "Mr. Waters of McDonough, was especially indignant, and utterly refused to vote for Mr. Trumbull at all. On the last ballot he threw away his ballot on Mr. Williams."
On February 8, 1855, the two Houses gathered to elect a Senator. In the first round of voting, Mr. Shields got forty-one votes, with three Democratic votes spread out. Mr. Lincoln had forty-five votes, Mr. Trumbull got five, and Mr. Koerner received two. By the seventh ballot, the Democrats abandoned Shields and, except for two, voted for Gov. Matteson. Besides the party support, Matteson also gained the votes of two anti-Nebraska Democrats. It was clear that that solid group was breaking apart. The Whigs really disliked Matteson and feared his success more than anything else. But now it looked like there was a real risk of that happening; unless the Whigs switched from Lincoln to Trumbull, the five Anti-Nebraska men would team up on Matteson and elect him. Mr. Gillespie went to Lincoln for advice. "He said without hesitation, 'You should drop me and support Trumbull: that’s the only way to beat Matteson.' Judge Logan arrived around the same time and insisted on continuing to run Lincoln; but Lincoln replied, 'If you do, you'll lose both Trumbull and me; and I think the cause should come before individuals.' We took his advice and turned our support to Trumbull, electing him, even though it broke our hearts to give up on Mr. Lincoln. I think this shows that Mr. Lincoln was willing to put the cause above himself." The Whigs accepted this tough decision with deep frustration. Many accused the small group of Anti-Nebraska Democrats of acting "selfishly and unfairly." One of them, Mr. Waters from McDonough, was particularly outraged and refused to vote for Mr. Trumbull at all. In the final ballot, he wasted his vote on Mr. Williams.
"Mr. Lincoln was very much disappointed," says Mr. Parks, a member of the Legislature, and one of Mr. Lincoln's special friends; "for I think, that, at that time, it was the height of his ambition to get into the United States Senate. He manifested, however, no bitterness towards Mr. Judd, or the other Anti-Nebraska Democrats, by whom politically he was beaten, but evidently thought that their motives were right. He told me several times afterwards, that the election of Trumbull was the best thing that could have happened."
"Mr. Lincoln was really disappointed," says Mr. Parks, a member of the Legislature and one of Mr. Lincoln's close friends; "because I believe that, at that time, his greatest ambition was to be in the United States Senate. However, he showed no resentment towards Mr. Judd or the other Anti-Nebraska Democrats who defeated him politically, and he clearly believed their intentions were honorable. He told me several times afterward that Trumbull's election was the best thing that could have happened."
In the great campaign of 1858, Mr. Douglas on various occasions insisted, that, in 1854, Mr. Lincoln and Judge Trumbull, being until then political enemies, had formed a secret agreement to abolitionize, the one the Whig, and the other the Democratic party; and, in order that neither might go unrewarded for a service so timely and patriotic, Mr. Trumbull had agreed on the one hand that Mr. Lincoln should have Shields's seat in the United States Senate (in 1855); and Mr. Lincoln had agreed, on the other, that Judge Trumbull should have Douglas's seat (in 1859). But Mr. Douglas alleged, that, when the first election (in 1854) came on, Judge Trumbull treated his fellow-conspirator with shameful duplicity, and cheated himself into the Senate just four years in advance of his appointed time; that, Mr. Lincoln's friends being greatly incensed thereat, Col. James H. Matheny, Mr. Lincoln's "friend and manager for twenty years," exposed the plot and the treachery; that, in order to silence and conciliate the injured party, Mr. Lincoln was promised the senatorial nomination in 1858, and thus a second time became a candidate in pursuance of a bargain more than half corrupt. But it is enough to say here, that Mr. Lincoln explicitly and emphatically denied the accusation as often as it was made, and bestowed upon the character of Judge Trumbull encomiums as lofty and as warm as he ever bestowed upon any contemporary. With the exception of Col. Matheny, we find none of Mr. Lincoln's peculiar friends complaining of Judge Trumbull; but as many of them as have spoken in the records before us (and they are numerous and prominent) speak of the purity, devotion, and excellence of Judge Trumbull in the most unreserved and unaffected manner. In fact and in truth, he did literally nothing to advance his own interest: he solicited no vote, and got none which did not come to him by reason of the political necessities of the time. His election consolidated the Anti-Nebraska party in the State, and, in the language of Mr. Parks, his "first encounter with Mr. Douglas in the Senate filled the people of Illinois with admiration for his abilities; and the ill feeling caused by his election gradually passed away."
In the major campaign of 1858, Mr. Douglas repeatedly claimed that in 1854, Mr. Lincoln and Judge Trumbull, who had been political opponents until then, made a secret deal to push for the abolition of both the Whig and Democratic parties. To ensure that neither would go unrewarded for such a timely and patriotic service, Mr. Trumbull agreed that Mr. Lincoln would take Shields's seat in the United States Senate in 1855, and Mr. Lincoln agreed that Judge Trumbull would take Douglas's seat in 1859. However, Mr. Douglas argued that when the first election took place in 1854, Judge Trumbull deceived his co-conspirator and secured his Senate position four years ahead of schedule. This infuriated Mr. Lincoln's supporters, leading Col. James H. Matheny, Mr. Lincoln's "friend and manager for twenty years," to expose the plot and the betrayal. To appease and win back the offended party, Mr. Lincoln was promised the senatorial nomination in 1858, making him a candidate again in what was essentially a corrupt bargain. However, it's important to note that Mr. Lincoln categorically denied the accusations every time they surfaced and praised Judge Trumbull with the highest regard, as he had for any of his peers. Apart from Col. Matheny, none of Mr. Lincoln's close friends criticized Judge Trumbull; instead, those who spoke out in records we've reviewed (and there are many) commended Judge Trumbull for his integrity, dedication, and excellence in a sincere and straightforward way. In reality, he did nothing to advance his own interests: he did not seek votes, nor did he receive any that weren’t a result of the political needs of the time. His election united the Anti-Nebraska party in the state, and, as Mr. Parks stated, his "first encounter with Mr. Douglas in the Senate filled the people of Illinois with admiration for his abilities; and the resentment caused by his election gradually faded away."
But Mr. Douglas had a graver charge to make against Mr. Lincoln than that of a simple conspiracy with Trumbull to dispose of a great office. He seems to have known nothing of Mr. Lincoln's secret understanding with Lovejoy and his associates; but he found, that, on the day previous to the election for Senator, Lovejoy had introduced a series of extreme antislavery resolutions; and with these he attempted to connect Mr. Lincoln, by showing, that, with two exceptions, every member who voted for the resolutions on the 7th of February voted also for Mr. Lincoln on the 8th. The first of the resolutions favored the restoration of the prohibition of slavery north of 36° 30', and also a similar prohibition as to "all territory which now belongs to the United States, or which may hereafter come under their jurisdiction." The second resolution declared against the admission of any Slave State, no matter out of what Territory, or in what manner formed; and the third demanded, first, the unconditional repeal of the Fugitive-Slave Law, or, failing that, the right of habeas corpus and trial by jury for the person claimed as a slave. The first resolution was carried by a strict party vote; while the second and third were defeated. But Mr. Douglas asserted that Mr. Lincoln was committed in favor of all three, because the members that supported them subsequently supported him. Of all this Mr. Lincoln took no further notice than to say that Judge Douglas might find the Republican platform in the resolutions of the State Convention of that party, held at Bloomington in 1856. In fact, he maintained a singular reticence about the whole affair, probably dreading to go into it too deeply, lest his rival should unearth the private pledge to Lovejoy, of which Judge Logan has given us the history. When Judge Douglas produced a set of resolutions which he said had been passed by the Abolitionists at their Convention at Springfield, during the State Fair (the meeting alluded to by Mr. Herndon), and asserted that Mr. Lincoln was one of the committee that reported them, the latter replied with great spirit, and said what he could say with perfect truth,—that he was not near Springfield when that body met, and that his name had been used without his consent.
But Mr. Douglas had a more serious accusation against Mr. Lincoln than just conspiring with Trumbull to take over a major office. He didn’t seem to know about Mr. Lincoln's secret agreement with Lovejoy and his associates; however, he discovered that, the day before the election for Senator, Lovejoy had introduced a series of extreme antislavery resolutions. Douglas tried to link Mr. Lincoln to these resolutions by showing that, with two exceptions, every member who voted for them on February 7 also voted for Mr. Lincoln on the 8th. The first resolution supported reinstating the ban on slavery north of 36° 30', as well as a similar ban on "all territory that currently belongs to the United States or could later come under their jurisdiction." The second resolution opposed the admission of any Slave State, regardless of how it was formed or from what Territory. The third resolution demanded, first, the unconditional repeal of the Fugitive-Slave Law or, if that didn’t happen, the right of habeas corpus and trial by jury for anyone claimed as a slave. The first resolution passed through a strict party vote, while the second and third were defeated. But Mr. Douglas claimed that Mr. Lincoln was in favor of all three since the members who supported them later backed him. Mr. Lincoln didn’t comment further than to suggest that Judge Douglas could find the Republican platform in the resolutions from the State Convention of that party held in Bloomington in 1856. In fact, he remained quite reserved about the entire situation, probably worried about delving too deeply into it, fearing that his rival might uncover the private pledge to Lovejoy, which Judge Logan later recounted. When Judge Douglas presented a set of resolutions he claimed were passed by the Abolitionists at their Convention in Springfield during the State Fair (the meeting referred to by Mr. Herndon) and said that Mr. Lincoln was part of the committee that reported them, Lincoln responded with great passion, stating what he could genuinely say—that he wasn’t near Springfield when that body met and that his name had been used without his permission.
CHAPTER XV
MR. LINCOLN predicted a bloody conflict in Kansas as the immediate effect of the repeal of the Missouri restriction. He had not long to wait for the fulfilment of his prophecy: it began, in fact, before he spoke; and if blood had not actually flowed on the plains of Kansas, occurrences were taking place on the Missouri border which could not avoid that result. The South invited the struggle by repealing a time-honored compromise, in such a manner as to convince the North that she no longer felt herself bound by any Congressional restrictions upon the institution of slavery; and that she intended, as far as her power would permit, to push its existence into all the Territories of the Union. The Northern States accepted the challenge promptly. The people of the Free States knew how to colonize and settle new Territories. The march of their westward settlements had for years assumed a steady tread as the population of these States augmented, and the facility for emigrating increased. When, therefore, the South threw down the barriers which had for thirty years consecrated all the Territories north of 36° 30' to free labor, and announced her intention of competing therein for the establishment of her "peculiar institution," the North responded by using the legitimate means at her command to throw into the exposed regions settlers who would organize the Territories in the interest of free labor. The "irrepressible conflict" was therefore opened in the Territories, with the people of the two sections of the country arrayed against each other as participants in, as well as spectators of, the contest. As participants, each section aided its representatives. The struggle opened in Kansas, and in favor of the South. During the passage of the bill organizing the Territory, preparations had been extensively made along the Missouri border, by "Blue Lodges" and "Social Bands," for the purpose of getting control of its Territorial government. The whole eastern border of the Territory was open to these marauders; and they were not slow to embrace the opportunity of meeting their enemies with so man y advantages in their favor. Public meetings were held in many of the frontier counties of Missouri, in which the people were not only advised to go over and take early possession of the Territory, but to hold themselves in readiness to remove all emigrants who should go there under the auspices of the Northern Aid Societies. It was with these "Border Ruffians," and some volunteers from Alabama and South Carolina, with a few vagabond "colonels" and "generals" from the Slave States generally, that the South began the struggle. Of course, the North did not look with complacency upon such a state of things. If the repeal of the Missouri Compromise startled the people of the Free States from their sense of security, the manner of applying "popular sovereignty," as indicated at its first introduction, was sufficient to arouse public sentiment to an unwonted degree. Kansas became at once a subject of universal interest. Societies were formed for throwing into her borders, with the utmost expedition, settlers who could be relied upon to mould her government in the interest of freedom. At the same time there was set in train all the political machinery that could be used to agitate the question, until the cry of "Bleeding Kansas" was heard throughout the land.
MR. LINCOLN predicted a bloody conflict in Kansas as the immediate result of the repeal of the Missouri restriction. He didn’t have to wait long for his prediction to come true: it actually began before he even spoke; and while blood hadn't yet been shed on the plains of Kansas, there were events happening along the Missouri border that would inevitably lead to that outcome. The South sparked the fight by repealing a long-standing compromise in a way that made it clear to the North that it no longer felt restricted by any Congressional limits on slavery; moreover, it intended to expand slavery into all the Territories of the Union as much as it could. The Northern States quickly accepted the challenge. People in the Free States knew how to colonize and settle new Territories. Their westward expansion had been steady for years as their populations increased and moving became easier. So when the South tore down the limits that had for thirty years preserved all the Territories north of 36° 30' for free labor, and announced its intent to compete for the establishment of its "peculiar institution" there, the North responded by sending settlers to organize those Territories in favor of free labor. The "irrepressible conflict" began in the Territories, with people from both sides of the country participating as well as observing the fight. As participants, each side supported their representatives. The struggle started in Kansas, leaning towards the South. During the process of organizing the Territory, extensive preparations were made along the Missouri border by "Blue Lodges" and "Social Bands" to take control of its Territorial government. The entire eastern border of the Territory was vulnerable to these marauders; and they quickly took the chance to confront their opponents from a position of strength. Public meetings were held in many of the frontier counties of Missouri, advising residents to cross over and seize the Territory early, and to be ready to remove any emigrants arriving under the Northern Aid Societies. It was with these "Border Ruffians," along with some volunteers from Alabama and South Carolina, and a few wandering "colonels" and "generals" from various Slave States, that the South initiated the conflict. Naturally, the North didn’t take this situation lightly. If the repeal of the Missouri Compromise shook the people of the Free States out of their sense of security, the way "popular sovereignty" was applied became enough to stir public sentiment to an unprecedented level. Kansas quickly became a topic of widespread interest. Organizations were created to send reliable settlers into her borders as fast as possible to shape her government in favor of freedom. At the same time, all political machinery was set in motion to raise awareness on the issue, until the cry of "Bleeding Kansas" echoed across the nation.
It is not necessary in this connection to set down, in order, the raids, assassinations, burnings, robberies, and election frauds which followed. Enough if their origin and character be understood. For this present purpose, a brief summary only will be given of what occurred during the long struggle to make Kansas a Slave State; for upon the practical issues which arose during the contest followed the discussions between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas, upon the merits of which the former was carried into the Presidential office.
It’s not necessary to list, in order, the raids, assassinations, burnings, robberies, and election frauds that followed. It’s enough to understand their origin and nature. For this purpose, a brief summary will be provided of what happened during the long battle to make Kansas a Slave State; the practical issues that arose during this conflict led to the debates between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas, which ultimately propelled Lincoln into the presidency.
The first Territorial governor appointed under the provisions of the Kansas-Nebraska Act was Andrew H. Reeder of Pennsylvania. He was appointed by President Pierce. He reached Kansas in the autumn of 1854, and proceeded to establish a Territorial Government. The first election was for a delegate to Congress. By the aid of the people of Missouri, it resulted in favor of the Democrats. The governor then ordered an election for a first Territorial Legislature, to be held on the 31st of March, 1855. To this election the Missourians came in greater force than before; and succeeded in electing proslavery men to both Houses of the Legislature, with a single exception in each house. The governor, a proslavery man, set aside the returns in six districts, as being fraudulent; whereupon new elections were held, which, with one exception, resulted in favor of the Free-State men. These parties, however, were refused their seats in the Legislature; while the persons chosen at the previous election were accepted.
The first Territorial governor appointed under the Kansas-Nebraska Act was Andrew H. Reeder from Pennsylvania. He was appointed by President Pierce. He arrived in Kansas in the fall of 1854 and began to set up a Territorial Government. The first election was for a delegate to Congress, which, aided by the people of Missouri, ended up favoring the Democrats. The governor then called for an election for the first Territorial Legislature to be held on March 31, 1855. This time, the Missourians came in even greater numbers and successfully elected pro-slavery representatives to both Houses of the Legislature, except for one in each house. The governor, who was pro-slavery, dismissed the election results in six districts as fraudulent, leading to new elections that, except for one case, favored the Free-State representatives. However, these representatives were denied their seats in the Legislature, while those chosen in the earlier election were accepted.
The Legislature thus organized proceeded to enact the most hostile measures against the Free-State men. Many of these acts were promptly vetoed by the governor. The Legislature then petitioned the President for his removal. Their wishes were complied with; and Wilson G. Shannon of Ohio was appointed in his stead. In the mean time, the Free-State men entirely repudiated the Legislature, and refused to be bound by its enactments.
The Legislature that was organized went on to pass the most aggressive measures against the Free-State men. Many of these laws were quickly vetoed by the governor. The Legislature then asked the President to have him removed. Their request was granted, and Wilson G. Shannon from Ohio was appointed in his place. Meanwhile, the Free-State men completely rejected the Legislature and refused to follow its laws.
Such was the situation in Kansas when Mr. Lincoln addressed to Mr. Speed the following letter:—
Such was the situation in Kansas when Mr. Lincoln wrote the following letter to Mr. Speed:—
Springfield, Aug. 24, 1855.
Springfield, Aug. 24, 1855.
Dear Speed,—You know what a poor correspondent I am. Ever since I received your very agreeable letter of the 22d of May, I have been intending to write you an answer to it. You suggest that in political action now you and I would differ. I suppose we would; not quite as much, however, as you may think. You know I dislike slavery; and you fully admit the abstract wrong of it. So far there is no cause of difference. But you say, that, sooner than yield your legal right to the slave,—especially at the bidding of those who are not themselves interested,—you would see the Union dissolved. I am not aware that any one is bidding you yield that right: very certainly I am not. I leave that matter entirely to yourself. I also acknowledge your rights and my obligations under the Constitution in regard to your slaves. I confess I hate to see the poor creatures hunted down, and caught and carried back to their stripes and unrequited toils; but I bite my lip, and keep quiet. In 1841 you and I had together a tedious low-water trip on a steamboat from Louisville to St. Louis. You may remember, as I well do, that, from Louisville to the mouth of the Ohio, there were on board ten or a dozen slaves shackled together with irons. That sight was a continued torment to me; and I see something like it every time I touch the Ohio, or any other slave border. It is not fair for you to assume that I have no interest in a thing which has, and continually exercises, the power of making me miserable. You ought rather to appreciate how much the great body of the Northern people do crucify their feelings, in order to maintain their loyalty to the Constitution and the Union. I do oppose the extension of slavery because my judgment and feeling so prompt me; and I am under no obligations to the contrary. If for this you and I must differ, differ we must. You say, if you were President, you would send an army, and hang the leaders of the Missouri outrages upon the Kansas elections; still, if Kansas fairly votes herself a Slave State, she must be admitted, or the Union must be dissolved. But how if she votes herself a Slave State unfairly,—that is, by the very means for which you say you would hang men? Must she still be admitted, or the Union dissolved? That will be the phase of the question when it first becomes a practical one. In your assumption that there may be a fair decision of the slavery question in Kansas, I plainly see you and I would differ about the Nebraska law. I look upon that enactment, not as a law, but a violence from the beginning. It was conceived in violence, is maintained in violence, and is being executed in violence. I say it was conceived in violence, because the destruction of the Missouri Compromise, under the circumstances, was nothing less than violence. It was passed in violence, because it could not have passed at all but for the votes of many members in violence of the known will of their constituents. It is maintained in violence, because the elections since clearly demand its repeal; and the demand is openly disregarded.
Dear Speed,—You know I’m not great at keeping in touch. Ever since I got your nice letter from May 22, I’ve planned to write back. You mentioned that you think we’d disagree on political action now. I suppose you’re right; but it might not be as much as you think. I really dislike slavery, and you agree that it’s wrong in principle. So far, we’re on the same page. But you say you’d rather see the Union fall apart than give up your legal rights to the slave—especially when it’s pushed by people who aren't directly involved. I don’t know of anyone asking you to give that right up: certainly not me. That’s entirely up to you. I acknowledge your rights and my duties under the Constitution regarding your slaves. I honestly hate seeing those poor people hunted down and returned to their terrible conditions; but I keep my mouth shut. Back in 1841, you and I had a long, boring boat trip from Louisville to St. Louis. You might recall, as I do, that there were ten or so slaves shackled together from Louisville to the mouth of the Ohio. That sight was a constant torment for me; I get reminded of it every time I’m near the Ohio or any other border where slavery exists. It’s not right for you to assume I have no stake in something that continuously makes me miserable. Instead, you should understand how much many people in the North suppress their feelings to stay loyal to the Constitution and the Union. I oppose the expansion of slavery because that’s what my judgment and feelings tell me; and I don’t have any obligation to think otherwise. If we have to disagree over that, then we will. You say that if you were President, you’d send an army and hang the leaders behind the Missouri outrages during the Kansas elections; but if Kansas votes itself into being a Slave State fairly, it must be admitted, or the Union must break apart. But what if it votes to be a Slave State in an unfair way—specifically by the very means you say should get people hanged? Should it still be admitted, or should the Union fall apart? That’s the real question when it becomes practical. I see that you and I will differ regarding the Nebraska law, which you seem to think could allow for a fair decision on slavery in Kansas. I view that law, not as legitimate, but as an act of violence from the start. It started with violence, is maintained with violence, and is enforced through violence. I say it began with violence because dismantling the Missouri Compromise, given the circumstances, was outright violent. It was pushed through with violence because it only passed thanks to votes from many members ignoring the clear wishes of their constituents. It’s maintained through violence because the demand for its repeal has been clearly expressed in recent elections, yet that demand is completely ignored.
You say men ought to be hung for the way they are executing that law; and I say the way it is being executed is quite as good as any of its antecedents. It is being executed in the precise way which was intended from the first; else why does no Nebraska man express astonishment or condemnation? Poor Reeder is the only public man who has been silly enough to believe that any thing like fairness was ever intended; and he has been bravely undeceived.
You say men should be punished for how they're enforcing that law; and I say the way it's being enforced is just as good as anything that came before it. It's being executed exactly how it was intended from the beginning; otherwise, why hasn’t any guy from Nebraska shown surprise or disapproval? Poor Reeder is the only public figure who's been naive enough to think that any kind of fairness was ever meant to be part of this; and he has been courageously set straight.
That Kansas will form a slave constitution, and with it will ask to be admitted into the Union, I take to be already a settled question, and so settled by the very means you so pointedly condemn. By every principle of law ever held by any court, North or South, every negro taken to Kansas is free; yet, in utter disregard of this,—in the spirit of violence merely,—that beautiful Legislature gravely passes a law to hang any man who shall venture to inform a negro of his legal rights. This is the substance and real object of the law. If, like Haman, they should hang upon the gallows of their own building, I shall not be among the mourners for their fate. In my humble sphere, I shall advocate the restoration of the Missouri Compromise so long as Kansas remains a Territory; and when, by all these foul means, it seeks to come into the Union as a Slave State, I shall oppose it. I am very loath, in any case, to withhold my assent to the enjoyment of property acquired or located in good faith; but I do not admit that good faith in taking a negro to Kansas to be held in slavery is a probability with any man. Any man who has sense enough to be the controller of his own property has too much sense to misunderstand the outrageous character of the whole Nebraska business. But I digress. In my opposition to the admission of Kansas, I shall have some company; but we may be beaten. If we are, I shall not, on that account, attempt to dissolve the Union. I think it probable, however, we shall be beaten. Standing as a unit among yourselves, you can, directly and indirectly, bribe enough of our men to carry the day, as you could on the open proposition to establish a monarchy. Get hold of some man in the North whose position and ability is such that he can make the support of your measure, whatever it may be, a Democratic party necessity, and the thing is done. Apropos of this, let me tell you an anecdote. Douglas introduced the Nebraska Bill in January. In February afterwards, there was a called session of the Illinois Legislature. Of the one hundred members composing the two branches of that body, about seventy were Democrats. These latter held a caucus, in which the Nebraska Bill was talked of, if not formally discussed. It was thereby discovered that just three, and no more, were in favor of the measure. In a day or two Douglas's orders came on to have resolutions passed approving the bill; and they were passed by large majorities!!! The truth of this is vouched for by a bolting Democratic member. The masses, too, Democratic as well as Whig, were even nearer unanimous against it; but, as soon as the party necessity of supporting it became apparent, the way the Democracy began to see the wisdom and justice of it was perfectly astonishing.
That Kansas will create a constitution allowing slavery and will request admission into the Union is already clear, and it's been determined by the very actions you strongly criticize. According to every legal principle recognized by any court, North or South, every Black person brought to Kansas is free; yet, completely ignoring this — acting out of sheer violence — that ridiculous Legislature solemnly passes a law to hang anyone who tries to inform a Black person of their legal rights. This is the essence and true intent of the law. If, like Haman, they end up hanging on the gallows they built, I won’t be among those who mourn them. In my humble opinion, I will push for the restoration of the Missouri Compromise as long as Kansas is a Territory; and when it tries to join the Union as a Slave State through these corrupt means, I will oppose it. I’m hesitant to deny people their property acquired or situated in good faith; however, I don’t believe that it’s ever good faith to take a Black person to Kansas to hold them in slavery. Anyone with enough sense to manage their own property understands the outrageous nature of the whole Nebraska situation. But I digress. In my fight against Kansas’s admission, I’ll have some support; but we might lose. If we do, I won’t attempt to break apart the Union because of that. I suspect we will lose. Standing together, you can definitely bribe enough of our people to win, just as you could if you openly tried to establish a monarchy. Find someone in the North with enough stature and capability to make supporting your agenda essential for the Democratic Party, and it will be done. Speaking of this, let me share a story. Douglas presented the Nebraska Bill in January. The next month, there was a special session of the Illinois Legislature. Of the one hundred members in both chambers, about seventy were Democrats. They held a caucus where they discussed, if not formally debated, the Nebraska Bill. It turned out that only three supported it. A couple of days later, Douglas sent orders to pass resolutions supporting the bill; and they got approved by large margins!!! This is confirmed by a Democratic member who bolted. The general populace, both Democratic and Whig, was almost completely against it; but once it became clear that supporting it was necessary for the party, the way the Democrats quickly recognized its wisdom and fairness was truly astonishing.
You say, that, if Kansas fairly votes herself a Free State, as a Christian you will rather rejoice at it. All decent slaveholders talk that way; and I do not doubt their candor. But they never vote that way. Although in a private letter, or conversation, you will express your preference that Kansas shall be free, you would vote for no man for Congress who would say the same thing publicly. No such man could be elected from any district in a Slave State. You think Stringfellow & Co. ought to be hung; and yet, at the next Presidential election, you will vote for the exact type and representative of Stringfellow. The slave-breeders and slave-traders are a small, odious, and detested class among you; and yet in politics they dictate the course of all of you, and are as completely your masters as you are the master of your own negroes. You inquire where I now stand. That is a disputed point. I think I am a Whig; but others say there are no Whigs, and that I am an Abolitionist. When I was at Washington, I voted for the Wilmot Proviso as good as forty times; and I never heard of any one attempting to un whig me for that. I now do no more than oppose the extension of slavery. I am not a Know-Nothing: that is certain. How could I be? How can any one who abhors the oppression of negroes be in favor of degrading classes of white people? Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that"all men are created equal." We now practically read it "all men are created equal, except negroes." When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read "all men are created equal, except negroes and foreigners and Catholics." When it comes to this, I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty,—to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base, alloy of hypocrisy.
You say that if Kansas votes to become a Free State, as a Christian, you'd be glad about it. All decent slaveholders say that, and I believe they are being sincere. But they never act that way. Even if in a private letter or conversation you express that you want Kansas to be free, you wouldn't vote for anyone in Congress who would say that publicly. No one like that could get elected from any district in a Slave State. You think Stringfellow and his associates should be punished, and yet, at the next presidential election, you'll vote for the exact kind of person that represents Stringfellow. The slave-breeders and slave-traders are a small and despised group among you, yet they control your political direction and are as much your masters as you are the masters of your own enslaved people. You ask where I stand now. That’s debatable. I think I’m a Whig, but some say there are no Whigs left, and that I’m an Abolitionist. When I was in Washington, I voted for the Wilmot Proviso about forty times, and I never heard anyone try to convince me I wasn’t a Whig for that. Now, I only oppose the expansion of slavery. I know I'm not a Know-Nothing; that much is clear. How could I be? How can anyone who despises the oppression of Black people support the degradation of poor white people? Our moral decline seems pretty fast to me. As a nation, we started by declaring that "all men are created equal." Now, we effectively say, "all men are created equal, except Black people." When the Know-Nothings gain power, it will read, "all men are created equal, except Black people, foreigners, and Catholics." When that happens, I’d rather emigrate to a place that doesn’t pretend to value liberty—like Russia, where despotism is honest, without the ugly pretense of hypocrisy.
Mary will probably pass a day or two in Louisville in October. My kindest regards to Mrs. Speed. On the leading subject of this letter, I have more of her sympathy than I have of yours; and yet let me say I am
Mary will likely spend a day or two in Louisville in October. Please give my best to Mrs. Speed. Regarding the main topic of this letter, I have more of her support than yours; and yet, let me say I am
Your friend forever,
Best friend for life,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
Gov. Shannon arrived in the Territory Sept. 1,1855. On his way thither, he declared himself in favor of making Kansas a Slave State. He found affairs in a turbulent condition, which his policy by no means tended to mitigate or assuage. The Free-State party held a mass-meeting at Big Springs in the early part of September, at which they distinctly and earnestly repudiated the legislative government, which claimed to have been elected in March, as well as all laws passed by it; and they decided not to participate in an election for a delegate to Congress, which the Legislature had appointed to be held on the 1st of October following. They also held a Delegate Convention at Topeka, on the 19th of September, and appointed an Executive Committee for the Territory; and also an election for a Delegate to Congress, to be held on the second Tuesday in October. These two rival elections for a congressional delegate took place on different days; at the former of which, Whitfield, representing the proslavery party, was elected; while at the other, Gov. Reeder, representing the Free-State party, was chosen. On the 28d of October, the Free-State party held a constitutional Convention at Topeka, and formed a State constitution in their interest, under the provisions of which they subsequently acted, and also asked for admission into the Union.
Gov. Shannon arrived in the Territory on September 1, 1855. On his way there, he stated he supported making Kansas a Slave State. He found things in a chaotic state, which his approach did nothing to calm down. The Free-State party held a mass meeting at Big Springs in early September, where they clearly and firmly rejected the legislative government that claimed to have been elected in March, along with all laws passed by it. They decided not to take part in an election for a delegate to Congress that the Legislature had scheduled for October 1. They also held a Delegate Convention in Topeka on September 19, where they set up an Executive Committee for the Territory and planned an election for a Delegate to Congress for the second Tuesday in October. These two competing elections for a congressional delegate were held on different days; in the first, Whitfield, representing the pro-slavery party, was elected, while in the second, Gov. Reeder, representing the Free-State party, was chosen. On October 28, the Free-State party held a constitutional convention in Topeka, where they created a state constitution that they later operated under and used to seek admission into the Union.
While we are upon this phase of the Kansas question, it may not be amiss to postpone the relation of some intermediate events, in order to give the reader the benefit of an expression of Mr. Lincoln's views, which thus far has found place in no printed record.
While we're on the topic of the Kansas issue, it might be a good idea to hold off on discussing some intermediate events for now, to give the reader the chance to hear Mr. Lincoln's views, which haven't yet appeared in any printed record.
Sometime in 1856 an association of Abolitionists was formed in Illinois to go to Kansas and aid the Free-State men in opposing the Government. The object of those engaged in this work was, in their opinion, a very laudable one,—no other than the defence of freedom, which they thought foully menaced in that far-off region. Among these gentlemen, and one of the most courageous and disinterested, was William H. Herndon. He says,—
Sometime in 1856, a group of Abolitionists formed in Illinois to travel to Kansas and support the Free-State supporters in resisting the government. The goal of those involved in this effort was, in their view, very admirable—essentially, to defend freedom, which they believed was seriously threatened in that distant area. Among these individuals, one of the bravest and most selfless was William H. Herndon. He states,—
"Mr. Lincoln was informed of our intents by some means. Probably the idea of resistance was more known than I now remember. He took the first opportunity he could to dissuade us from our partially-formed purpose. We spoke of liberty, justice, and God's higher law, and invoked the spirit of these as our holiest inspiration. In 1856 he addressed us on this very subject, substantially in these words:—
"Mr. Lincoln found out what we were planning somehow. It's likely that the idea of resistance was more widely discussed than I recall now. He seized the first chance he had to talk us out of our somewhat vague intentions. We talked about freedom, justice, and God's higher law, using these as our most sacred motivation. In 1856, he spoke to us about this very topic, pretty much using these words:—"
"'Friends, I agree with you in Providence; but I believe in the providence of the most men, the largest purse, and the longest cannon. You are in the minority,—in a sad minority; and you can't hope to succeed, reasoning from all human experience. You would rebel against the Government, and redden your hands in the blood of your countrymen. If you are in the minority, as you are, you can't succeed. I say again and again, against the Government, with a great majority of its best citizens backing it, and when they have the most men, the longest purse, and the biggest cannon, you can't succeed.
"Friends, I agree with you about Providence; but I trust in the power of most people, the biggest budgets, and the strongest weapons. You’re in the minority—a troubling minority; and you can’t expect to succeed based on all human experience. You want to rebel against the Government and stain your hands with the blood of your fellow citizens. Since you’re in the minority, as you clearly are, you can’t succeed. I’ll say it again: against the Government, which has the support of a large majority of its best citizens, when they have the most people, the biggest budgets, and the strongest weapons, you can’t succeed."
"'If you have the majority, as some of you say you have, you can succeed with the ballot, throwing away the bullet. You can peaceably, then, redeem the Government, and preserve the liberties of mankind, through your votes and voice and moral influence. Let there be peace. In a democracy, where the majority rule by the ballot through the forms of law, these physical rebellions and bloody resistances are radically wrong, unconstitutional, and are treason. Better bear the ills you have than fly to those you know not of. Our own Declaration of Independence says, that governments long established, for trivial causes should not be resisted. Revolutionize through the ballot-box, and restore the Government once more to the affections and hearts of men, by making it express, as it was intended to do, the highest spirit of justice and liberty. Your attempt, if there be such, to resist the laws of Kansas by force, is criminal and wicked; and all your feeble attempts will be follies, and end in bringing sorrow on your heads, and ruin the cause you would freely die to preserve!'
"'If you truly have the majority, as some of you claim, you can succeed with the ballot instead of resorting to violence. You can peacefully restore the Government and protect the freedoms of people through your votes, voices, and moral influence. Let there be peace. In a democracy, where the majority rules through lawful voting, using physical rebellion and violent resistance is fundamentally wrong, unconstitutional, and is considered treason. It’s better to endure the problems you currently face than to escape to unknown troubles. Our own Declaration of Independence states that long-established governments shouldn’t be resisted for trivial reasons. Change things through the ballot box and restore the Government to the love and trust of the people by ensuring it reflects, as it was meant to, the highest principles of justice and freedom. Your attempt, if it exists, to resist the laws of Kansas by force is wrong and immoral; all your weak efforts will end in failure, bringing sorrow upon yourselves and jeopardizing the cause you would willingly die to protect!'"
"This little speech," continues Mr. Herndon, "is not in print. It is a part of a much longer one, likewise not in print. This speech squelched the ideas of physical resistance, and directed our energies through other more effective channels, which his wisdom and coolness pointed out to us. This little speech, so timely and well made, saved many of us from great follies, if not our necks from the halter. The man who uttered it is no more; but this little speech, I hope, shall not soon be forgotten. Mr. Lincoln himself, after this speech, subscribed money to the people of Kansas under conditions, which I will relate in other ways. He was not alone in his gifts: I signed the same paper, I think, for the same amount, most cheerfully; and would do it again, only doubling the sum, adding no conditions, only the good people's wise discretion."
"This short speech," Mr. Herndon continues, "is not published. It’s part of a much longer speech, also unpublished. This speech dismissed the idea of physical resistance and redirected our efforts into other, more effective avenues that his wisdom and calmness showed us. This timely and well-delivered speech saved many of us from making huge mistakes, if not from serious consequences. The man who delivered it is gone now, but I hope this speech won’t be forgotten anytime soon. After this speech, Mr. Lincoln himself contributed money to the people of Kansas under certain conditions, which I will explain in other contexts. He wasn’t the only one who gave: I signed the same document, I believe, for the same amount, very willingly; and I would do it again, only I would double the amount, with no conditions—just trusting the good people's wise judgment."
Early in 1856 it became painfully apparent to Mr. Lincoln that he must take a decisive stand upon the questions of the day, and become a Know-Nothing, a Democrat, a Republican, or an Abolitionist. Mere "Anti-Nebraska" would answer no longer: the members of that ephemeral coalition were seeking more permanent organizations. If interrogated concerning his position, he would probably have answered still, "I think I am a Whig." With the Abolition or Liberty party, he had thus far shown not a particle of sympathy. In 1840, 1844, 1848, and 1852, the Abolitionists, Liberty-men, or Free-Soilers, ran candidates of their own for the Presidency, and made no little noise and stir in the politics of the country; but they were as yet too insignificant in number to claim the adhesion of a practical man like Mr. Lincoln. In fact, his partner, one of the most earnest of them all, had not up to this time desired his fellowship. But now Mr. Herndon thought the hour had arrived when his hero should declare himself in unmistakable terms. He found, however, one little difficulty in the way: he was not precisely certain of his hero. Mr. Lincoln might go that way, and he might go the other way: his mind was not altogether made up; and there was no telling on which side the decision would fall. "He was button-holed by three ideas, and by men belonging to each class: first, he was urged to remain a Whig; secondly, he was urged to become a Know-Nothing, Say-Nothing, Do-Nothing; and, thirdly, he was urged to be baptized in Abolitionism: and in my imagination I can see Lincoln strung out three ways. At last two cords were snapped, he flying to Freedom."
Early in 1856, it became clear to Mr. Lincoln that he needed to take a firm stance on the issues of the time and decide whether to align himself with the Know-Nothings, Democrats, Republicans, or Abolitionists. Simply being "Anti-Nebraska" wouldn’t suffice anymore; the members of that short-lived coalition were looking for more lasting groups. If asked about his stance, he would likely still have said, "I think I’m a Whig." So far, he hadn’t shown any sympathy for the Abolition or Liberty party. In 1840, 1844, 1848, and 1852, the Abolitionists, Liberty party members, or Free-Soilers had nominated their own candidates for president and created quite a stir in the nation's politics; however, they were still too few in number to attract a practical man like Mr. Lincoln. In fact, his business partner, who was one of the most passionate supporters, hadn’t sought his support until now. But Mr. Herndon believed it was time for his hero to clearly state his position. Yet, he faced one small challenge: he wasn't entirely sure of his hero's views. Mr. Lincoln could go one way or the other; his thoughts were still not fully settled, and it was uncertain which direction he would choose. "He was torn between three ideas and approached by men representing each faction: first, he was encouraged to remain a Whig; second, he was pushed to become a Know-Nothing, Say-Nothing, Do-Nothing; and third, he was urged to embrace Abolitionism. In my mind, I can picture Lincoln being pulled in three different directions. Eventually, two strings snapped, and he moved toward Freedom."
And this is the way the cords were snapped: Mr. Herndon drew up a paper to be signed by men of his class in politics, calling a county convention to elect delegates to the State convention at Bloomington. "Mr. Lincoln was then backward," says Mr. Herndon, "dodge-y,—so" and so. I was determined to make him take a stand, if he would not do it willingly, which he might have done, as he was naturally inclined Abolitionward. Lincoln was absent when the call was signed, and circulated here. I signed Mr. Lincoln's name without authority; had it published in "The Journal." John T. Stuart was keeping his eye on Lincoln, with the view of keeping him on his side,—the totally-dead conservative side. Mr. Stuart saw the published call, and grew mad; rushed into my office, seemed mad, horrified, and said to me, 'Sir, did Mr. Lincoln sign that Abolition call which is published this morning?' I answered, 4 Mr. Lincoln did not sign that call.'—'Did Lincoln authorize you to sign it?' said Mr. Stuart. 'No: he never authorized me to sign it.'—'Then do you know that you have ruined Mr. Lincoln?'—'I did not know that I had ruined Mr. Lincoln; did not intend to do so; thought he was a made man by it; that the time had come when conservatism was a crime and a blunder.'—'You, then, take the responsibility of your acts; do you?'—'I do, most emphatically.'
And this is how the ties were broken: Mr. Herndon drafted a document to be signed by men of his political class, calling for a county convention to choose delegates for the State convention in Bloomington. "Mr. Lincoln was hesitant," says Mr. Herndon, "evasive—so on and so forth. I was determined to get him to take a stand, even if he wouldn’t do it willingly, which he might have, since he was naturally leaning toward abolitionism. Lincoln was not present when the call was signed and circulated here. I signed Mr. Lincoln's name without permission and had it published in 'The Journal.' John T. Stuart was watching Lincoln, aiming to keep him on his side—the completely conservative side. When Mr. Stuart saw the published call, he became furious; he burst into my office, looking angry and horrified, and asked me, 'Sir, did Mr. Lincoln sign that abolition call that was published this morning?' I replied, 'Mr. Lincoln did not sign that call.'—'Did Lincoln give you permission to sign it?' asked Mr. Stuart. 'No: he never authorized me to sign it.'—'Then do you realize that you have ruined Mr. Lincoln?'—'I didn’t know I had ruined Mr. Lincoln; I didn’t mean to; I thought it would make him a prominent figure; that the time had come when conservatism was a crime and a mistake.'—'You, then, accept the responsibility for your actions; do you?'—'I do, absolutely.'
"However, I instantly sat down and wrote to Mr. Lincoln, who was then in Pekin or Tremont,—possibly at court. He received my letter, and instantly replied, either by letter or telegraph,—most likely by letter,—that he adopted in toto what I had done, and promised to meet the radicals—Lovejoy, and suchlike men—among us."
"However, I immediately sat down and wrote to Mr. Lincoln, who was then in Pekin or Tremont—maybe at court. He got my letter and quickly responded, either by letter or telegraph—most likely by letter—saying that he completely supported what I had done and promised to meet with the radicals—Lovejoy and other similar figures—among us."
At Bloomington Lincoln was the great figure. Beside him all the rest—even the oldest in the faith and the strongest in the work—were small. Yet he was universally regarded as a recent convert, although the most important one that could be made in the State of Illinois. "We met at Bloomington; and it was there," says Mr. Herndon in one of his lectures, "that Mr. Lincoln was baptized, and joined our church. He made a speech to us. I have heard or read all Mr. Lincoln's great speeches; and I give it as my opinion, on my best judgment, that the Bloomington speech was the grand effort of his life. Heretofore, and up to this moment, he had simply argued the slavery question on grounds of policy,—on what are called the statesman's grounds,—never reaching the question of the radical and the eternal right. Now he was newly baptized and freshly born: he had the fervor of a new convert; the smothered flame broke out; enthusiasm unusual to him blazed up; his eyes were aglow with an inspiration; he felt justice; his heart was alive to the right; his sympathies, remarkably deep for him, burst forth, and he stood before the throne of the eternal Right, in presence of his God, and then and there unburdened his penitential and fired soul. This speech was fresh, new, genuine, odd, original; filled with fervor not unmixed with a divine enthusiasm; his head breathing out through his tender heart its truths, its sense of right, and its feeling of the good and for the good. This speech was full of fire and energy and force: it was logic; it was pathos; it was enthusiasm; it was justice, equity, truth, right, and the good, set ablaze by the divine fires of a soul maddened by the wrong; it was hard, heavy, knotty, gnarly, edged, and heated. I attempted for about fifteen minutes, as was usual with me then, to take notes; but at the end of that time I threw pen and paper to the dogs, and lived only in the inspiration of the hour. If Mr. Lincoln was six feet four inches high usually, at Bloomington he was seven feet, and inspired at that. From that day to the day of his death, he stood firm on the right. He felt his great cross, had his great idea, nursed it, kept it, taught it to others, and in his fidelity bore witness of it to his death, and finally sealed it with his precious blood."
At Bloomington, Lincoln was the standout figure. Next to him, everyone else—even the oldest believers and the strongest workers—seemed insignificant. Yet, he was seen as a recent convert, although the most important one in Illinois. "We met in Bloomington; and it was there," Mr. Herndon says in one of his lectures, "that Mr. Lincoln was baptized and joined our church. He gave a speech to us. I’ve heard or read all of Lincoln’s major speeches, and I believe, based on my best judgment, that the Bloomington speech was the finest effort of his life. Until that moment, he had only discussed the slavery issue from a policy perspective—what you might call the statesman’s angle—never addressing the fundamental and eternal right. Now he was newly baptized and reborn: he had the enthusiasm of a new believer; the suppressed flame burst forth; an unusual passion ignited within him; his eyes sparkled with inspiration; he felt justice; his heart was alive to what was right; his deep sympathies, notable for him, came alive, and he stood before the throne of eternal Right, in the presence of God, unburdening his repentant and fiery soul. This speech was fresh, new, genuine, unique, and filled with fervor mixed with divine enthusiasm; his mind expressed its truths, sense of right, and feelings for the good through his compassionate heart. The speech was charged with fire, energy, and power: it was logic, pathos, enthusiasm, justice, equality, truth, right, and goodness, ignited by the divine flames of a soul enraged by injustice; it was intense, complex, rugged, sharp, and heated. I tried for about fifteen minutes, as I usually did back then, to take notes; but after that time, I gave up on pen and paper and lived solely in the inspiration of the moment. If Lincoln stood six feet four inches tall normally, at Bloomington, he was seven feet tall and inspired. From that day until his death, he stood firmly on the right side. He felt the weight of his significant burden, held on to his great idea, nurtured it, shared it with others, and remained faithful to it until his death, sealing it ultimately with his precious blood."
If any thing in the foregoing description by Mr. Herndon seems extravagant to the reader, something must be pardoned to the spirit of a patient friend and an impatient teacher, who saw in this scene the first fruits of his careful husbandry, and the end of his long vigil. He appears to have participated even then in the belief which Mr. Lincoln himself avowed,—that the latter was designed by the Dispenser of all things to occupy a great place in the world's history; and he felt that that day's doings had fixed his political character forever. The Bloomington Convention was called "Republican," and the Republican party of Illinois was there formed: but the most noted Abolitionists were in it, the spirit of the Lovejoys was present; and Mr. Herndon had a right to say, that, if Mr. Lincoln was not an Abolitionist, he was tending "Abolition-ward" so surely that no doubt could be entertained of his ultimate destination. But, after all, the resolutions of the convention were very "moderate." They merely denounced the administration for its course regarding Kansas, stigmatized the repeal of the Missouri Compromise as an act of bad faith, and opposed "the extension of slavery into Territories heretofore free." It was surely not because Mr. Lincoln was present, and aiding at the passage of such resolutions, that Mr. Herndon and others thereafter regarded him as a "newborn" Abolitionist. It must have been the general warmth of his speech against the South,—his manifest detestation of slaveholders and slaveholding, as exhibited in his words,—which led them to believe that his feelings at least, if not his opinions, were similar to theirs. But the reader will see, nevertheless, as we get along in our history, that the Bloomington resolutions were the actual standard of Mr. Lincoln's views; that he continued to express his determination to maintain the rights of the Slave States under the Constitution, and to make conspicuously plain his abhorrence of negro suffrage and negro equality. He certainly disliked the Southern politicians very much; but even that sentiment, growing daily more fierce and ominous in the masses of the new party, was in his case counterbalanced by his prejudices or his caution, and he never saw the day when he would willingly have clothed the negroes with political privileges.
If anything in the description provided by Mr. Herndon seems excessive to the reader, we must make allowances for the enthusiasm of a devoted friend and a frustrated teacher, who viewed this moment as the first success of his hard work and the culmination of his long wait. He appeared to share the belief that Mr. Lincoln himself expressed—that he was meant by the Creator to hold a significant place in history; and he felt that the events of that day had permanently shaped Lincoln's political identity. The Bloomington Convention was branded "Republican," and the Republican Party of Illinois was formed there: however, the most prominent Abolitionists were involved, and the spirit of the Lovejoys was felt; Mr. Herndon had a right to argue that if Mr. Lincoln was not an Abolitionist, he was certainly moving "Abolition-ward" with such certainty that there could be no doubt about his ultimate path. Still, the resolutions from the convention were quite "moderate." They simply criticized the administration for its actions regarding Kansas, condemned the repeal of the Missouri Compromise as a betrayal, and opposed "the extension of slavery into previously free Territories." It wasn't just because Mr. Lincoln was there supporting such resolutions that Mr. Herndon and others later viewed him as a "newborn" Abolitionist. It was likely his passionate speech against the South—his clear disdain for slaveholders and slavery, as expressed in his words—that led them to believe his feelings, if not his views, were aligned with theirs. However, as we progress through our history, the reader will see that the Bloomington resolutions reflected Mr. Lincoln's actual beliefs; he consistently declared his intent to uphold the rights of Slave States under the Constitution, making it clear his opposition to black suffrage and racial equality. While he certainly had a strong dislike for Southern politicians, this sentiment, which grew increasingly intense among the members of the new party, was balanced by his own biases or caution, and he never reached a point where he would willingly have granted political rights to black individuals.
Notwithstanding the conservative character of the resolutions, the proceedings of the Bloomington Convention were alarming to a portion of the community, and seem to have found little favor with the people of Springfield. About five days after its adjournment, Herndon and Lincoln bethought them of holding a ratification meeting. Mr. Herndon got out huge posters, announcing the event, and employed a band of musicians to parade the streets and "drum up a crowd." As the hour of meeting drew near, he "lit up the Court House with many blazes," rung the bells, and blew a horn. At seven o'clock the meeting should have been called to order, but it turned out to be extremely slim. There was nobody present, with all those brilliant lights, but A. Lincoln, W. H. Herndon, and John Pain. "When Lincoln came into the courtroom," says the bill-poster and horn-blower of this great demonstration, "he came with a sadness and a sense of the ludicrous on his face. He walked to the stand, mounted it in a kind of mockery,—mirth and sadness all combined,—and said, 'Gentlemen, this meeting is larger than I knew it would be. I knew that Herndon and myself would come, but I did not know that any one else would be here; and yet another has come,—you, John Pain. These are sad times, and seem out of joint. All seems dead, dead, dead: but the age is not yet dead; it liveth as sure as our Maker liveth. Under all this seeming want of life and motion, the world does move nevertheless. Be hopeful. And now let us adjourn, and appeal to the people.'
Despite the conservative nature of the resolutions, the events of the Bloomington Convention were concerning to some in the community and didn't seem to be well-received by the people of Springfield. About five days after it ended, Herndon and Lincoln decided to hold a ratification meeting. Mr. Herndon created large posters to announce the event and hired a band to march through the streets and "drum up a crowd." As the meeting time approached, he lit up the courthouse with many lights, rang the bells, and blew a horn. At seven o'clock, the meeting was supposed to start, but it turned out to be quite sparse. With all those bright lights, the only attendees were A. Lincoln, W. H. Herndon, and John Pain. "When Lincoln walked into the courtroom," said the bill-poster and horn-blower for this grand event, "he had a look of sadness mixed with humor on his face. He approached the stand and climbed it in a sort of parody, blending joy and sorrow, and said, 'Gentlemen, this meeting is larger than I knew it would be. I knew that Herndon and I would show up, but I didn’t expect anyone else to be here; and yet, here’s another—you, John Pain. These are tough times, and everything feels out of whack. Everything seems dead, dead, dead: but the age isn’t dead yet; it lives as surely as our Creator lives. Despite all this apparent lack of life and activity, the world is still turning. Stay hopeful. And now, let’s adjourn and reach out to the people.'
"This speech is in substance just as he delivered it, and substantially in the same sad but determined spirit; and so we did adjourn, did go out, and did witness the fact that 'the world was not dead.'"
"This speech is basically just as he delivered it, maintaining the same sad but determined spirit; and so we did adjourn, we did go out, and we did see that 'the world was not dead.'"
The Bloomington Convention sent delegates to the general Republican Convention, which was to be held at Philadelphia in June. That body was to nominate candidates for the Presidency and Vice-Presidency, and high hopes were entertained of their success. But much remained to be done before such a revolution in sentiment could be expected. The American or Know-Nothing party—corrupt, hideous, and delusive, but still powerful—had adopted the old Whig platform on the several slavery questions, and planted itself decisively against the agitations of the Anti-Nebraska men and the Republicans. A "National Council" had taken this position for it the year previous, in terms beside which the resolutions of the Whigs and Democrats in 1852 were mild and inexpressive. Something, therefore, must be done to get this great organization out of the way, or to put its machinery under "Republican" control. We have seen a party of gentlemen from Chicago proposing to go into the lodges, and "rule them for freedom." Mr. Herndon and Mr. Lincoln rejected the plot with lofty indignation; but a section of the Free-Soil politicians were by no means so fastidious. They were for the most part bad, insincere, trading men, with whom the profession of principles of any kind was merely a convenient disguise, and who could be attached to no party, except from motives of self-interest. As yet, they were not quite certain whether it were possible to raise more hatred in the Northern mind against foreigners and Catholics than against slaveholders; and they prudently determined to be in a situation to try either. Accordingly, they went into the lodges, took the oaths, swore to stand by the platform of the "National Council" of 1855, and were perfectly ready to do that, or to betray the organization to the Republicans, as the prospect seemed good or bad. Believing the latter scheme to be the best, upon deliberation, they carried it out as far as in them lay, and then told the old, grim, honest, antislavery men, with whom they again sought association, that they had joined the Know-Nothings, and sworn irrevocable oaths to proscribe foreigners and Catholics, solely that they might rule the order "for freedom;" and, the Republicans standing in much need of aid just then, the excuse was considered very good. But it was too shameless a business for Lincoln and Herndon; and they most righteously despised it.
The Bloomington Convention sent delegates to the general Republican Convention, which was set to take place in Philadelphia in June. That assembly was responsible for nominating candidates for the President and Vice President, and there were high hopes for their success. However, a lot still needed to be accomplished before any significant shift in public opinion could be expected. The American or Know-Nothing party—corrupt, grotesque, and misleading, yet still influential—had adopted the old Whig platform regarding various slavery issues and firmly positioned itself against the efforts of the Anti-Nebraska activists and the Republicans. A "National Council" had taken this stance the year before, in terms that made the resolutions of the Whigs and Democrats in 1852 seem mild and vague. Therefore, something had to be done to either neutralize this large organization or take control of its structure for the "Republicans." We have seen a group of gentlemen from Chicago suggesting they infiltrate the lodges and "lead them for freedom." Mr. Herndon and Mr. Lincoln rejected the scheme with great indignation; however, some Free-Soil politicians were not nearly as particular. They were mostly dubious, insincere individuals, whose claim to any principles was merely a convenient facade, and who could only align with a party if it served their self-interest. At that time, they weren’t exactly sure if they could stir up more animosity in the North against immigrants and Catholics than against slaveholders, so they wisely decided to position themselves to explore either option. As a result, they joined the lodges, took the oaths, pledged to uphold the "National Council" platform from 1855, and were fully prepared to either remain loyal to it or betray the organization to the Republicans, depending on which seemed more promising. After some reflection, they believed that the second option was superior and acted on it to the best of their ability. Then they told the older, serious, honest, anti-slavery individuals, with whom they sought to reconnect, that they had joined the Know-Nothings and sworn irreversible oaths to exclude foreigners and Catholics, solely to control the order "for freedom;" and since the Republicans really needed support at that moment, this excuse was deemed pretty good. But it was too shameful for Lincoln and Herndon; they rightfully scorned it.
In February, 1856, the Republicans held what Mr. Greeley styles their "first National. Convention," at Pittsburg; but they made no nominations there. At the same time, a Know-Nothing American "National Council" was sitting at Philadelphia (to be followed by a nominating convention); and the Republicans at Pittsburg had not adjourned before they got news by telegraph, that the patriots who had entered the lodges on false pretences were achieving a great success: the American party was disintegrating, and a great section of it falling away to the Republicans. A most wonderful political feat had been performed, and the way was now apparently clear for a union of the all-formidable anti-Democratic elements in the Presidential canvass.
In February 1856, the Republicans held what Mr. Greeley calls their "first National Convention" in Pittsburgh, but they didn’t make any nominations there. At the same time, a Know-Nothing American "National Council" met in Philadelphia (which was to be followed by a nominating convention); and before the Republicans in Pittsburgh adjourned, they received news via telegraph that the patriots who had entered the lodges under false pretenses were achieving great success: the American party was falling apart, and a significant portion of it was shifting to the Republicans. A remarkable political achievement had taken place, and it seemed like the way was clear for a union of all the powerful anti-Democratic elements in the presidential race.
On the 17th of June the National Republican Convention met at Philadelphia, and nominated John C. Fremont for President, and William L. Dayton for Vice-President. Mr. Williams, Chairman of the Illinois Delegation, presented to the convention the name of Abraham Lincoln for the latter office; and it was received with great enthusiasm by some of the Western delegates. He received, however, but 110 votes, against 259 for Mr. Dayton, and 180 scattered; and Mr. Dayton was immediately thereafter unanimously declared the nominee.
On June 17th, the National Republican Convention gathered in Philadelphia and nominated John C. Fremont for President and William L. Dayton for Vice-President. Mr. Williams, the Chairman of the Illinois Delegation, put forward Abraham Lincoln's name for the Vice-President position, which was met with great enthusiasm from some of the Western delegates. However, he only received 110 votes, compared to 259 for Mr. Dayton and 180 votes for others. Mr. Dayton was then unanimously declared the nominee right afterward.
While this convention was sitting, Mr. Lincoln was attending court at Urbana, in Champaign County. When the news reached that place that Mr. Dayton had been nominated, and "Lincoln had received 110 votes," some of the lawyers insisted that the latter must have been "our [their] Lincoln;" but he said, "No, it could not be: it must have been the great Lincoln from Massachusetts." He utterly refused to believe in the reality of this unexpected distinction until he saw the proceedings in full. He was just then in one of his melancholy moods, his spirits depressed, and his heart suffering the miseries of a morbid mind.
While this convention was happening, Mr. Lincoln was in court at Urbana, in Champaign County. When the news got there that Mr. Dayton had been nominated, and "Lincoln had received 110 votes," some of the lawyers argued that it had to be "our Lincoln;" but he replied, "No, it couldn't be: it must have been the great Lincoln from Massachusetts." He completely refused to believe in the reality of this unexpected recognition until he saw the full proceedings. At that moment, he was in one of his gloomy moods, feeling down, and his heart was weighed down by the struggles of a troubled mind.
With an indorsement of the "self-evident truths" and "inalienable rights" of the Declaration of Independence, the Republican Convention adopted the following as the practical and essential features of its platform:—
With an endorsement of the "self-evident truths" and "inalienable rights" of the Declaration of Independence, the Republican Convention adopted the following as the practical and essential features of its platform:—
"Resolved,... That we deny the authority of Congress, of a territorial Legislature, of any individual, or association of individuals, to give legal existence to slavery in any Territory of the United States while the present Constitution shall be maintained.
"Resolved,... That we deny the authority of Congress, a territorial Legislature, any individual, or any group of individuals, to legally establish slavery in any Territory of the United States as long as the current Constitution is upheld."
"Resolved, That the Constitution confers upon Congress sovereign power over the Territories of the United States for their government; and that, in the exercise of this power, it is both the right and the duty of Congress to prohibit in the Territories those twin relics of barbarism,—polygamy and slavery."
"Resolved, That the Constitution gives Congress complete authority over the Territories of the United States for their governance; and that, in exercising this authority, it is both the right and the responsibility of Congress to banish in the Territories those two remnants of barbarism—polygamy and slavery."
The National Democratic Convention had already placed in nomination Buchanan and Breckenridge. Their platform denounced as sectional the principles and purposes of their opponents; re-affirmed "the principles contained in the organic laws establishing the Territories of Kansas and Nebraska, as embodying the only sound and safe solution of the slavery question," and declared further,—
The National Democratic Convention had already nominated Buchanan and Breckenridge. Their platform criticized their opponents' principles and goals as being sectional; it reaffirmed "the principles outlined in the foundational laws creating the Territories of Kansas and Nebraska, as the only sensible and secure solution to the slavery issue," and stated further,—
"That by the uniform application of Democratic principles to the organization of Territories and the admission of new States, with or without slavery as they may elect, the equal rights of all the States will be preserved intact, the original compacts of the Constitution maintained inviolate, and the perpetuity and expansion of the Union insured to its utmost capacity of embracing, in peace and harmony, every future American State that may be constituted or annexed with a republican form of government."
"By consistently applying Democratic principles to the setup of Territories and the admission of new States, whether they choose to allow slavery or not, the equal rights of all States will be fully protected, the original agreements of the Constitution upheld without exception, and the lasting strength and growth of the Union guaranteed, allowing it to peacefully and harmoniously include every future American State that may be created or added with a republican form of government."
Mr. Lincoln was again a candidate for the office of Presidential elector, and made a thorough and energetic canvass. Some of his speeches were very striking; and probably no man in the country discussed the main questions in that campaign—Kansas, and slavery in the Territories—in a manner more original and persuasive. From first to last, he scouted the intimation that the election of Fremont would justify a dissolution of the Union, or that it could possibly become even the occasion of a dissolution. In his eyes, the apprehensions of disunion were a "humbug;" the threat of it mere bluster, and the fear of it silly timidity.
Mr. Lincoln was once again running for the position of presidential elector and launched a thorough and energetic campaign. Some of his speeches were quite impactful, and probably no one in the country addressed the key issues in that campaign—Kansas and slavery in the territories—in a more original and convincing way. From start to finish, he dismissed the suggestion that Fremont's election would warrant a breakup of the Union or that it could even trigger such a breakup. To him, the concerns about disunion were a "humbug"; the threats of it were just empty talk, and the fear of it was foolish fearfulness.
In the heat of the canvass, Mr. Lincoln wrote the following perfectly characteristic letter,—marked "Confidential:"—
In the midst of the campaign, Mr. Lincoln wrote the following perfectly characteristic letter—marked "Confidential:"—
Springfield, Sept. 8, 1856.
Springfield, September 8, 1856.
Harrison Maltby, Esq.
Harrison Maltby, Attorney at Law
Dear Sir,—I understand you are a Fillmore man. Let me prove to you that every vote withheld from Fremont and given to Fillmore in this State actually lessens Fillmore's chance of being President.
Dear Sir,—I understand you support Fillmore. Let me show you that every vote not cast for Fremont and given to Fillmore in this state actually decreases Fillmore's chance of becoming President.
Suppose Buchanan gets all the Slave States and Pennsylvania, and any other one State besides; then he is elected, no matter who gets all the rest.
Suppose Buchanan wins all the Slave States and Pennsylvania, and one more state besides; then he gets elected, regardless of who wins the others.
But suppose Fillmore gets the two Slave States of Maryland and Kentucky; then Buchanan is not elected: Fillmore goes into the House of Representatives, and may be made President by a compromise.
But let’s say Fillmore secures the two slave states, Maryland and Kentucky; then Buchanan isn’t elected: Fillmore enters the House of Representatives and could potentially be made President through a compromise.
But suppose, again, Fillmore's friends throw away a few thousand votes on him in Indiana and Illinois: it will inevitably give these States to Buchanan, which will more than compensate him for the loss of Maryland and Kentucky; will elect him, and leave Fillmore no chance in the H. R., or out of it.
But let's say Fillmore's supporters waste a few thousand votes on him in Indiana and Illinois: that will definitely give those states to Buchanan, which will more than make up for losing Maryland and Kentucky; it will elect him and leave Fillmore with no chance in the House of Representatives, or anywhere else.
This is as plain as adding up the weights of three small hogs. As Mr. Fillmore has no possible chance to carry Illinois for himself, it is plainly to his interest to let Fremont take it, and thus keep it out of the hands of Buchanan. Be not deceived. Buchanan is the hard horse to beat in this race. Let him have Illinois, and nothing can beat him; and he will get Illinois if men persist in throwing away votes upon Mr. Fillmore. Does some one persuade you that Mr. Fillmore can carry Illinois? Nonsense! There are over seventy newspapers in Illinois opposing Buchanan, only three or four of which support Mr. Fillmore, all the rest going for Fremont. Are not these newspapers a fair index of the proportion of the votes? If not, tell me why.
This is as simple as adding the weights of three small pigs. Since Mr. Fillmore has no real chance of winning Illinois for himself, it’s clearly in his best interest to let Fremont take it, keeping it out of Buchanan's hands. Don’t be fooled. Buchanan is the tough competitor in this race. If he gets Illinois, nothing can stop him; and he will win Illinois if people keep wasting their votes on Mr. Fillmore. Does someone convince you that Mr. Fillmore can win Illinois? Nonsense! There are over seventy newspapers in Illinois that are against Buchanan, with only three or four supporting Mr. Fillmore, while the rest are backing Fremont. Aren’t these newspapers a good reflection of how the votes will go? If not, let me know why.
Again, of these three or four Fillmore newspapers, two, at least, are supported in part by the Buchanan men, as I understand. Do not they know where the shoe pinches? They know the Fillmore movement helps them, and therefore they help it.
Again, out of these three or four Fillmore newspapers, at least two are supported in part by the Buchanan supporters, as I understand it. Don’t they realize where the issue lies? They know that the Fillmore movement benefits them, and so they support it.
Do think these things over, and then act according to your judgment.
Think these things through, and then act based on your judgment.
Yours very truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
(Confidential.)
(Confidential.)
This letter was discovered by the Buchanan men, printed in their newspapers, and pronounced, as its author anticipated, "a mean trick." It was a dangerous document to them, and was calculated to undermine the very citadel of their strength.
This letter was found by the Buchanan men, printed in their newspapers, and called, as the author expected, "a low blow." It was a risky document for them and was meant to weaken the very foundation of their power.
Mr. Lincoln was still in imperfect fellowship—if, indeed, in any fellowship at all—with the extreme Abolitionists. He had met with Lovejoy and his followers at Bloomington, and was apparently co-operating with them for the same party purposes; but the intensity of his opposition to their radical views is intimated very strongly in this letter to Mr. Whitney:—
Mr. Lincoln was still not fully in agreement—if, in fact, he was in agreement at all—with the extreme Abolitionists. He had met with Lovejoy and his followers in Bloomington, and seemed to be working with them for the same party goals; but the strength of his opposition to their radical views is clearly indicated in this letter to Mr. Whitney:—
SprinGfield, July 9, 1856.
Springfield, July 9, 1856.
Dear Whitney,—I now expect to go to Chicago on the 15th, and I probably shall remain there or thereabout for about two weeks.
Dear Whitney,—I now plan to go to Chicago on the 15th, and I will probably stay there or around that area for about two weeks.
It turned me blind when I first heard Swett was beaten and Lovejoy nominated; but, after much anxious reflection, I really believe it is best to let it stand. This, of course, I wish to be confidential.
It shocked me when I first heard that Swett was defeated and Lovejoy was nominated; but after a lot of anxious thought, I truly believe it's best to let it be. I want this to be kept private, of course.
Lamon did get your deeds. I went with him to the office, got them, and put them in his hands myself.
Lamon did get your deeds. I went with him to the office, got them, and put them in his hands myself.
Yours very truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
In June, 1857, Judge Douglas made a speech at Springfield, in which he attempted to vindicate the wisdom and fairness of the law under which the people of Kansas were about to choose delegates to a convention to be held at Lecompton to frame a State constitution. He declared with emphasis, that, if the Free-State party refused to vote at this election, they alone would be blamable for the proslavery constitution which might be formed. The Free-State men professed to have a vast majority,—"three-fourths," "four-fifths," "nine-tenths," of the voters of Kansas. If these wilfully staid away from the polls, and allowed the minority to choose the delegates and make the constitution, Mr. Douglas thought they ought to abide the result, and not oppose the constitution adopted. Mr. Douglas's speech indicated clearly that he himself would countenance no opposition to the forthcoming Lecompton Convention, and that he would hold the Republican politicians responsible if the result failed to be satisfactory to them.
In June 1857, Judge Douglas gave a speech in Springfield where he tried to justify the wisdom and fairness of the law that allowed the people of Kansas to choose delegates for a convention in Lecompton to create a state constitution. He insisted that if the Free-State party chose not to vote in this election, they would be solely to blame for any pro-slavery constitution that might be adopted. The Free-State supporters claimed they had a significant majority—“three-fourths,” “four-fifths,” “nine-tenths” of Kansas voters. If they intentionally stayed away from the polls and allowed the minority to select the delegates and draft the constitution, Mr. Douglas believed they should accept the outcome and not oppose the constitution that was established. His speech made it clear that he would not tolerate any opposition to the upcoming Lecompton Convention and that he would hold Republican politicians accountable if the results did not meet their expectations.
Judge Douglas seldom spoke in that region without provoking a reply from his constant and vigilant antagonist. Mr. Lincoln heard this speech with a critical ear, and then, waiting only for a printed report of it, prepared a reply to be delivered a few weeks later. The speeches were neither of them of much consequence, except for the fact that Judge Douglas seemed to have plainly committed himself in advance to the support of the Lecompton Constitution. Mr. Lincoln took that much for granted; and, arguing from sundry indications that the election would be fraudulently conducted, he insisted that Mr. Douglas himself, as the author of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, and the inventor of "popular sovereignty," had made this "outrage" possible. He did not believe there were any "Free-State Democrats" in Kansas to make it a Free State without the aid of the Republicans, whom he held to be a vast majority of the population. The latter, he contended, were not all registered; and, because all were not registered, he thought none ought to vote. But Mr. Lincoln advised no bloodshed, no civil war, no roadside assassinations. Even if an incomplete registry might justify a majority of the people in an obstinate refusal to participate in the regulation of their own affairs, it certainly would not justify them in taking up arms to oppose all government in the Territory; and Mr. Lincoln did not say so. We have seen already how, in the "little speech" reported by Mr. Herndon, he deprecated "all physical rebellions" in this country, and applied his views to this case.
Judge Douglas rarely spoke in that area without sparking a response from his ever-watchful opponent. Mr. Lincoln listened to this speech carefully and, after waiting for a printed report, prepared a reply that he would deliver a few weeks later. Neither speech was particularly significant, except that Judge Douglas seemed to have clearly committed himself to supporting the Lecompton Constitution. Mr. Lincoln took that as a given and argued from various signs that the election would be conducted fraudulently. He insisted that Mr. Douglas, as the author of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill and the creator of "popular sovereignty," had made this "outrage" possible. He didn't believe there were any "Free-State Democrats" in Kansas who could make it a Free State without the help of Republicans, who he regarded as the majority of the population. He argued that not all of them were registered, and since not everyone was registered, none should vote. However, Mr. Lincoln called for no violence, no civil war, and no roadside assassinations. Even if an incomplete registration could justify a large number of people in stubbornly refusing to engage in the management of their own affairs, it certainly did not justify them taking up arms against all government in the Territory; and Mr. Lincoln did not say that. We have already seen how, in the "little speech" reported by Mr. Herndon, he condemned "all physical rebellions" in this country and applied those views to this situation.
Mr. Lincoln also discussed the Dred-Scott Decision at some length; and, while doing so, disclosed his firm belief, that, in some respects, such as "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," the negroes were made by the Declaration of Independence the equals of white men. But it did not follow from this that he was in favor of political or social equality with them. "There is," said he, "a natural disgust in the minds of nearly all the white people to the idea of an indiscriminate amalgamation of the white and black races; and Judge Douglas evidently is basing his chief hope upon the chances of his being able to appropriate the benefit of this disgust to himself. If he can, by much drumming and repeating, fasten the odium of that idea upon his adversaries, he thinks he can struggle through the storm. He therefore clings to his hope, as a drowning man to the last plank. He makes an occasion for lugging it in from the opposition to the Dred-Scott Decision. He finds the Republicans insisting that the Declaration of Independence includes all men,—black as well as white; and forthwith he boldly denies that it includes negroes at all, and proceeds to argue gravely, that all who contend it does, do so only because they want to vote, eat, sleep, and marry with negroes. Now, I protest against the counterfeit logic which concludes, that, because I do not want a black woman for a slave, I must necessarily want her for a wife. I need not have her for either. I can just leave her alone. In some respects, she certainly is not my equal; but in her natural right to eat the bread she earns with her own hands, without asking leave of any one else, she is my equal, and the equal of all others."
Mr. Lincoln also talked about the Dred Scott Decision at length and, while doing so, revealed his strong belief that, in some ways, such as "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," Black people were made equal to white people by the Declaration of Independence. However, this didn’t mean he supported political or social equality with them. "There is," he said, "a natural disgust among nearly all white people at the idea of mixing the white and Black races; and Judge Douglas seems to be relying on the chance that he can benefit from this disgust. If he can, through a lot of noise and repetition, attach the negative perception of that idea to his opponents, he thinks he can manage to get through the controversy. So he holds onto this hope like a drowning man clinging to the last piece of wood. He creates an opportunity to bring it up in opposition to the Dred Scott Decision. He sees the Republicans insisting that the Declaration of Independence includes everyone—both Black and white—and immediately he boldly claims it doesn’t include Black people at all, arguing seriously that those who believe it does only want to vote, eat, sleep, and marry Black people. Now, I reject the false logic that concludes that just because I don’t want a Black woman as a slave, I must want her as a wife. I don’t need her for either. I can simply leave her alone. In some ways, she certainly isn’t my equal; but in her natural right to earn her own living without asking anyone else for permission, she is my equal and the equal of everyone else."
These speeches were delivered, the one early and the other late, in the month of June: they present strongly, yet guardedly, the important issues which were to engage Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas in the famous campaign of 1858, and leave us no choice but to look into Kansas, and observe what had taken place and what was happening there.
These speeches were given, one early and the other late, in June: they strongly, yet cautiously, highlight the important issues that would engage Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas in the famous campaign of 1858, and compel us to examine Kansas and see what had happened and what was currently happening there.
Violence still (June, 1857) prevailed throughout the Territory. The administration of President Pierce committed itself at the first in support of the proslavery party. It acknowledged the Legislature as the only legal government in the Territory, and gave it military assistance to enforce its enactments. Gov. Shannon, having by his course only served to increase the hostility between the parties, was recalled, and John W. Geary of Pennsylvania was appointed his successor. Gov. Geary, while adopting the policy of the administration, so far as recognizing the Legislative party as the only legally organized government, was yet disposed to see, that, so far as the two parties could be got to act together, each should be fairly protected. This policy, however, soon brought him into collision with some of the proslavery leaders in the Territory; and, not being sustained by Mr. Buchanan's administration, which had in the mean time succeeded the administration of President Pierce, he resigned his office. Hon. Robert J. Walker of Mississippi was appointed his successor, with Hon. F. P. Stanton of Tennessee as secretary. Both were strong Democrats; and both were earnest advocates of the policy of the administration, as expressed in the recent presidential canvass, and in Mr. Buchanan's inaugural Message,—the absolute freedom of the people of the Territories to form such governments as they saw fit, subject to the provisions of the Constitution. Gov. Walker and his secretary earnestly set themselves to work to carry out this policy. The governor, in various addresses to the people of the Territory, assured all parties that he would protect them in the free expression of their wishes in the election for a new Territorial legislature; and he besought the Free-State men to give up their separate Territorial organization, under which they had already applied for admission into the Union, and by virtue of which they claimed still to have an equitable legal existence. The governor was so earnest in his policy, and so fair-minded in his purposes, that he soon drew upon himself the opposition of the proslavery party of the Territory, now in a small minority, as well as the enmity of that party in the States. He assured the people they should have a fair election for the new Legislature to be chosen in October (1857), and which would come into power in January following. The people took him at his word; and he kept it. Enormous frauds were discovered in two districts, which were promptly set aside. The triumph of the Free-State party was complete: they elected a legislature in their interest by a handsome majority. And now began another phase of the struggle. The policy of the Governor and the Secretary was repudiated at Washington: the former resigned, and the latter was removed. Meanwhile, a convention held under the auspices of the old Legislature had formed a new constitution, known as the Lecompton Constitution, which the old Legislature proposed to submit to the people for ratification on the 21st of December. The manner of submitting it was singular, to say the least. The people were required to vote either for the constitution with slavery, or the constitution without slavery. As without slavery the constitution was in some of its provisions as objectionable as if it upheld slavery, the Free-State men refused to participate in its ratification. The vote on its submission, therefore, stood 4,206 for the constitution with slavery, and 567 without slavery; and it was this constitution, thus submitted and thus adopted, that Mr. Buchanan submitted to Congress on the 2d of February, 1858, as the free expression of the wishes of the people of Kansas; and its support was at once made an administration measure. Meantime the new Legislature elected by the people of the Territory in October submitted this same Lecompton Constitution to the people again, and in this manner: votes to be given for the constitution with slavery and without slavery, and also against the constitution entirely. The latter manner prevailed; the vote against the constitution in any form being over ten thousand. Thus the proslavery party in the Territory was overthrown. Under the auspices of the new Free-State Legislature, a constitutional convention was held at Wyandotte, in March, 1859. A Free-State constitution was adopted, under which Kansas was subsequently admitted into the Union.
Violence was still widespread throughout the Territory in June 1857. President Pierce's administration initially supported the proslavery party. It recognized the Legislature as the only legal government in the Territory and provided military help to enforce its laws. Governor Shannon, whose actions only heightened tensions between the parties, was recalled, and John W. Geary from Pennsylvania was appointed as his successor. Although Governor Geary followed the administration's policy of recognizing the Legislative party as the only legally organized government, he aimed to fairly protect both parties whenever possible. However, this approach soon put him at odds with some proslavery leaders in the Territory, and since he lacked support from President Buchanan's administration, which succeeded Pierce's, he resigned. Hon. Robert J. Walker from Mississippi was appointed as his successor, with Hon. F. P. Stanton from Tennessee as secretary. Both were strong Democrats and advocates for the administration's policy, as outlined in the recent presidential campaign and in Buchanan's inaugural Message: the complete freedom of the people in the Territories to establish their own governments, as long as it adhered to the Constitution. Governor Walker and his secretary quickly got to work carrying out this policy. In various speeches to the people of the Territory, the governor assured everyone that he would protect their rights to express their preferences in the election for a new Territorial legislature. He urged the Free-State supporters to abandon their separate Territorial organization, which they had already used to apply for statehood and claimed still had some legal recognition. The governor was so committed to his policy and had such fair intentions that he soon earned the opposition of the now-minority proslavery party in the Territory, as well as hostility from that party in the States. He guaranteed a fair election for the new Legislature set to be elected in October 1857 and take power in January. The people took his promise seriously, and he delivered. Huge frauds were uncovered in two districts, which were immediately disqualified. The Free-State party's victory was decisive: they elected a legislature in their favor by a solid majority. Another chapter of the struggle began. The Governor's and Secretary's policies were rejected in Washington: the former resigned, and the latter was dismissed. Meanwhile, a convention held under the old Legislature's authority had created a new constitution known as the Lecompton Constitution, which the old Legislature intended to put to a vote for approval on December 21. The way it was presented was unusual, to say the least. The people had to choose between voting for the constitution with slavery or without it. Since the constitution without slavery had some provisions as objectionable as those upholding slavery, the Free-State supporters refused to take part in its ratification. Consequently, the vote on the submission showed 4,206 for the constitution with slavery and 567 for the one without it. This constitution was then presented to Congress on February 2, 1858, by Mr. Buchanan as a true reflection of the Kansas people's wishes, and support for it became part of the administration's agenda. Meanwhile, the new Legislature elected by the people of the Territory in October resubmitted the same Lecompton Constitution, allowing for votes for it with slavery, without slavery, and against it altogether. The latter option won, with over ten thousand votes against the constitution in any form. Thus, the proslavery party in the Territory was defeated. Under the new Free-State Legislature's oversight, a constitutional convention was held in Wyandotte in March 1859. A Free-State constitution was adopted, under which Kansas was later admitted into the Union.
Before leaving this Kansas question, there is one phase of the closing part of the struggle which it is worth while to note, particularly as it has a direct bearing upon the fortunes of Judge Douglas, and indirectly to the success of Mr. Lincoln. Douglas always insisted that his plan of "popular sovereignty" would give to the people of the Territories the utmost freedom in the formation of their local governments. When Mr. Buchanan attempted to uphold the Lecompton Constitution as being the free choice of the people of Kansas, Judge Douglas at once took issue with the administration on this question, and the Democratic party was split in twain. Up to the time of the vote of the people of the Territory on the constitution, Douglas had been an unswerving supporter of the administration policy in Kansas. His speech at Springfield, in the June previous, could not be misunderstood. He held all the proceedings which led to the Lecompton issue to be in strict accordance, not only with the letter, but the spirit, of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, and with the faith of the Democratic party as expounded by himself. But a few weeks later it became manifest that his opinions had undergone a change. Ominous rumors of a breach with the administration began to circulate among his friends. It was alleged at length that Mr. Douglas's delicate sense of justice had been shocked by the unfairness of certain elections in Kansas: it was even intimated that he, too, considered the Lecompton affair an "outrage" upon the sovereign people of Kansas, and that he would speedily join the Republicans—the special objects of his indignation in the June speech—in denouncing and defeating it. The Kansas-Nebraska Bill had borne its appropriate fruits,—the fruits all along predicted by Mr. Lincoln,—and Mr. Douglas commended them to anybody's eating but his own. His desertion was sudden and astonishing; but there was method in it, and a reason for it. The next year Illinois was to choose a senator to fill the vacancy created by the expiration of his own term; and the choice lay between the author of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill and its most conspicuous opponent in that State. The newspapers were not yet done publishing Mr. Lincoln's speech, in which occurred the following paragraph:—
Before wrapping up this Kansas issue, there’s an important part of the final phase of the conflict that’s worth mentioning, especially since it directly affects Judge Douglas and indirectly relates to Mr. Lincoln’s success. Douglas always claimed that his idea of "popular sovereignty" would give the people in the Territories complete freedom in shaping their local governments. When Mr. Buchanan tried to support the Lecompton Constitution as the true choice of the people of Kansas, Judge Douglas immediately disagreed with the administration on this matter, causing a split within the Democratic party. Until the people of the Territory voted on the constitution, Douglas had been a loyal supporter of the administration’s approach to Kansas. His speech in Springfield the previous June was clear. He believed that all the actions leading to the Lecompton issue were in strict compliance, not only with the letter but also with the spirit of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, and consistent with the Democratic party’s principles as he had explained them. However, just a few weeks later, it became clear that his views had changed. Disturbing rumors of a rift with the administration began to spread among his friends. It was eventually suggested that Mr. Douglas's strong sense of justice had been disturbed by the unfairness of certain elections in Kansas; it was hinted that he also viewed the Lecompton matter as an "outrage" against the sovereign people of Kansas and that he would soon team up with the Republicans—the very group he had criticized in his June speech—to denounce and try to defeat it. The Kansas-Nebraska Bill had yielded results—results that Mr. Lincoln had long predicted—and Mr. Douglas advised everyone to partake in them except for himself. His defection was sudden and surprising, but there was a strategy behind it and a reason for it. The following year, Illinois was set to elect a senator to fill the vacancy left by the end of his own term; the choice was between the author of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill and its most visible opponent in that state. The newspapers were still circulating Mr. Lincoln's speech, which included the following paragraph:—
"Three years and a half ago Judge Douglas brought forward his famous Nebraska Bill. The country was at once in a blaze. He scorned all opposition, and carried it through Congress. Since then he has seen himself superseded in a Presidential nomination by one indorsing the general doctrine of his measure, but at the same time standing clear of the odium of its untimely agitation and its gross' breach of national faith; and he has seen the successful rival constitutionally elected, not by the strength of friends, but by the division of his adversaries, being in a popular minority of nearly four hundred thousand votes. He has seen his chief aids in his own State, Shields and Richardson, politically speaking, successively tried, convicted, and executed for an offence not their own, but his. And now he sees his own case standing next on the docket for trial."
"Three and a half years ago, Judge Douglas introduced his famous Nebraska Bill. The country immediately erupted in outrage. He ignored all opposition and pushed it through Congress. Since then, he has watched as someone who supports the general idea of his bill received the Presidential nomination, while avoiding the backlash from its controversial timing and violation of national trust. He has seen this successful rival elected not because of strong support from friends, but due to the division among his opponents, even though he had nearly four hundred thousand fewer popular votes. He has watched as his main supporters in his own state, Shields and Richardson, were politically tried, convicted, and punished for a crime that wasn’t theirs, but his. Now, he sees his own situation about to be put on trial."
CHAPTER XVI
ALTHOUGH primarily responsible for all that had taken place in Kansas, Mr. Douglas appeared to be suddenly animated by a new and burning zeal in behalf of the Free-State party in the Territory. It struck him very forcibly, just when he needed most to be struck by a new idea, that the Lecompton Constitution was not "the act and deed of the people of Kansas."
ALTHOUGH primarily responsible for everything that had happened in Kansas, Mr. Douglas suddenly seemed energized by a new and passionate commitment to the Free-State party in the Territory. It hit him hard, just when he needed a fresh perspective the most, that the Lecompton Constitution wasn't "the act and deed of the people of Kansas."
Accordingly, Mr. Douglas took his stand against Lecompton at the first note of the long conflict in Congress. We shall make no analysis of the debates, nor set out the votes of senators and representatives which marked the intervals of that fierce struggle between sections, parties, and factions which followed. It is enough to say here, that Mr. Douglas was found speaking and voting with the Republicans upon every phase of the question. He had but one or two followers in the Senate, and a mere handful in the House; yet these were faithful to his lead until a final conference committee and the English Bill afforded an opportunity for some of them to escape. For himself he scorned all compromises, voted against the English Bill, and returned to Illinois to ask the votes of the people upon a winter's record wholly and consistently anti-Democratic. The fact is mentioned, not to obscure the fame of the statesman, nor to impugn the honesty of the politician, but because it had an important influence upon the canvass of the ensuing summer.
Accordingly, Mr. Douglas took his stand against Lecompton at the first sign of the long conflict in Congress. We won't analyze the debates or list the votes of senators and representatives that marked the intervals of that intense struggle between sections, parties, and factions that followed. It's enough to say here that Mr. Douglas was found speaking and voting with the Republicans on every aspect of the issue. He had only one or two followers in the Senate and just a handful in the House; yet these loyal supporters stayed true to his leadership until a final conference committee and the English Bill provided some of them a chance to break away. He himself rejected all compromises, voted against the English Bill, and returned to Illinois to seek the people's votes based on a winter record that was entirely and consistently anti-Democratic. This fact is mentioned not to tarnish the statesman’s reputation or question the politician's integrity, but because it significantly influenced the campaign of the following summer.
During the winter Mr. Douglas held frequent consultations with the leaders of the Republican party. Their meetings were secret, and for that reason the more significant. By this means, harmony of action was secured for the present, and something provided for the future. Mr. Douglas covertly announced himself as a convert to the Republicans, declared his uncompromising enmity to "the slave power," and said that, however he might be distrusted then, he would be seen "fighting their battles in 1860;" but for the time he thought it wise to conceal his ultimate intentions. He could manage the Democracy more effectually by remaining with them until better opportunities should occur. "He insisted that he would never be driven from the party, but would remain in it until he exposed the administration and the Disunionists; and, when he went out, he would go of his own accord. He was in the habit of remarking, that it was policy for him to remain in the party, in order to hold certain of the rank-and-file; so that, if he went over from the Democracy to any other party, he would be able to take the crowd along with him; and, when he got them all over, he would cut down the bridges, and sink the boats." When asked if he knew precisely where his present course was taking him, he answered repeatedly, "I do; and I have checked all my baggage, and taken a through ticket."
During the winter, Mr. Douglas frequently met with the leaders of the Republican party. Their meetings were secret, which made them even more significant. This ensured coordinated actions for the present while also planning for the future. Mr. Douglas quietly declared himself a supporter of the Republicans, expressed his strong opposition to "the slave power," and stated that, despite any current distrust, he would be "fighting their battles in 1860." However, he believed it was wise to keep his ultimate plans hidden for now. He figured he could manage the Democrats more effectively by staying with them until better opportunities arose. "He insisted that he would never leave the party, but would stay until he exposed the administration and the Disunionists; and when he left, it would be on his own terms. He often mentioned that it was strategic for him to remain in the party to keep certain grassroots supporters, so that if he switched from the Democrats to another party, he could bring the crowd with him; and once he had them all on his side, he would burn the bridges and sink the boats." When asked if he knew exactly where his current path would lead, he repeatedly replied, "I do; and I have checked all my baggage and taken a through ticket."
He was a proselyte not to be despised: his weight might be sufficient to turn the scale in the Presidential election. The Republicans were naturally pleased with his protestations of friendship, and more than pleased with his proffers of active service; but he was not content with this alone. He contrived to convince many of his late opponents that the Kansas-Nebraska Bill itself was actually conceived in the interests of antislavery, and that the device was the most cunning of political tricks, intended to give back to "freedom" all the vast expanse of territory which the Missouri line had dedicated forever to slavery. "Mr. Douglas's plan for destroying the Missouri line," said one Republican, "and thereby opening the way for the march of freedom beyond the limits forever prohibited by that line, and the opening up of Free States in territory which it was conceded belonged to the Slave States, and its march westward, embracing the whole line of the Pacific from the British possessions to Mexico, struck me as the most magnificent scheme ever conceived by the human mind. This character of conversation, so frequently employed by Mr. Douglas with those with whom he talked, made the deepest impression upon their minds, enlisted them in his behalf, and changed, in almost every instance, their opinion of the man." In support of this view, Mr. Douglas could point to Kansas, where the battle under his bill was being fought out. The Free-State men had, perhaps from the very beginning, been in a majority, and could take possession of the Territory or the new State, as the case might be, whenever they could secure a fair vote. The laboring classes of, the North were the natural settlers of the western Territories. If these failed in numbers, the enormous and increasing European immigration was at their back; and, if both together failed, the churches, aid societies, and antislavery organizations were at hand to raise, arm, and equip great bodies of emigrants, as they would regular forces for a public purpose. The South had no such facilities: its social, political, and material conditions made a sudden exodus of its voting population to new countries a thing impossible. It might send here a man with a few negroes, and there another. It might insist vehemently upon its supposed rights in the common Territories, and be ready to fight for them; but it could never cover the surface of those Territories with cosey farmsteads, or crowd them with intelligent and muscular white men; and yet these last would inevitably give political character to the rising communities. Such clearly were to be the results of "popular sovereignty," as Mr. Douglas had up to that time maintained it under the Nebraska Bill.
He was a convert who shouldn’t be underestimated: his influence could tip the scales in the presidential election. The Republicans were understandably happy with his claims of friendship, and even more delighted with his offers of support; but he wanted more than that. He managed to persuade many of his former opponents that the Kansas-Nebraska Bill was actually designed to promote antislavery, and that it was a clever political maneuver intended to return all the land that the Missouri line had permanently allocated to slavery back to "freedom." "Mr. Douglas's plan to eliminate the Missouri line," said one Republican, "which would allow freedom to spread beyond the borders that the line had always restricted, and to establish Free States in territory that was acknowledged to belong to the Slave States, all the way to the Pacific from Canada to Mexico, struck me as the most ambitious plan ever conceived by the human mind. This type of discussion, frequently used by Mr. Douglas in his conversations, made a strong impression on his listeners, rallied them to his side, and shifted their opinions about him in almost every case." To support this perspective, Mr. Douglas could point to Kansas, where the conflict related to his bill was unfolding. The Free-State supporters had probably been in the majority from the start and could take control of the Territory or the new State whenever they secured a fair vote. The working class from the North were the natural settlers of the western Territories. If they didn’t have enough people, the massive and growing European immigration was behind them; and if both of those failed, churches, aid organizations, and antislavery groups were ready to recruit, train, and equip large groups of settlers, much like regular forces for a specific purpose. The South didn’t have such resources: its social, political, and economic conditions made it impossible for a sudden mass migration of its voting population to new lands. It might send one man here with a few enslaved people, and another man there. It could strongly assert its supposed rights in the shared Territories and be ready to fight for them; but it could never fill those Territories with cozy farms or populate them with educated and capable white men; and yet it was those men who would ultimately shape the political landscape of the emerging communities. Such clearly were the expected outcomes of "popular sovereignty," as Mr. Douglas had maintained up to that point under the Nebraska Bill.
It signified the right of the people of a Territory "to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way" when, and not before, they came to frame a State constitution. The Missouri line, on the contrary, had been a sort of convention, which, by common consent, gave all north of it to freedom, and all south of it to slavery. But popular sovereignty disregarded all previous compacts, all ordinances, and all laws. With this doctrine in practice, the North were sure to be victors in every serious contest. But when Mr. Douglas changed ground again, and popular sovereignty became squatter sovereignty, he had reason to boast himself the most efficient, although the wiliest and coolest, antislavery agitator on the continent. The new doctrine implied the right of a handful of settlers to determine the slavery question in their first Legislature. It made no difference whether they did this by direct or "unfriendly legislation:" the result was the same.
It represented the right of the people in a territory "to create and manage their own institutions as they see fit" only when they were ready to draft a state constitution. The Missouri Compromise, on the other hand, was more like an agreement that, by mutual consent, designated all areas north of it as free and those south of it as slave territory. However, popular sovereignty ignored all past agreements, ordinances, and laws. With this doctrine in action, the North was bound to win in any major conflict. But when Mr. Douglas shifted his stance again, and popular sovereignty turned into squatter sovereignty, he had reason to consider himself the most effective, albeit the shrewdest and calmest, antislavery activist on the continent. This new doctrine suggested that a small group of settlers could decide the slavery issue in their first legislature. It didn’t matter if they achieved this through direct action or "unfriendly legislation": the outcome was the same.
"Popular sovereignty! popular sovereignty!" said Mr. Lincoln. "Let us for a moment inquire into this vast matter of popular sovereignty. What is popular sovereignty? We recollect, that, in an early period in the history of this struggle, there was another name for the same thing,—squatter sovereignty. It was not exactly popular sovereignty,—squatter sovereignty. What do these terms mean? What do those terms mean when used now? And vast credit is taken by our friend, the Judge, in regard to his support of it, when he declares the last years of his life have been, and all the future years of his life shall be, devoted to this matter of popular sovereignty. What is it? Why, it is the sovereignty of the people! What was squatter sovereignty? I suppose, if it had any significance at all, it was the right of the people to govern themselves, to be sovereign in their own affairs while they were squatted down in a country not their own, while they had squatted on a territory that did not belong to them; in the sense that a State belongs to the people who inhabit it, when it belongs to the nation. Such right to govern themselves was called 'squatter sovereignty.'"
"Popular sovereignty! popular sovereignty!" said Mr. Lincoln. "Let’s pause for a moment to consider this huge topic of popular sovereignty. What exactly is popular sovereignty? We remember that in the early days of this struggle, there was another term for the same concept—squatter sovereignty. It wasn’t exactly popular sovereignty—squatter sovereignty. What do these terms mean? How are they understood today? Our friend, the Judge, takes great pride in his support of it, claiming that the last years of his life have been, and all the future years will be, dedicated to the cause of popular sovereignty. But what is it? Well, it’s the sovereignty of the people! Now, what was squatter sovereignty? I suppose if it had any significance at all, it referred to the right of people to govern themselves, to have sovereignty over their own affairs while they were settled in a land that wasn’t theirs, while they occupied a territory that didn’t belong to them; in the sense that a State belongs to the people who live there when it belongs to the nation. This right to govern themselves was called 'squatter sovereignty.'"
Again, and on another occasion, but still before Mr. Douglas had substituted "squatter" for "popular" sovereignty,—a feat which was not performed until September, 1859,—Mr. Lincoln said,—
Again, on another occasion, but still before Mr. Douglas had replaced "popular" sovereignty with "squatter" sovereignty—a change that didn't happen until September 1859—Mr. Lincoln said—
"I suppose almost every one knows, that in this controversy, whatever has been said has had reference to negro slavery. We have not been in a controversy about the right of the people to govern themselves in the ordinary matters of domestic concern in the States and Territories. Mr. Buchanan, in one of his late messages (I think when he sent up the Lecompton Constitution), urged that the main point to which the public attention had been directed was not in regard to the great variety of small domestic matters, but it was directed to negro slavery; and he asserts, that, if the people had had a fair chance to vote on that question, there was no reasonable ground of objection in regard to minor questions. Now, while I think that the people had not had given them, or offered them, a fair chance upon that slavery question, still, if there had been a fair submission to a vote upon that main question, the President's proposition would have been true to the uttermost. Hence, when hereafter I speak of popular sovereignty, I wish to be understood as applying what I say to the question of slavery only, not to other minor domestic matters of a Territory or a State.
"I think almost everyone knows that this controversy has been about Black slavery. We haven't been discussing the right of people to govern themselves regarding everyday issues in the States and Territories. Mr. Buchanan, in one of his recent messages (I believe when he sent up the Lecompton Constitution), argued that the main focus of public attention wasn't on the many small domestic issues, but on Black slavery; and he claims that if the people had been given a fair chance to vote on that issue, there wouldn't have been reasonable objections to the minor questions. Now, while I believe that the people weren't given or offered a fair chance regarding the slavery issue, if there had been a proper vote on that main issue, the President's statement would have been completely true. Therefore, when I talk about popular sovereignty in the future, I want to be clear that I'm referring specifically to the question of slavery, not to other minor domestic matters of a Territory or a State."
"Does Judge Douglas, when he says that several of the past years of his life have been devoted to the question of popular sovereignty, and that all the remainder of his life shall be devoted to it,—does he mean to say, that he has been devoting his life to securing to the people of the Territories the right to exclude slavery from the Territories? If he means so to say, he means to deceive; because he and every one knows that the decision of the Supreme Court, which he approves, and makes an especial ground of attack upon me for disapproving, forbids the people of a Territory to exclude slavery. This covers the whole ground, from the settlement of a Territory till it reaches the degree of maturity entitling it to form a State constitution. So far as all that ground is concerned, the judge is not sustaining popular sovereignty, but absolutely opposing it. He sustains the decision which declares that the popular will of the Territories has no constitutional power to exclude slavery during their territorial existence. This being so, the period of time from the first settlement of a territory till it reaches the point of forming a State constitution is not the thing that the Judge has fought for, or is fighting for; but, on the contrary, he has fought for, and is fighting for, the thing that annihilates and crushes out that same popular sovereignty."
"Does Judge Douglas, when he claims that several years of his life have been spent on the issue of popular sovereignty, and that the rest of his life will be dedicated to it, really mean that he’s been working to ensure that the people of the Territories have the right to exclude slavery? If that’s what he means, he’s trying to mislead us; because he and everyone else knows that the Supreme Court’s decision, which he supports and uses as a specific point of attack against me for disagreeing with it, prohibits the people of a Territory from excluding slavery. This covers the entire spectrum, from the establishment of a Territory all the way until it matures enough to create a State constitution. As far as all that goes, the judge isn’t upholding popular sovereignty, but is actually opposing it. He backs the ruling that states the people’s will in the Territories doesn’t have the constitutional authority to exclude slavery while they are still Territories. Given this, the time span from the initial settlement of a Territory to when it can draft a State constitution isn’t what the Judge has been fighting for, or is currently fighting for; rather, he has been fighting for, and is still fighting for, something that completely destroys and eliminates that very popular sovereignty."
It is probable, that, in the numerous private conferences held by Mr. Douglas with Republican leaders in the winter of 1857-8, he managed to convince them that it was, after all, not popular sovereignty, but squatter sovereignty, that he meant to advance as his final and inevitable deduction from "the great principles" of the Nebraska Bill. This he knew, and they were sure, would give antislavery an unbroken round of solid victories in all the Territories. The South feared it much more than they did the Republican theory: it was, in the language of their first orator, "a shortcut to all the ends of Sewardism."
It’s likely that during the many private meetings Mr. Douglas had with Republican leaders in the winter of 1857-8, he was able to persuade them that what he truly intended to promote wasn't popular sovereignty but squatter sovereignty, which he saw as the natural and unavoidable conclusion of "the great principles" outlined in the Nebraska Bill. He understood, and they were convinced, that this would lead to a steady series of victories for the antislavery movement in all the Territories. The South feared this much more than they feared the Republican stance: it was, as their leading orator put it, "a shortcut to all the ends of Sewardism."
But Mr. Douglas's great difficulty was to produce any belief in his sincerity. At home, in Illinois, the Republicans distrusted him almost to a man; and at Washington, among his peers in the Senate and the House, it seemed necessary for him to repeat his plans and promises very often, and to mingle with them bitter and passionate declamations against the South. At last, however, he succeeded,—partially, at least. Senator Wilson believed him devoutly; Mr. Burlingame said his record was "laid up in light;" Mr. Colfax, Mr. Blair, and Mr. Covode were convinced; and gentlemen of the press began industriously to prepare the way for his entrance into the Republican party. Mr. Greeley was thoroughly possessed by the new idea, and went about propagating and enforcing it with all his might. Among all the grave counsellors employed in furthering Mr. Douglas's defection, it is singular that only one man of note steadily resisted his admission to a place of leadership in the Republican ranks: Judge Trumbull could not be persuaded; he had no faith in the man who proposed to desert, and had some admonitions to deliver, based upon the history of recent events. He was willing enough to take him "on probation," but wholly opposed to giving him any power. Covode was employed to mollify Judge Trumbull; but he met with no success, and went away without so much as delivering the message with which Mr. Douglas had charged him. The message was a simple proposition of alliance with the home Republicans, to the effect, that, if they agreed to return him to the Senate in 1858, he would fight their Presidential battle in 1860. Judge Trumbull did not even hear it, but he was well assured that Mr. Douglas was "an applicant for admission into the Republican party." "It was reported to me at that time," said he, "that such was the fact; and such appeared to be the universal understanding, among the Republicans at Washington. I will state another fact,—I almost quarrelled with some of my best Republican friends in 'regard to this matter. I was willing to receive Judge Douglas into the Republican party on probation; but I was not, as these Republican friends were, willing to receive him, and place him at the head of our ranks."
But Mr. Douglas's biggest challenge was getting anyone to believe in his sincerity. Back home in Illinois, the Republicans pretty much distrusted him completely; and in Washington, among his colleagues in the Senate and the House, it seemed necessary for him to constantly repeat his plans and promises while mixing in harsh and passionate speeches against the South. Eventually, though, he managed to convince some people—at least to some extent. Senator Wilson believed him wholeheartedly; Mr. Burlingame said his record was "laid up in light"; Mr. Colfax, Mr. Blair, and Mr. Covode were convinced, and members of the press started working hard to prepare the way for his entry into the Republican party. Mr. Greeley was fully on board with the new idea and was promoting it with all his energy. Among all the serious advisors trying to support Mr. Douglas's shift, it’s interesting that only one notable person consistently resisted his rise to leadership in the Republican ranks: Judge Trumbull. He couldn’t be convinced; he didn't trust the man who wanted to switch sides and had some warnings to share based on recent events. He was open to giving him a chance "on probation," but completely opposed to granting him any real power. Covode was tasked with trying to win over Judge Trumbull, but he was unsuccessful and left without even delivering the message Mr. Douglas had asked him to convey. The message was a straightforward proposal for an alliance with the local Republicans that, if they agreed to restore him to the Senate in 1858, he would support their Presidential campaign in 1860. Judge Trumbull never even heard it, but he was fully aware that Mr. Douglas was "an applicant for admission into the Republican party." "I was informed at that time," he said, "that this was indeed the case; and it seemed to be the general understanding among the Republicans in Washington. I will mention another fact—I nearly argued with some of my closest Republican friends regarding this matter. I was willing to accept Judge Douglas into the Republican party on probation; but I was not, as those Republican friends were, willing to welcome him and place him at the forefront of our ranks."
Toward the latter part of April, 1858, a Democratic State Convention met in Illinois, and, besides nominating a ticket for State officers, indorsed Mr. Douglas. This placed him in the field for re-election as an Anti-Lecompton Democrat; but it by no means shook the faith of his recently acquired Republican friends: they thought it very natural, under the circumstances, that his ways should be a little devious, and his policy somewhat dark. He had always said he could do more for them by seeming to remain within the Democratic party; and they looked upon this latest proceeding—his practical nomination by a Democratic convention—as the foundation for an act of stupendous treason between that time and the Presidential election. They continued to press the Republicans of Illinois to make no nomination against him,—to vote for him, to trust him, to follow him, as a sincere and manifestly a powerful antislavery leader. These representations had the effect of seducing away, for a brief time, Mr. Wash-burne and a few others among the lesser politicians of the State; but, when they found the party at large irrevocably opposed to the scheme, they reluctantly acquiesced in what they could not prevent,—Mr. Lincoln's nomination. But the plot made a profound impression on Mr. Lincoln's mind: it proved the existence of personal qualities in Mr. Douglas, which, to a simpler man, were unimaginable and inexplicable. A gentleman once inquired of Mr. Lincoln what he thought of Douglas's chances at Charleston. "Well," he replied, "were it not for certain matters that I know transpired, which I regarded at one time among the impossibilities, I would say he stood no possible chance. I refer to the fact, that, in the Illinois contest with myself, he had the sympathy and support of Greeley, of Burlingame, and of Wilson of Massachusetts, and other leading Republicans; that, at the same time, he received the support of Wise, and the influence of Breckinridge, and other Southern men; that he took direct issue with the administration, and secured, against all its power, one hundred and twenty-five thousand out of one hundred and thirty thousand Democratic votes cast in the State. A man that can bring such influence to bear with his own exertions may play the devil at Charleston."
Toward the end of April 1858, a Democratic State Convention was held in Illinois, which not only nominated candidates for State offices but also endorsed Mr. Douglas. This set him up for re-election as an Anti-Lecompton Democrat; however, it didn’t shake the trust of his newly gained Republican allies. They found it understandable, given the situation, that his actions might seem a bit crooked and his strategy rather unclear. He had always claimed he could achieve more for them by appearing to stay within the Democratic party, and they viewed this recent development—his practical nomination by a Democratic convention—as the basis for an act of monumental betrayal between then and the Presidential election. They kept urging the Republicans of Illinois not to nominate anyone against him—to vote for him, trust him, and follow him as a genuine and clearly strong antislavery leader. These arguments temporarily swayed Mr. Washburne and a few other minor politicians in the State; but when they realized that the party as a whole was firmly opposed to the plan, they reluctantly accepted what they couldn't stop—Mr. Lincoln's nomination. However, the scheme made a lasting impact on Mr. Lincoln's mind: it revealed qualities in Mr. Douglas that, to a more straightforward person, were unimaginable and hard to understand. A gentleman once asked Mr. Lincoln what he thought about Douglas's chances in Charleston. "Well," he replied, "if it weren't for certain things I know happened, which I once considered impossible, I'd say he wouldn't have a chance. I'm referring to the fact that in the Illinois contest against me, he had the sympathy and support of Greeley, Burlingame, and Wilson of Massachusetts, along with other key Republicans; at the same time, he received support from Wise and the influence of Breckinridge and other Southern figures; he took a direct stand against the administration and managed to secure, despite all its power, one hundred twenty-five thousand out of one hundred thirty thousand Democratic votes cast in the State. A person who can exert such influence through his own efforts might really shake things up in Charleston."
From about the 7th to the 16th of June, 1858, Mr. Lincoln was busily engaged writing a speech: he wrote it in scraps,—a sentence now, and another again. It was originally scattered over numberless little pieces of paper, and was only reduced to consecutive sheets and connected form as the hour for its delivery drew near. It was to be spoken on or about the 16th, when the Republican State Convention would assemble at Springfield, and, as Mr. Lincoln anticipated, would nominate him for senator in Congress.
From around June 7th to June 16th, 1858, Mr. Lincoln was busy writing a speech. He wrote it in bits and pieces—one sentence here, another there. It was originally spread across countless small scraps of paper and only came together in a coherent format as the time for delivery approached. It was meant to be delivered on or around the 16th, when the Republican State Convention would meet in Springfield, and, as Mr. Lincoln expected, would nominate him for senator in Congress.
About the 13th of June, Mr. Dubois, the State auditor, entered the office of Lincoln & Herndon, and found Mr. Lincoln deeply intent upon the speech. "Hello, Lincoln! what are you writing?" said the auditor. "Come, tell me."—"I sha'n't tell you," said Lincoln. "It is none of your business, Mr. Auditor. Come, sit down, and let's be jolly."
About June 13th, Mr. Dubois, the state auditor, walked into the office of Lincoln & Herndon and saw Mr. Lincoln completely focused on his speech. "Hey, Lincoln! What are you writing?" the auditor asked. "Come on, tell me."—"I’m not going to tell you," Lincoln replied. "It's none of your business, Mr. Auditor. Come on, sit down, and let’s have some fun."
On the 16th, the convention, numbering, with delegates and alternates, about a thousand men, met, and passed unanimously the following resolution:—
On the 16th, the convention, with around a thousand delegates and alternates, met and unanimously passed the following resolution:—
"That Hon. Abraham Lincoln is our first and only choice for United States senator to fill the vacancy about to be created by the expiration of Mr. Douglas's term of office."
"That Hon. Abraham Lincoln is our first and only choice for United States senator to fill the vacancy that will be created by the end of Mr. Douglas's term."
That evening Mr. Lincoln came early to his office, along with Mr. Herndon. Having carefully locked the door, and put the key in his own pocket, he pulled from his bosom the manuscript of his speech, and proceeded to read it slowly and distinctly. When he had finished the first paragraph, he came to a dead pause, and turned to his astounded auditor with the inquiry, "How do you like that? What do you think of it?"—"I think," returned Mr. Herndon, "it is true; but is it entirely politic to read or speak it as it is written?"
That evening, Mr. Lincoln arrived early at his office with Mr. Herndon. After carefully locking the door and putting the key in his own pocket, he took out the manuscript of his speech and began to read it slowly and clearly. When he finished the first paragraph, he paused completely and turned to his amazed listener, asking, "What do you think of that? How do you like it?" Mr. Herndon replied, "I think it's true; but is it really smart to read or say it just as it's written?"
—"That makes no difference," Mr. Lincoln said. "That expression is a truth of all human experience,—'a house divided against itself cannot stand;' and 'he that runs may read.' The proposition is indisputably true, and has been true for more than six thousand years; and—I will deliver it as written. I want to use some universally known figure, expressed in simple language as universally known, that may strike home to the minds of men, in order to rouse them to the peril of the times. I would rather be defeated with this expression in the speech, and it held up and discussed before the people, than to be victorious without it."
—"That doesn’t matter," Mr. Lincoln said. "That saying is a truth of all human experience—'a house divided against itself cannot stand;' and 'he who runs may read.' The idea is undeniably true and has been for over six thousand years; and—I’ll present it as written. I want to use a universally known phrase, expressed in simple language that everyone understands, to awaken people to the dangers of our times. I would rather be defeated with this phrase in the speech, and it presented and debated in front of the people, than to win without it."
It may be questioned whether Mr. Lincoln had a clear right to indulge in such a venture, as a representative party man in a close contest. He had other interests than his own in charge: he was bound to respect the opinions, and, if possible, secure the success, of the party which had made him its leader. He knew that the strange doctrine, so strikingly enunciated, would alienate many well-affected voters. Was it his duty to cast these away, or to keep them? He was not asked to sacrifice any principle of the party, or any opinion of his own previously expressed, but merely to forego the trial of an experiment, to withhold the announcement of a startling theory, and to leave the creed of the party as it came from the hands of its makers, without this individual supplement, of which they had never dreamed. It is evident that he had not always been insensible to the force of this reasoning. At the Bloomington Convention he had uttered the same ideas in almost the same words; and their novelty, their tendency, their recognition of a state of incipient civil war in a country for the most part profoundly peaceful,—these, and the bloody work which might come of their acceptance by a great party, had filled the minds of some of his hearers with the most painful apprehensions. The theory was equally shocking to them, whether as partisans or as patriots. Among them was Hon. T. Lyle Dickey, who sought Mr. Lincoln, and begged him to suppress them in future. He vindicated his speech as he has just vindicated it in the interview with Mr. Herndon; but, after much persuasion, he promised at length not to repeat it.
It can be questioned whether Mr. Lincoln really had the right to engage in such a move, especially as a party representative in a close election. He had responsibilities beyond his own interests: he needed to respect the views of the party that had made him its leader and, if possible, ensure its success. He understood that the unconventional idea he presented could turn away many well-meaning voters. Should he disregard them or hold on to their support? He wasn’t being asked to sacrifice any party principles or previously stated opinions, just to avoid testing an experiment, to withhold a surprising theory, and to leave the party’s beliefs intact as they were originally established, without his added input that they never anticipated. It’s clear that he hadn’t always ignored the weight of this reasoning. At the Bloomington Convention, he expressed similar thoughts almost word for word; the novelty, implications, and acknowledgment of a starting civil war in a mostly peaceful nation—these elements, along with the violence that could arise from their acceptance by a major party—had stirred deep concerns among some listeners. The theory was equally disturbing to them, both as party members and as patriots. Among them was Hon. T. Lyle Dickey, who approached Mr. Lincoln and urged him to keep these ideas to himself moving forward. Lincoln defended his speech as he had done in his conversation with Mr. Herndon, but after much persuasion, he eventually agreed not to repeat it.
It was now Mr. Herndon's turn to be surprised: the pupil had outstripped the teacher. He was intensely anxious for Mr. Lincoln's election: he feared the effect of this speech; and yet it was so exactly in accordance with his own faith, that he could not advise him to suppress it. It might be heresy to many others, but it was orthodoxy to him; and he was in the habit of telling the whole truth, without regard to consequences. If it cost a single defeat now, he was sure that its potency would one day be felt, and the wisdom of its present utterance acknowledged. He therefore urged Mr. Lincoln to speak it as he had written it, and to treat with the scorn of a prophet those who, having ears, would not hear, and, having eyes, would not see. The advice was not unacceptable, but Mr. Lincoln thought he owed it to other friends to counsel with them also.
It was now Mr. Herndon's turn to be surprised: the student had surpassed the teacher. He was deeply anxious for Mr. Lincoln's election; he worried about the impact of this speech, yet it aligned perfectly with his own beliefs, so he couldn't tell him to hold back. It might seem radical to many others, but it was the truth for him, and he was used to speaking the whole truth regardless of the fallout. If it cost them a single defeat now, he was confident that its strength would eventually be recognized, and the wisdom of saying it now would be acknowledged. So, he encouraged Mr. Lincoln to say it just as he had written it and to dismiss with the disdain of a prophet those who, despite having ears, wouldn't listen, and having eyes, wouldn't see. The advice was well-received, but Mr. Lincoln felt he owed it to his other friends to discuss it with them as well.
About a dozen gentlemen were called to meet in the Library Room in the State House. "After seating them at the round table," says John Armstrong, one of the number, "he read that clause or section of his speech which reads, 'a house divided against itself cannot stand,' &c. He read it slowly and cautiously, so as to let each man fully understand it. After he had finished the reading, he asked the opinions of his friends as to the wisdom or policy of it. Every man among them condemned the speech in substance and spirit, and especially that section quoted above. They unanimously declared that the whole speech was too far in advance of the times; and they all condemned that section or part of his speech already quoted, as unwise and impolitic, if not false. William H. Herndon sat still while they were giving their respective opinions of its unwisdom and impolicy: then he sprang to his feet and said, 'Lincoln, deliver it just as it reads. If it is in advance of the times, let us—you and I, if no one else—lift the people to the level of this speech now, higher hereafter. The speech is true, wise, and politic, and will succeed now or in the future. Nay, it will aid you, if it will not make you President of the United States.'
About a dozen gentlemen were called to meet in the Library Room in the State House. "After sitting them around the round table," says John Armstrong, one of them, "he read that part of his speech which says, 'a house divided against itself cannot stand,' etc. He read it slowly and carefully, allowing each person to fully grasp it. After he finished, he asked his friends for their thoughts on its wisdom or strategy. Every man among them criticized the speech in both substance and spirit, especially that part quoted above. They all agreed that the entire speech was too ahead of its time, and they each deemed that section of his speech already mentioned, as unwise and impractical, if not outright false. William H. Herndon stayed quiet while they shared their opinions on its foolishness and impracticality: then he jumped to his feet and said, 'Lincoln, deliver it exactly as it is. If it's ahead of the times, let us—you and I, if no one else—bring the people up to the level of this speech now, and even higher in the future. The speech is true, wise, and practical, and it will succeed now or later. In fact, it might just help you, if not make you President of the United States.'"
"Mr. Lincoln sat still a short moment, rose from his chair, walked backwards and forwards in the hall, stopped and said, 'Friends, I have thought about this matter a great deal, have weighed the question well from all corners, and am thoroughly convinced the time has come when it should be uttered; and if it must be that I must go down because of this speech, then let me go down linked to truth,—die in the advocacy of what is right and just. This nation cannot live on injustice,—"a house divided against itself cannot stand," I say again and again.' This was spoken with some degree of emotion,—the effects of his love of truth, and sorrow from the disagreement of his friends with himself."
"Mr. Lincoln sat silently for a moment, then got up from his chair, paced back and forth in the hallway, stopped, and said, 'Friends, I have thought about this a lot, have considered the issue from every angle, and I truly believe the time has come to speak out; and if I must be brought down because of this speech, then so be it—let me go down standing for the truth—dying in the pursuit of what is right and just. This nation cannot thrive on injustice—'a house divided against itself cannot stand,' I repeat again and again.' He spoke this with a degree of emotion—the weight of his love for the truth and his sadness over his friends' disagreements with him."
On the evening of the 17th this celebrated speech—known since as "The House-divided-against-itself Speech"—was delivered to an immense audience in the hall of the House of Representatives. Mr. Lincoln never penned words which had a more prodigious influence upon the public mind, or which more directly and powerfully affected his own career. It was as follows:—
On the evening of the 17th, this famous speech—now known as "The House-divided-against-itself Speech"—was delivered to a huge crowd in the House of Representatives hall. Mr. Lincoln never wrote words that had a greater impact on public opinion or that more directly and powerfully influenced his own career. It was as follows:—
Gentlemen of the Convention,—If we could first know where we are, and whither we are tending, we could then better judge what to do, and how to do it. We are now far on into the fifth year since a policy was initiated with the avowed object and confident promise of putting an end to slavery agitation. Under the operation of that policy, that agitation had not only not ceased, but has constantly augmented. In my opinion, it will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed. "A house divided against itself cannot stand." I believe this Government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved,—I do not expect the house to fall; but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing, or all the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the farther spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in course of ultimate extinction, or its advocates will push it forward till it shall become alike lawful in all the States,—old as well as new, North as well as South.
Gentlemen of the Convention, — If we could first understand where we are and where we're headed, we could then make better decisions about what to do and how to do it. We're now well into the fifth year since a policy was started with the clear goal and hopeful promise of ending the slavery debate. Under this policy, the debate hasn't only continued; it's actually intensified. In my view, it won't stop until we've reached and gone through a crisis. "A house divided against itself cannot stand." I believe this government can't last forever half slave and half free. I don't expect the Union to break apart— I don't think the house will fall; but I do expect it will stop being divided. It will become entirely one thing or the other. Either those against slavery will halt its further spread and create a belief that it's on track for ultimate extinction, or its supporters will push it forward until it becomes equally legal in all the states— both old and new, North and South.
Have we no tendency to the latter condition? Let any one who doubts carefully contemplate that now almost complete legal combination,—piece of machinery, so to speak,—compounded of the Nebraska doctrine and the Dred-Scott Decision. Let him consider, not only what work the machinery is adapted to do, and how well adapted, but also let him study the history of its construction, and trace, if he can, or rather fail, if he can, to trace, the evidences of design and concert of action among its chief master-workers from the beginning.
Do we not have a tendency toward that latter situation? Anyone who doubts this should take a close look at the almost complete legal framework—so to speak—a creation made up of the Nebraska doctrine and the Dred-Scott Decision. They should consider not just what this framework is designed to do and how well it works, but also analyze the history of its development and see if they can, or rather cannot, find evidence of planning and collaboration among its main architects from the start.
But so far Congress only had acted; and an indorsement by the people, real or apparent, was indispensable, to save the point already gained and give chance for more. The New Year of 1854 found slavery excluded from more than half the States by State constitutions, and from most of the national territory by congressional prohibition. Four days later commenced the struggle which ended in repealing that congressional prohibition. This opened all the national territory to slavery, and was the first point gained.
But until now, Congress had only taken action; a backing from the people, whether real or just for show, was essential to hold onto the progress already made and create opportunities for more. The New Year of 1854 saw slavery banned in over half the States due to state constitutions, and in most of the national territory because of congressional prohibition. Four days later, the battle began that ultimately led to the repeal of that congressional prohibition. This opened all national territory to slavery and marked the first victory gained.
This necessity had not been overlooked, but had been provided for, as well as might be, in the notable argument of "squatter sovereignty" otherwise called "sacred right of self-government;" which latter phrase, though expressive of the only rightful basis of any government, was so perverted in this attempted use of it as to amount to just this: that, if any one man choose to enslave another, no third man shall be allowed to object. That argument was incorporated into the Nebraska Bill itself, in the language which follows: "It being the true intent and meaning of this act not to legislate slavery into any Territory or State, nor exclude it therefrom, but to leave the people thereof perfectly free to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the Constitution of the United States."
This necessity hadn’t been ignored; it was addressed as well as possible in the significant argument of "squatter sovereignty", also known as the "sacred right of self-government;" which, while capturing the only legitimate foundation of any government, was so twisted in this attempted use that it effectively stated: if one person chooses to enslave another, no one else should be allowed to object. That argument was included in the Nebraska Bill itself, with the following wording: "It being the true intent and meaning of this act not to legislate slavery into any Territory or State, nor exclude it therefrom, but to leave the people thereof perfectly free to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the Constitution of the United States."
Then opened the roar of loose declamation in favor of "squatter sovereignty" and "sacred right of self-government."
Then there was a loud outcry in support of "squatter sovereignty" and the "sacred right of self-government."
"But," said opposition members, "let us be more specific,—let us amend the bill so as to expressly declare that the people of the Territory may exclude slavery."—"Not we," said the friends of the measure; and down they voted the amendment.
"But," said the opposition members, "let's be more specific—let's change the bill to clearly state that the people of the Territory can exclude slavery." "Not us," said the supporters of the measure; and they voted down the amendment.
While the Nebraska Bill was passing through Congress, a law-case involving the question of a negro's freedom, by reason of his owner having voluntarily taken him first into a Free State, and then a Territory covered by the congressional prohibition, and held him as a slave,—for a long time in each,—was passing through the United-States Circuit Court for the District of Missouri; and both the Nebraska Bill and lawsuit were brought to a decision in the same month of May, 1854. The negro's name was Dred Scott, which name now designates the decision finally made in the case.
While the Nebraska Bill was going through Congress, there was a legal case involving the issue of a Black man's freedom because his owner had voluntarily taken him first to a Free State and then to a Territory that was covered by the congressional ban, keeping him as a slave for an extended period in each place. This case was being heard in the United States Circuit Court for the District of Missouri, and both the Nebraska Bill and the lawsuit were decided in May 1854. The man's name was Dred Scott, which is now associated with the final decision made in the case.
Before the then next Presidential election, the law-case came to, and was argued in, the Supreme Court of the United States; but the decision of it was deferred until after the election. Still, before the election, Senator Trumbull, on the floor of the Senate, requests the leading advocate of the Nebraska Bill to state his opinion whether a people of a Territory can constitutionally exclude slavery from their limits; and the latter answers, "That is a question for the Supreme Court."
Before the upcoming presidential election, the legal case was presented and debated in the Supreme Court of the United States; however, the decision was postponed until after the election. Still, before the election, Senator Trumbull, speaking on the Senate floor, asked the main supporter of the Nebraska Bill if the people of a territory can legally exclude slavery from their area. The response was, "That is a question for the Supreme Court."
The election came. Mr. Buchanan was elected, and the indorsement, such as it was, secured. That was the second point gained. The indorsement, however, fell short of a clear popular majority by nearly four hundred thousand votes; and so, perhaps, was not overwhelmingly reliable and satisfactory. The outgoing President, in his last annual Message, as impressively as possible echoed back upon the people the weight and authority of the indorsement.
The election happened. Mr. Buchanan was elected, and the endorsement, as it was, was secured. That was the second victory. However, the endorsement was nearly four hundred thousand votes short of a clear popular majority, which made it less than overwhelmingly reliable and satisfactory. The outgoing President, in his final annual message, echoed the weight and authority of the endorsement back to the people as impressively as possible.
The Supreme Court met again; did not announce their decision, but ordered a re-argument. The Presidential inauguration came, and still no decision of the court; but the incoming President, in his inaugural address, fervently exhorted the people to abide by the forthcoming decision, whatever it might he. Then, in a few days, came the decision.
The Supreme Court met again; they didn't announce their decision but called for a re-argument. The Presidential inauguration occurred, and still no verdict from the court; however, the new President, in his inaugural speech, strongly urged the people to accept the upcoming decision, no matter what it would be. Then, a few days later, the decision was announced.
This was the third point gained.
This was the third point scored.
The reputed author of the Nebraska Bill finds an early occasion to make a speech at this Capitol indorsing the Dred-Scott Decision, and vehemently denouncing all opposition to it. The new President, too, seizes the early occasion of the Silliman letter to indorse and strongly construe that decision, and to express his astonishment that any different view had ever been entertained. At length a squabble springs up between the President and the author of the Nebraska Bill, on the mere question of fact whether the Lecompton Constitution was, or was not, in any just sense, made by the people of Kansas; and, in that squabble, the latter declares that all he wants is a fair vote for the people, and that he cares not whether slavery be voted down or voted up. I do not understand his declaration, that he cares not whether slavery be voted down or voted up, to be intended by him other than as an apt definition of the policy he would impress upon the public mind,—the principle for which he declares he has suffered much, and is ready to suffer to the end.
The well-known author of the Nebraska Bill makes an early speech at this Capitol supporting the Dred-Scott Decision and strongly criticizing anyone who opposes it. The new President also takes the opportunity to back and interpret that decision firmly, expressing his surprise that anyone could have a different opinion. Eventually, a dispute arises between the President and the author of the Nebraska Bill over whether the Lecompton Constitution was genuinely created by the people of Kansas. In that disagreement, the author claims that all he wants is a fair vote for the people and that he doesn’t care whether slavery is voted down or up. I understand his statement about not caring whether slavery is voted down or up as a clear indication of the policy he wants to establish in the public’s mind—the principle he says he has endured a lot for and is willing to continue suffering for.
And well may he cling to that principle! If he has any parental feeling, well may he cling to it! That principle is the only shred left of his original Nebraska doctrine. Under the Dred-Scott Decision, squatter sovereignty squatted out of existence,—tumbled down like temporary scaffolding; like the mould at the foundery, served through one blast, and fell back into loose sand; helped to carry an election, and then was kicked to the winds. His late joint struggle with the Republicans against the Lecompton Constitution involves nothing of the original Nebraska doctrine. That struggle was made on a point—the right of a people to make their own constitution—upon which he and the Republicans have never differed.
And he has every reason to hold on to that principle! If he feels any sense of parenthood, he has good reason to stay attached to it! That principle is the last remnant of his original Nebraska view. The Dred Scott Decision wiped out squatter sovereignty—it collapsed like temporary scaffolding; just like the mold at the foundry, it served its purpose for a moment and then fell back into loose sand; it helped win an election and then was tossed away. His recent joint effort with the Republicans against the Lecompton Constitution has nothing to do with the original Nebraska doctrine. That effort was based on one thing—the right of people to create their own constitution—on which he and the Republicans have always agreed.
The several points of the Dred-Scott Decision, in connection with Senator Douglas's "care-not" policy, constitute the piece of machinery in its present state of advancement. The working-points of that machinery are,—
The various aspects of the Dred Scott Decision, along with Senator Douglas's "care-not" policy, represent the current state of development of this system. The key elements of that system are,—
First, That no negro slave, imported as such from Africa, and no descendant of such, can ever be a citizen of any State, in the sense of that term as used in the Constitution of the United States.
First, no black slave brought in from Africa, or any of their descendants, can ever be considered a citizen of any State, according to the meaning of that term in the Constitution of the United States.
This point is made in order to deprive the negro, in every possible event, of the benefit of this provision of the United States Constitution, which declares that "The citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States.
This point is made to deny the Black community, in every possible instance, the benefits of this provision of the United States Constitution, which states that "The citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States."
Secondly, That, "subject to the Constitution of the United States," neither Congress nor a Territorial Legislature can exclude slavery from any United States Territory.
Secondly, that "according to the Constitution of the United States," neither Congress nor a Territorial Legislature can ban slavery from any United States Territory.
This point is made in order that individual men may fill up the Territories with slaves, without danger of losing them as property, and thus to enhance the chances of permanency to the institution through all the future.
This point is made so that individual men can populate the Territories with slaves, without the risk of losing them as property, and thus improve the chances of the institution lasting into the future.
Thirdly, That whether the holding a negro in actual slavery in a Free State makes him free, as against the holder, the United States courts will not decide, but will leave it to be decided by the courts of any Slave State the negro may be forced into by the master.
Thirdly, whether keeping a Black person in actual slavery in a Free State makes them free, against the master, is something the United States courts will not decide. Instead, they will leave it to the courts of any Slave State that the person may be taken into by the master.
This point is made, not to be pressed immediately; but if acquiesced in for a while, and apparently indorsed by the people at an election, then to sustain the logical conclusion, that, what Dred Scott's master might lawfully do with Dred Scott in the free State of Illinois, every other master may lawfully do with any other one or one thousand slaves in Illinois, or in any other Free State.
This point is made not to be forced immediately; but if accepted for a while and seemingly endorsed by the people during an election, it strengthens the logical conclusion that what Dred Scott's owner could lawfully do with Dred Scott in the free State of Illinois, any other owner may lawfully do with any other single slave or even a thousand slaves in Illinois or any other Free State.
Auxiliary to all this, and working hand in hand with it, the Nebraska doctrine, or what is left of it, is to educate and mould public opinion, at least Northern public opinion, not to care whether slavery is voted down or voted up.
Alongside all this, and closely connected to it, the Nebraska doctrine, or whatever remains of it, aims to educate and shape public opinion, particularly in the North, so that people don't mind whether slavery is rejected or accepted.
This shows exactly where we now are, and partially, also, whither we are tending.
This shows exactly where we are right now and, to some extent, where we’re heading.
It will throw additional light on the latter to go back and run the mind over the string of historical facts already stated. Several things will now appear less dark and mysterious than they did when they were transpiring.
It will shed more light on the latter to revisit and think through the series of historical facts already mentioned. Several things will now seem less dark and mysterious than they did when they were happening.
The people were to be left "perfectly free," "subject only to the Constitution." What the Constitution had to do with it, outsiders could not then see. Plainly enough now, it was an exactly fitted niche for the Dred-Scott Decision afterward to come in, and declare that perfect freedom of the people to be just no freedom at all.
The people were to be left "completely free," "bound only by the Constitution." At that time, outsiders couldn't understand what the Constitution had to do with it. Now it's clear that it was a perfectly suitable context for the Dred Scott Decision to come in later and claim that the people's complete freedom was actually no freedom at all.
Why was the amendment expressly declaring the right of the people to exclude slavery voted down? Plainly enough now: the adoption of it would have spoiled the niche for the Dred-Scott Decision.
Why was the amendment explicitly stating the people's right to exclude slavery rejected? It's clear now: adopting it would have undermined the Dred-Scott Decision.
Why was the court decision held up? Why even a senator's individual opinion withheld till after the Presidential election? Plainly enough now: the speaking out then would have damaged the "perfectly free" argument upon which the election was to be carried.
Why was the court's decision delayed? Why was a senator's personal opinion kept back until after the Presidential election? It's pretty clear now: speaking out then would have hurt the "perfectly free" argument that was supposed to support the election.
Why the outgoing President's felicitation on the indorsement? Why the delay of a re-argument? Why the incoming President's advance exhortation in favor of the decision? These things look like the cautious patting and petting of a spirited horse preparatory to mounting him, when it is dreaded that he may give the rider a fall. And why the hasty after-indorsements of the decision by the President and others?
Why is the outgoing President congratulating the endorsement? Why is there a delay in re-arguing it? Why is the incoming President so quickly urging support for the decision? These actions seem like carefully soothing a spirited horse before getting on, fearing it might throw the rider off. And why the rushed endorsements of the decision by the President and others afterward?
We cannot absolutely know that all these exact adaptations are the result of preconcert. But when we see a lot of framed timbers, different portions of which we know have been gotten out at different times and places, and by different workmen,—Stephen, Franklin, Roger, and James, for instance,—and when we see these timbers joined together, and see they exactly make the frame of a house or a mill, all the tenons and mortises, exactly fitting, and all the lengths and proportions of the different pieces exactly adapted to their respective places, and not a piece too many or too few,—not omitting even scaffolding—or, if a single piece be lacking, we can see the place in the frame exactly fitted and prepared to yet bring such piece in,—in such a case, we find it impossible not to believe that Stephen and Franklin and Roger and James all understood one another from the beginning, and all worked upon a common plan or draft drawn up before the first blow was struck.
We can’t really know for sure that all these exact adaptations are the result of prior planning. But when we look at a bunch of framed beams, different parts of which we know were sourced at different times and places, and by different workers—like Stephen, Franklin, Roger, and James, for example—and when we see these beams fitted together to perfectly form the frame of a house or a mill, with all the tenons and mortises fitting precisely, and all the lengths and proportions of the different pieces perfectly suited to their respective spots, and not a piece too many or too few—not even missing scaffolding—or, if a single piece is missing, we can see the spot in the frame precisely shaped and ready to hold that piece—we can’t help but believe that Stephen, Franklin, Roger, and James all understood each other from the start and worked from a shared plan or blueprint set up before the first cut was made.
It should not be overlooked, that, by the Nebraska Bill, the people of a State as well as Territory were to be left "perfectly free" "subject only to the Constitution." Why mention a State? They were legislating for Territories, and not for or about States. Certainly the people of a State are and ought to be subject to the Constitution of the United States; but why is mention of this lugged into this merely territorial law? Why are the people of a Territory and the people of a State therein lumped together, and their relation to the Constitution therein treated as being precisely the same?
It shouldn't be overlooked that, through the Nebraska Bill, the people of both a state and a territory were to be left "perfectly free," "subject only to the Constitution." Why mention a state? They were making laws for territories, not for or about states. Certainly, the people of a state are and should be subject to the Constitution of the United States, but why is this brought up in a law that is strictly about territories? Why are the people of a territory and the people of a state treated as if their relationship to the Constitution is exactly the same?
While the opinion of the court by Chief-Justice Taney, in the Dred-Scott case, and the separate opinions of all the concurring judges, expressly declare that the Constitution of the United States neither permits Congress nor a Territorial Legislature to exclude slavery from any United States
While the court's opinion by Chief Justice Taney in the Dred Scott case, along with the separate opinions of all the agreeing judges, clearly states that the Constitution of the United States does not allow Congress or a Territorial Legislature to ban slavery from any United States
Territory, they all omit to declare whether or not the same Constitution permits a State, or the people of a State, to exclude it. Possibly, this was a mere omission; but who can be quite sure, if McLean or Curtis had sought to get into the opinion a declaration of unlimited power in the people of a State to exclude slavery from their limits, just as Chase and Mace sought to get such declaration, in behalf of the people of a Territory, into the Nebraska Bill,—I ask, who can be quite sure that it would not have been voted down in the one case as it had been in the other?
Territory, they all fail to state whether the same Constitution allows a State, or the people of a State, to exclude it. This may have just been an oversight; however, who can be completely certain? If McLean or Curtis had tried to include a statement of absolute power for the people of a State to exclude slavery from their territory, just like Chase and Mace attempted to include such a statement for the people of a Territory in the Nebraska Bill—who can really say for sure that it wouldn't have been rejected in one case as it was in the other?
The nearest approach to the point of declaring the power of a State over slavery is made by Judge Nelson. He approaches it more than once, using the precise idea, and almost the language too, of the Nebraska Act. On one occasion his exact language is, "Except in cases where the power is restrained by the Constitution of the United States, the law of the State is supreme over the subject of slavery within its jurisdiction."
The closest anyone gets to stating the power of a state over slavery is Judge Nelson. He addresses it multiple times, using almost the exact wording of the Nebraska Act. At one point, he says, "Except in cases where the power is restricted by the Constitution of the United States, state law is supreme over slavery within its jurisdiction."
In what cases the power of the State is so restrained by the United States Constitution is left an open question, precisely as the same question, as to the restraint on the power of the Territories, was left open in the Nebraska Act. Put that and that together, and we have another nice little niche, which we may ere long see filled with another Supreme Court decision, declaring that the Constitution of the United States does not permit a State to exclude slavery from its limits. And this may especially be expected if the doctrine of "care not whether slavery be voted down or voted up" shall gain upon the public mind sufficiently to give promise that such a decision can be maintained when made.
In what situations the State's power is limited by the United States Constitution remains an open question, much like the uncertainty regarding the limits on the power of the Territories that was left unresolved in the Nebraska Act. Combine that with the prior point, and we may soon see another Supreme Court decision claiming that the United States Constitution does not allow a State to ban slavery within its borders. This could be particularly likely if the idea of "not caring whether slavery is voted down or voted up" becomes more accepted by the public to the point where such a decision can be upheld once it's made.
Such a decision is all that slavery now lacks of being alike lawful in all the States. Welcome or unwelcome, such decision is probably coming, and will soon be upon us, unless the power of the present political dynasty shall be met and overthrown. We shall lie down pleasantly dreaming that the people of Missouri are on the verge of making their State free; and we shall awake to the reality, instead, that the Supreme Court has made Illinois a Slave State.
Such a decision is all that’s needed for slavery to be considered legal in all the States. Whether we like it or not, this decision is probably on its way and will be here soon, unless the current political leadership is challenged and defeated. We might fall asleep happily dreaming that the people of Missouri are about to make their State free; but we will wake up to the harsh truth that the Supreme Court has turned Illinois into a Slave State.
To meet and overthrow the power of that dynasty is the work now before all those who would prevent that consummation. That is what we have to do. But how can we best do it?
To confront and dismantle the power of that dynasty is the task now facing all those who want to stop it from happening. That's what we need to accomplish. But how can we do it most effectively?
There are those who denounce us openly to their own friends, and yet whisper softly, that Senator Douglas is the aptest instrument there is with which to effect that object. They do not tell us, nor has he told us, that he wishes any such object to be effected. They wish us to infer all, from the facts that he now has a little quarrel with the present head of the dynasty; and that he has regularly voted with us, on a single point, upon which he and we have never differed.
There are people who openly criticize us to their friends, yet quietly suggest that Senator Douglas is the best means to achieve that goal. They don't tell us, nor has he, that he wants this goal to be achieved. They expect us to read between the lines, based on the fact that he currently has a minor conflict with the current leader of the establishment and that he has consistently voted with us on one issue, where he and we have always agreed.
They remind us that he is a very great man, and that the largest of us are very small ones. Let this be granted. But "a living dog is better than a dead lion." Judge Douglas, if not a dead lion for this work, is at least a caged and toothless one. How can he oppose the advances of slavery? He don't care any thing about it. His avowed mission is impressing the "public heart" to care nothing about it.
They remind us that he is a truly great man, and that the biggest among us are actually quite small. Let’s accept that. But “a living dog is better than a dead lion.” Judge Douglas, if not a dead lion in this situation, is at least a caged and toothless one. How can he resist the spread of slavery? He doesn’t care at all about it. His stated mission is to convince the “public heart” to ignore it.
A leading Douglas Democrat newspaper thinks Douglas's superior talent will be needed to resist the revival of the African slave-trade. Does Douglas believe an effort to revive that trade is approaching? He has not said so. Does he really think so? But, if it is, how can he resist it? For years he has labored to prove it a sacred right of white men to take negro slaves into the new Territories. Can he possibly show that it is less a sacred right to buy them where they can be bought cheapest? And unquestionably they can be bought cheaper in Africa than in Virginia.
A leading Douglas Democrat newspaper believes that Douglas's great talent will be necessary to fight against the revival of the African slave trade. Does Douglas think that an effort to bring back that trade is coming? He hasn't stated that. Does he really believe it? But if it's true, how can he stop it? For years, he has worked to prove that it’s a sacred right for white men to take Black slaves into the new Territories. Can he really argue that it's less of a sacred right to buy them where they are cheapest? And without a doubt, they can be bought for less in Africa than in Virginia.
He has done all in his power to reduce the whole question of slavery to one of a mere right of property; and as such, how can he oppose the foreign slave-trade,—how can he refuse that trade in that "property" shall be "perfectly free,"—unless he does it as a protection to the home production? And, as the home producers will probably not ask the protection, he will be wholly without a ground of opposition.
He has done everything he can to boil down the entire issue of slavery to just a matter of property rights; and if that's the case, how can he oppose the foreign slave trade? How can he argue that trade in that "property" should be "completely free," unless he's doing it to protect domestic production? And since domestic producers likely won’t ask for that protection, he will have no basis for his opposition.
Senator Douglas holds, we know, that a man may rightfully be wiser to-day than he was yesterday; that he may rightfully change when he finds himself wrong. But can we for that reason run ahead, and infer that he will make any particular change, of which he himself has given no intimation? Can we safely base our action upon any such vague inferences?
Senator Douglas believes, as we know, that a person can legitimately be wiser today than they were yesterday; that they can rightfully change their mind when they realize they were wrong. But does that mean we can jump ahead and assume that they will make any specific change without them indicating it? Can we confidently base our actions on such vague inferences?
Now, as ever, I wish not to misrepresent Judge Douglas's position, question his motives, or do aught that can be personally offensive to him. Whenever, if ever, he and we can come together on principle, so that our great cause may have assistance from his great ability, I hope to have interposed no adventitious obstacle.
Now, just like always, I don’t want to misrepresent Judge Douglas's views, doubt his intentions, or do anything that might personally upset him. Whenever, and if ever, we can unite on principle, so that our important cause can benefit from his significant skills, I hope to have not put any unnecessary obstacles in the way.
But clearly he, is not now with us; he does not pretend to be; he does not promise ever to be. Our cause, then, must be intrusted to, and conducted by, its own undoubted friends,—those whose hands are free, whose hearts are in the work, who do care for the result.
But clearly, he is not with us now; he doesn't pretend to be; he doesn't promise to ever be. Our cause must now be entrusted to and led by its true supporters—those whose hands are free, whose hearts are in the work, and who genuinely care about the outcome.
Two years ago the Republicans of the nation mustered over thirteen hundred thousand strong. We did this under the single impulse of resistance to a common danger, with every external circumstance against us. Of strange, discordant, and even hostile elements, we gathered from the four winds, and formed and fought the battle through, under the constant hot fire of a disciplined, proud, and pampered enemy. Did we brave all then to falter now?—now, when that same enemy is wavering, dissevered, and belligerent?
Two years ago, the Republicans came together with over 1.3 million supporters. We did this driven by a shared determination to resist a common threat, despite facing numerous challenges. From all directions, we united diverse and even opposing groups and fought bravely against a well-trained, arrogant, and privileged enemy. Did we stand strong then only to hesitate now—at a time when that same enemy is divided, uncertain, and aggressive?
The result is not doubtful. We shall not fail,—if we stand firm, we shall not fail. Wise counsels may accelerate or mistakes delay it; but, sooner or later, the victory is sure to come.
The outcome is clear. We won't fail—if we stay strong, we won't fail. Good advice might speed it up or mistakes might hold it back; but, eventually, victory is guaranteed.
The speech produced a profound impression upon men of all parties: the Democrats rejoiced in it, and reprobated it; the conservative Republicans received it coldly, and saw in it the sign of certain defeat. In the eyes of the latter it was a disheartening mistake at the outset of a momentous campaign,—a fatal error, which no policy or exertion could retrieve. Alone of all those directly affected by it, the Abolitionists, the compatriots of Mr. Herndon, heard in it the voice of a fearless leader, who had the wisdom to comprehend an unwelcome fact, and the courage to proclaim it at the moment when the delusion of fancied security and peace was most generally and fondly entertained. It was the "irrepressible conflict" which Mr. Seward had been preaching, and to which the one party had given almost as little credit as the other. Except a few ultraists here and there, nobody as yet had actually prepared his armor for this imaginary conflict, to which the nation was so persistently summoned,—and, indeed, none but those few seriously believed in the possibility of its existence. The Republican party had heretofore disavowed the doctrine with a unanimity nearly as great as that exhibited by the little council of Mr. Lincoln's immediate friends. It was therefore to be expected, that, when a slow, cautious, moderate man like Mr. Lincoln came forward with it in this startling fashion, it would carry dismay to his followers, and a cheering assurance to his enemies. But Mr. Lincoln was looking farther than this campaign: he was quietly dreaming of the Presidency, and edging himself to a place in advance, where he thought the tide might take him up in 1860. He was sure that sectional animosities, far from subsiding, would grow deeper and stronger with time; and for that reason the next nominee of the exclusively Northern party must be a man of radical views. "I think," says Mr. Herndon, "the speech was intended to take the wind out of Seward's sails;" and Mr. Herndon is not alone in his opinion.
The speech made a significant impact on people from all political sides: the Democrats celebrated it while also condemning it; the conservative Republicans reacted with indifference, viewing it as a sign of inevitable defeat. They saw it as a discouraging blunder at the beginning of a crucial campaign—a critical mistake that no strategy or effort could fix. Among those directly affected, only the Abolitionists, Mr. Herndon’s allies, recognized it as the message from a brave leader, who understood an uncomfortable truth and had the nerve to declare it just when the illusion of false security and peace was most widely believed. It was the "irrepressible conflict" that Mr. Seward had been preaching, and which both parties had largely ignored. Aside from a few extremists, no one had really prepared for this imagined conflict that the nation was repeatedly called to engage in—and, in fact, only those few truly believed it could actually happen. The Republican party had previously rejected the idea almost as strongly as Mr. Lincoln's close circle of friends had. So it was expected that when a careful and moderate person like Mr. Lincoln presented it in such a shocking way, it would alarm his supporters and provide encouragement to his opponents. But Mr. Lincoln was thinking beyond this campaign; he was quietly envisioning the Presidency and positioning himself for where he thought he might be able to rise in 1860. He was convinced that sectional tensions, rather than easing, would intensify over time; for that reason, the next candidate from the Northern party had to be someone with radical beliefs. "I think," Mr. Herndon states, "the speech was meant to take the wind out of Seward's sails," and he is not alone in that view.
A day or two after Mr. Lincoln spoke, one Dr. Long came into his office, and delivered to him a foretaste of the remarks he was doomed to hear for several months. "Well, Lincoln," said he, "that foolish speech of yours will kill you,—will defeat you in this contest, and probably for all offices for all time to come. I am sorry, sorry,—very sorry: I wish it was wiped out of existence. Don't you wish it, now?" Mr. Lincoln had been writing during the doctor's lament; but at the end of it he laid down his pen, raised his head, lifted his spectacles, and, with a look half quizzical, half contemptuous, replied, "Well, doctor, if I had to draw a pen across, and erase my whole life from existence, and I had one poor gift or choice left, as to what I should save from the wreck, I should choose that speech, and leave it to the world unerased."
A day or two after Mr. Lincoln spoke, a doctor named Long came into his office and gave him a taste of the criticism he would have to endure for several months. "Well, Lincoln," he said, "that silly speech of yours is going to ruin you—it's going to cost you this election, and probably any future offices too. I'm really sorry—very sorry; I wish it could be erased. Don’t you wish it too?" Mr. Lincoln had been writing while the doctor complained; but when he finished, he put down his pen, looked up, removed his glasses, and with a mix of amusement and disdain, replied, "Well, doctor, if I had to erase my entire life and could only save one thing from the wreckage, I would choose that speech and let it remain for the world to see."
Leonard Swett, than whom there was no more gifted man, nor a better judge of political affairs, in Illinois, is convinced that "the first ten lines of that speech defeated him." "The sentiment of the 'house divided against itself' seemed wholly inappropriate," says Mr. Swett. "It was a speech made at the commencement of a campaign, and apparently made for the campaign. Viewing it in this light alone, nothing could have been more unfortunate or inappropriate. It was saying first the wrong thing; yet he saw that it was an abstract truth, and standing by the speech would ultimately find him in the right place. I was inclined at the time to believe these words were hastily and inconsiderately uttered; but subsequent facts have convinced me they were deliberate and had been matured.... In the summer of 1859, when he was dining with a party of his intimate friends at Bloomington, the subject of his Springfield speech was discussed. We all insisted that it was a great mistake; but he justified himself, and finally said, 'Well, gentlemen, you may think that speech was a mistake; but I never have believed it was, and you will see the day when you will consider it was the wisest thing I ever said.'"
Leonard Swett, who was arguably the most talented man and best judge of political matters in Illinois, believes that "the first ten lines of that speech defeated him." "The idea of a 'house divided against itself' seemed completely out of place," Mr. Swett explains. "It was a speech made at the start of a campaign, clearly intended for that purpose. Viewed solely from that perspective, nothing could have been more unfortunate or ill-timed. It expressed the wrong sentiment, yet he recognized it as an abstract truth and felt that sticking to the speech would eventually put him in the right. At the time, I thought those words were spoken hastily and without thought, but later events convinced me they were intentional and well-considered... In the summer of 1859, during a dinner with a group of close friends in Bloomington, we discussed his Springfield speech. We all argued it was a big mistake, but he defended himself and ultimately said, 'Well, gentlemen, you may believe that speech was a mistake; I have never thought so, and you will see a day when you will consider it the wisest thing I ever said.'"
John T. Stuart was a family connection of the Todds and Edwardses, and thus also of Lincoln. Mr. C. C. Brown married Mr. Stuart's daughter, and speaks of Mr. Lincoln as "our relative." This gentleman says, "The Todd-Stuart-Edwards family, with preacher and priest, dogs and servants, got mad at Mr. Lincoln because he made 'The House-divided-against-itself Speech.' He flinched, dodged, said he would explain, and did explain, in the Douglas debates."
John T. Stuart was related to the Todds and Edwardses, and therefore also to Lincoln. Mr. C. C. Brown married Mr. Stuart's daughter and refers to Mr. Lincoln as "our relative." He mentions, "The Todd-Stuart-Edwards family, along with preachers, priests, dogs, and servants, got upset with Mr. Lincoln because he made 'The House Divided Speech.' He hesitated, avoided the issue, said he would explain, and did explain during the Douglas debates."
But it was difficult to explain: explanations of the kind are generally more hurtful than the original offence. Accordingly, Mr. Herndon reports in his broad, blunt way, that "Mr. Lincoln met with many cold shoulders for some time,—nay, during the whole canvass with Douglas." At the great public meetings which characterized that campaign, "you could hear, from all quarters in the crowd, Republicans saying, 'Damn that fool speech! it will be the cause of the death of Lincoln and the Republican party. Such folly! such nonsense! Damn it!'"
But it was tough to explain: those kinds of explanations usually hurt more than the original offense. So, Mr. Herndon bluntly reports that "Mr. Lincoln faced a lot of cold shoulders for a while—actually, throughout the entire campaign against Douglas." At the big public meetings that marked that campaign, "you could hear Republicans from all over the crowd saying, 'Damn that stupid speech! It's going to ruin Lincoln and the Republican party. Such nonsense! Damn it!'"
Since 1840 Lincoln and Douglas had appeared before the people, almost as regularly as the elections came round, to discuss, the one against the other, the merits of parties, candidates, and principles. Thus far Mr. Lincoln had been in a certain sense the pursuer: he had lain in wait for Mr. Douglas; he had caught him at unexpected turns and upon sharp points; he had mercilessly improved the advantage of Mr. Douglas's long record in Congress to pick apart and to criticise, while his own was so much more humble and less extensive. But now at last they were abreast, candidates for the same office, with a fair field and equal opportunities. It was the great crisis in the lives of both. Let us see what they thought of each other; and, in the extracts which convey the information, we may also get a better idea of the character of each for candor, generosity, and truthfulness.
Since 1840, Lincoln and Douglas had faced the public almost as regularly as elections came around, debating each other on the merits of parties, candidates, and principles. Up to this point, Mr. Lincoln had been somewhat of the pursuer: he had waited for Mr. Douglas, catching him off guard at unexpected moments and on contentious points; he had relentlessly leveraged Mr. Douglas's extensive record in Congress to dissect and critique, while his own was much more modest and less comprehensive. But now, they were finally on equal ground, both candidates for the same position, with a level playing field and equal opportunities. This was a crucial moment in both of their lives. Let's see what they thought of each other, and through the excerpts that provide this insight, we can also get a clearer picture of each man’s character in terms of honesty, generosity, and truthfulness.
Dr. Holland quotes from one of Mr. Lincoln's unpublished manuscripts as follows:—
Dr. Holland quotes from one of Mr. Lincoln's unpublished manuscripts as follows:—
"Twenty-two years ago, Judge Douglas and I first became acquainted: we were both young then,—he a trifle younger than I. Even then we were both ambitious,—I, perhaps, quite as much so as he. With me the race of ambition has been a failure,—a flat failure; with him it has been one of splendid success. His name fills the nation, and is not unknown even in foreign lands. I affect no contempt for the high eminence he has reached,—so reached that the oppressed of my species might have shared with me in the elevation, I would rather stand on that eminence than wear the richest crown that ever pressed a monarch's brow."
"Twenty-two years ago, Judge Douglas and I first got to know each other: we were both young back then—he was a little younger than I. Even at that time, we were both ambitious—I might have been just as ambitious as he was. For me, the pursuit of ambition has been a failure—a total failure; for him, it has been an amazing success. His name is known across the country and even in other countries. I don’t pretend to look down on the high position he has reached—if the oppressed members of my kind could have shared in that accomplishment with me, I would prefer to stand in that position than wear the richest crown that ever rested on a monarch's head."
Again, in the pending campaign, Mr. Lincoln said, "There is still another disadvantage under which we labor, and to which I will invite your attention. It arises out of the relative positions of the two persons who stand before the State as candidates for the Senate. Senator Douglas is of worldwide renown. All the anxious politicians of his party, or who had been of his party for years past, have been looking upon him as certainly, at no distant day, to be the President of the United States. They have seen, in his round, jolly, fruitful face, post-offices, land-offices, marshalships, and cabinet appointments, chargéships and foreign missions, bursting and sprouting out in wonderful exuberance, ready to be laid hold of by their greedy hands. And as they have been gazing upon this attractive picture so long, they cannot, in the little distraction that has taken place in the party, bring themselves to give up the charming hope; but, with greedier anxiety, they rush about him, sustain him, and give him marches, triumphal entries, and receptions, beyond what, even in the days of his highest prosperity, they could have brought about in his favor. On the contrary, nobody has ever expected me to be President. In my poor, lean, lank face, nobody has ever seen that any cabbages were sprouting out. These are disadvantages, all taken together, that the Republicans labor under. We have to fight this battle upon principle, and principle alone."
Again, in the upcoming campaign, Mr. Lincoln said, "There is one more disadvantage we’re facing, and I want to draw your attention to it. It comes from the positions of the two people who are running for the Senate. Senator Douglas is well-known around the world. All the eager politicians from his party, or those who have been part of it for years, have viewed him as someone who will definitely be the President of the United States soon. They see, in his round, cheerful, successful face, opportunities for post offices, land offices, marshal positions, cabinet roles, ambassadorships, and foreign missions, all bursting forth with incredible potential, ready for their eager hands to grasp. And having stared at this appealing picture for so long, they can't, amid the little commotion in the party, give up the enticing hope; instead, with increasing anxiety, they flock to him, support him, and give him parades, grand entrances, and receptions that even in his peak popularity, they couldn’t have organized for him. On the flip side, no one has ever expected me to be President. In my thin, gaunt face, no one has ever seen any potential for success. These are all disadvantages that the Republicans are dealing with. We have to fight this battle on principle, and principle alone."
Now hear Mr. Douglas. In their first joint debate at Ottawa, he said, "In the remarks I have made on this platform, and the position of Mr. Lincoln upon it, I mean nothing personally disrespectful or unkind to that gentleman. I have known him for nearly twenty-five years. There were many points of sympathy between us when we first got acquainted. We were both comparatively boys, and both struggling with poverty in a strange land. I was a schoolteacher in the town of Winchester, and he a flourishing grocery-keeper in the town of Salem. He was more successful in his occupation than I was in mine, and hence more fortunate in this world's goods. Lincoln is one of those peculiar men who perform with admirable skill every thing which they undertake. I made as good a school-teacher as I could; and, when a cabinet-maker, I made a good bedstead and tables, although my old boss said I succeeded better with bureaus and secretaries than with any thing else; but I believe that Lincoln was always more successful in business than I, for his business enabled him to get into the Legislature. I met him there, however, and had a sympathy with him, because of the up-hill struggle we both had in life. He was then just as good at telling an anecdote as now. He could beat any of the boys wrestling, or running a foot-race, in pitching quoits, or tossing a copper; could ruin more liquor than all of the boys of the town together; and the dignity and impartiality with which he presided at a horse-race or fist-fight excited the admiration and won the praise of everybody that was present and participated. I sympathized with him because he was struggling with difficulties; and so was I. Mr. Lincoln served with me in the Legislature in 1836, when we both retired, and he subsided, or became submerged; and he was lost sight of as a public man for some years. In 1846, when Wilmot introduced his celebrated proviso, and the abolition tornado swept over the country, Lincoln again turned up as a member of Congress from the Sangamon district. I was then in the Senate of the United States, and was glad to welcome my old friend and companion. Whilst in Congress, he distinguished himself by his opposition to the Mexican War, taking the side of the common enemy against his own country; and, when he returned home, he found that the indignation of the people followed him everywhere, and he was again submerged, or obliged to retire into private life, forgotten by his former friends. He came up again in 1854, just in time to make this abolition or Black Republican platform, in company with Giddings, Lovejoy, Chase, and Fred. Douglas, for the Republican party to stand upon. Trumbull, too, was one of our own contemporaries."
Now listen to Mr. Douglas. In their first joint debate in Ottawa, he said, "In the remarks I've made here and the position Mr. Lincoln holds, I mean nothing personally disrespectful or unkind towards that gentleman. I've known him for nearly twenty-five years. There were many points of connection between us when we first met. We were both relatively young, struggling with poverty in a new place. I was a schoolteacher in Winchester, and he was a successful grocery store owner in Salem. He did better in his business than I did in mine, and that's why he was more fortunate in material things. Lincoln is one of those unique people who excel at everything they take on. I tried to be the best schoolteacher I could be, and when I worked as a cabinetmaker, I produced good bed frames and tables, even though my old boss said I was better at making bureaus and secretaries than anything else. But I believe Lincoln was always more successful in business than I was because his work allowed him to enter the Legislature. I met him there, feeling a connection to him because we both faced uphill battles in life. He was just as good at telling stories then as he is now. He could out-wrestle any of the boys, win foot races, pitch quoits, or toss a coin; he could drink more than all the other boys in town combined. The way he conducted horse races or fistfights with dignity and fairness impressed everyone who was there and involved. I sympathized with him because he was dealing with challenges; I was too. Mr. Lincoln served with me in the Legislature in 1836, then he faded from public view for a number of years. In 1846, when Wilmot introduced his famous proviso and the abolition movement took the country by storm, Lincoln re-emerged as a member of Congress from the Sangamon district. I was in the U.S. Senate at the time and was happy to welcome my old friend. While in Congress, he made a name for himself by opposing the Mexican War, siding with the common adversary against his own country. When he returned home, he found that the people's anger followed him everywhere, forcing him back into private life, forgotten by his old friends. He came back into the spotlight in 1854, just in time to help create the abolition or Black Republican platform alongside Giddings, Lovejoy, Chase, and Fred Douglas, who all formed the foundation of the Republican Party. Trumbull was also one of our contemporaries."
Previous pages of this book present fully enough for our present purpose the issues upon which this canvass was made to turn. The principal speeches, the joint debates, with five separate and independent speeches by Mr. Lincoln, and three by Mr. Douglas, have been collected and published under Mr. Lincoln's supervision in a neat and accessible volume. It is, therefore, unnecessary, and would be unjust, to reprint them here. They obtained at the time a more extensive circulation than such productions usually have, and exerted an influence which is very surprising to the calm reader of the present day.
The earlier pages of this book provide enough detail for our current purpose regarding the key issues that this discussion revolves around. The main speeches, the joint debates—including five separate speeches by Mr. Lincoln and three by Mr. Douglas—have been gathered and published under Mr. Lincoln's guidance in a neat and easy-to-read volume. Therefore, it would be unnecessary and unfair to reprint them here. At the time, they gained a wider circulation than typical works of this kind and had an influence that is quite surprising to today's calm reader.
Mr. Douglas endeavored to prove, from Mr. Lincoln's Springfield speech, that he (Mr. Lincoln) was a self-declared Disunionist, in favor of reducing the institutions of all the States "to a dead uniformity," in favor of abolishing slavery everywhere,—an old-time abolitionist, a negropolist, an amalgamationist. This, with much vaunting of himself for his opposition to Lecompton, and a loud proclamation of "popular sovereignty," made the bulk of Mr. Douglas's speeches.
Mr. Douglas tried to show, based on Mr. Lincoln's speech in Springfield, that he (Mr. Lincoln) was openly against the Union, wanting to make all the States "uniform," and support the abolition of slavery everywhere—an old-school abolitionist, a supporter of racial equality, and a proponent of mixing races. This, along with a lot of bragging about his stance against Lecompton and a loud declaration of "popular sovereignty," made up most of Mr. Douglas's speeches.
Mr. Lincoln denied these accusations; he had no "thought of bringing about civil war," nor yet uniformity of institutions: he would not interfere with slavery where it had a lawful existence, and was not in favor of negro equality or miscegenation. He did, however, believe that Congress had the right to exclude slavery from the Territories, and ought to exercise it. As to Mr. Douglas's doctrine of popular sovereignty, there could be no issue concerning it; for everybody agreed that the people of a Territory might, when they formed a State constitution, adopt or exclude slavery as they pleased. But that a Territorial Legislature possessed exclusive power, or any power at all, over the subject, even Mr Douglas could not assert, inasmuch as the Dred-Scott Decision was plain and explicit the other way; and Mr. Douglas boasted that decision as the rule of his political conduct, and sought to impose it upon all parties as a perfect definition of the rights and duties of government, local and general.
Mr. Lincoln denied these accusations; he had no "intent of causing a civil war," nor did he seek uniformity in institutions. He would not interfere with slavery where it was legally established and was not in favor of racial equality or interracial marriage. However, he believed that Congress had the authority to prohibit slavery in the Territories and should act on it. Regarding Mr. Douglas's idea of popular sovereignty, there was no disagreement; everyone accepted that the people of a Territory could choose to either adopt or exclude slavery when they drafted a State constitution. But the notion that a Territorial Legislature had exclusive power or any power at all over this issue, even Mr. Douglas could not claim, since the Dred Scott Decision clearly stated the opposite; and Mr. Douglas championed that decision as the guiding principle of his political actions, trying to enforce it on everyone as a definitive statement of governmental rights and responsibilities, both local and general.
At Ottawa, Mr. Douglas put to Mr. Lincoln a series of questions, which, upon their next meeting (at Freeport), Mr. Lincoln answered as follows:—
At Ottawa, Mr. Douglas asked Mr. Lincoln a series of questions, which Mr. Lincoln answered during their next meeting (at Freeport) as follows:—
I have supposed myself, since the organization of the Republican party at Bloomington, in May, 1856, bound as a party man by the platforms of the party, then and since. If, in any interrogatories which I shall answer, I go beyond the scope of what is within these platforms, it will be perceived that no one is responsible but myself.
I have believed that since the Republican Party was formed in Bloomington in May 1856, I am committed as a party member to the party's platforms, both then and now. If, in any questions I answer, I discuss anything beyond what these platforms cover, it will be clear that I am solely responsible.
Having said thus much, I will take up the judge's interrogatories as I find them printed in "The Chicago Times," and answer them seriatim. In order that there may be no mistake about it, I have copied the interrogatories in writing, and also my answers to them. The first one of these interrogatories is in these words:—
Having said all that, I will address the judge's questions as they appear in "The Chicago Times" and respond to them one by one. To avoid any confusion, I have written down the questions and my answers. The first question is worded as follows:—
Question 1.—"I desire to know whether Lincoln to-day stands, as he did in 1854, in favor of the unconditional repeal of the Fugitive-Slave Law."
Question 1.—"I want to know if Lincoln today supports, as he did in 1854, the complete repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law."
Answer.—I do not now, nor ever did, stand in favor of the unconditional repeal of the Fugitive-Slave Law.
Answer.—I don’t currently, nor have I ever, supported the complete repeal of the Fugitive-Slave Law.
Q. 2.—"I desire him to answer whether he stands pledged to-day, as he did in 1854, against the admission of any more Slave States into the Union, even if the people want them."
Q. 2.—"I want him to confirm whether he is still committed today, as he was in 1854, to opposing the admission of any more Slave States into the Union, even if the people want them."
A.—I do not now, nor ever did, stand pledged against the admission of any more Slave States into the Union.
A.—I do not currently, nor have I ever, been against the admission of any more Slave States into the Union.
Q. 3.—"I want to know whether he stands pledged against the admission of a new State into the Union with such a constitution as the people of that State may see fit to make."
Q. 3.—"I want to know if he is committed to opposing the admission of a new State into the Union with any constitution that the people of that State choose to create."
A.—I do not stand pledged against the admission of a new State into the Union, with such a constitution as the people of that State may see fit to make.
A.—I am not committed to opposing the admission of a new State into the Union, with whatever constitution the people of that State choose to create.
Q. 4.—"I want to know whether he stands to-day pledged to the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia."
Q. 4.—"I want to know if he is currently committed to abolishing slavery in the District of Columbia."
A.—I do not stand to-day pledged to the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia.
A.—I am not committed today to the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia.
Q. 5.—"I desire him to answer whether he stands pledged to the prohibition of the slave-trade between the different States."
Q. 5.—"I want him to clarify whether he is committed to banning the slave trade between the different States."
A.—I do not stand pledged to the prohibition of the slave-trade between the different States.
A.—I am not committed to banning the slave trade between the different States.
Q. 6.—"I desire to know whether he stands pledged to prohibit slavery in all the Territories of the United States, north as well as south of the Missouri Compromise line."
Q. 6.—"I want to know if he is committed to banning slavery in all the Territories of the United States, both north and south of the Missouri Compromise line."
A.—I am impliedly, if not expressly, pledged to a belief in the right and duty of Congress to prohibit slavery in all the United States Territories. [Great applause.]
A.—I am implicitly, if not explicitly, committed to the belief that Congress has both the right and the obligation to ban slavery in all U.S. Territories. [Great applause.]
Q 7.—"I desire him to answer whether he is opposed to the acquisition of any new territory unless slavery is first prohibited therein."
Q 7.—"I want him to answer whether he is against acquiring any new territory unless slavery is first banned there."
A.—I am not generally opposed to honest acquisition of territory; and, in any given case, I would or would not oppose such acquisition, accordingly as I might think such acquisition would or would not agitate the slavery question among ourselves.
A.—I'm not really against the honest acquisition of territory; and, in any specific situation, I would either support or oppose such acquisition based on whether I believe it would stir up the slavery issue among us.
Now, my friends, it will be perceived, upon an examination of these questions and answers, that so far I have only answered that I was not pledged to this, that, or the other. The judge has not framed his interrogatories to ask me any thing more than this, and I have answered in strict accordance with the interrogatories, and have answered truly that I am not pledged at all upon any of the points to which I have answered. But I am not disposed to hang upon the exact form of his interrogatory. I am rather disposed to take up at least some of these questions, and state what I really think upon them.
Now, my friends, you'll notice that if we look closely at these questions and answers, I've only said that I'm not committed to this, that, or the other. The judge didn't ask me anything beyond that, and I answered in line with the questions, truthfully stating that I'm not committed to any of the points I've addressed. However, I'm not going to dwell on the exact wording of his question. Instead, I’d like to discuss at least some of these topics and share what I genuinely think about them.
As to the first one, in regard to the Fugitive-Slave Law, I have never hesitated to say, and I do not now hesitate to say, that I think, under the Constitution of the United States, the people of the Southern States are entitled to a congressional slave law. Having said that, I have had nothing to say in regard to the existing Fugitive-Slave Law, further than that I think it should have been framed so as to be free from some of the objections that pertain to it, without lessening its efficiency. And inasmuch as we are not now in an agitation in regard to an alteration or modification of that law, I would not be the man to introduce it as a new subject of agitation upon the general question of slavery.
Regarding the first point about the Fugitive-Slave Law, I’ve always been clear, and I still stand by the idea that, under the U.S. Constitution, the people of the Southern States have the right to a congressional slave law. That said, I haven’t commented on the current Fugitive-Slave Law except to note that I believe it could have been designed to avoid certain criticisms without undermining its effectiveness. Since we’re not currently debating changes to that law, I wouldn’t be the person to bring it up as a new topic of discussion on the broader issue of slavery.
In regard to the other question, of whether I am pledged to the admission of any more Slave States into the Union, I state to you very frankly, that I would be exceedingly sorry ever to be put in a position of having to pass upon that question. I should be exceedingly glad to know that there would never be another Slave State admitted into the Union; but I must add, that, if slavery shall be kept out of the Territories during the Territorial existence of any one given Territory, and then the people shall, having a fair chance and a clear field, when they come to adopt the constitution, do such an extraordinary thing as to adopt a slave constitution, uninfluenced by the actual presence of the institution among them, I see no alternative, if we own the country, but to admit them into the Union. [Applause.]
Regarding the other question about whether I'm committed to allowing any more Slave States into the Union, I want to be completely honest with you: I'd be very sorry to find myself in a position where I had to make that decision. I would be really happy to think that no more Slave States would ever join the Union. However, I have to add that if slavery is kept out of the Territories during the time a certain Territory exists, and then the people there, having a fair opportunity, decide to adopt a constitution that allows slavery—without being influenced by the actual presence of slavery—then, if we own the country, I see no other option but to admit them into the Union. [Applause.]
The third interrogatory is answered by the answer to the second, it being, as I conceive, the same as the second.
The answer to the third question is the same as the answer to the second one, as I see it.
The fourth one is in regard to the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia. In relation to that, I have my mind very distinctly made up. I should be exceedingly glad to see slavery abolished in the District of Columbia. I believe that Congress possesses the constitutional power to abolish it. Yet, as a member of Congress, I should not, with my present views, be in favor of endeavoring to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia, unless it would be upon these conditions: First, that the abolition should be gradual; Second, That it should be on a vote of the majority of qualified voters in the District; and Third, That compensation should be made to unwilling owners. With these three conditions, I confess I would be exceedingly glad to see Congress abolish slavery in the District of Columbia, and, in the language of Henry Clay, "sweep from our capital that foul blot upon our nation."
The fourth point is about ending slavery in the District of Columbia. I’m very clear on this issue. I would be really happy to see slavery ended in the District of Columbia. I believe Congress has the constitutional authority to do so. However, as a member of Congress, I wouldn’t support attempts to end slavery in the District unless it met these conditions: First, the abolition should be gradual; Second, it should be decided by a majority vote of qualified voters in the District; and Third, there should be compensation for any unwilling owners. With these three conditions, I would indeed be very pleased to see Congress end slavery in the District of Columbia and, in the words of Henry Clay, "remove that disgrace from our capital."
In regard to the fifth interrogatory, I must say here, that as to the question of the abolition of the slave-trade between the different States, I can truly answer, as I have, that I am pledged to nothing about it. It is a subject to which I have not given that mature consideration that would make me feel authorized to state a position so as to hold myself entirely bound by it. In other words, that question has never been prominently enough before me to induce me to investigate whether we really have the constitutional power to do it. I could investigate it if I had sufficient time to bring myself to a conclusion upon that subject; but I have not done so, and I say so frankly to you here and to Judge Douglas. I must say, however, that, if I should be of opinion that Congress does possess the constitutional power to abolish slave-trading among the different States, I should still not be in favor of the exercise of that power unless upon some conservative principle as I conceive it, akin to what I have said in relation to the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia.
Regarding the fifth question, I have to say that when it comes to the issue of ending the slave trade between the different States, I can honestly respond, as I have, that I am not committed to anything on that front. It’s a topic that I haven’t thoroughly considered to the extent that I feel authorized to take an absolute position on it. In other words, this issue hasn’t been significant enough for me to explore whether we actually have the constitutional power to do it. I could look into it if I had enough time to reach a conclusion on that matter; however, I haven’t done so, and I'm being upfront about that here with you and Judge Douglas. I must also say that even if I believed Congress has the constitutional power to abolish the slave trade among the different States, I still wouldn’t support exercising that power unless it followed some conservative principle as I see it, similar to what I’ve mentioned regarding the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia.
My answer as to whether I desire that slavery should be prohibited in all Territories of the United States is full and explicit within itself, and cannot be made clearer by any comments of mine. So I suppose, in regard to the question whether I am opposed to the acquisition of any more territory unless slavery is first prohibited therein, my answer is such that I could add nothing by way of illustration, or making myself better understood, than the answer which I have placed in writing.
My response to whether I want slavery to be banned in all Territories of the United States is clear and straightforward on its own, and I can't make it any clearer with my comments. Likewise, when it comes to the question of whether I'm against acquiring any more territory unless slavery is banned there first, my answer is one that I couldn't clarify further with examples or explanations than what I've already written down.
Now, in all this the Judge has me, and he has me on the record. I suppose he had flattered himself that I was really entertaining one set of opinions for one place, and another set for another place,—that I was afraid to say at one place what I uttered at another. What I am saying here I suppose I say to a vast audience as strongly tending to abolitionism as any audience in the State of Illinois; and I believe I am saying that which, if it would be offensive to any persons, and render them enemies to myself, would be offensive to persons in this audience.
Now, in all this, the Judge has me, and he has me on the record. I guess he thought that I was really expressing one set of opinions in one place and a different set in another—that I was too scared to say in one place what I stated in another. What I'm saying here, I believe I'm saying to a large audience that leans strongly towards abolitionism, just like any audience in the State of Illinois; and I believe I'm saying something that, if it would upset anyone and turn them against me, would likely upset those in this audience.
Mr. Douglas had presented his interrogatories on the 21st of August, and Mr. Lincoln did not answer them until the 27th. They had no meetings between those days; and Mr. Lincoln had ample time to ponder his replies, and consult his friends. But he did more: he improved the opportunity to prepare a series of insidious questions, which he felt sure Mr. Douglas could not possibly answer without utterly ruining his political prospects. Mr. Lincoln struggled for a great prize, unsuspected by the common mind, but the thought of which was ever present to his own. Mr. Douglas was a standing candidate for the Presidency; but as yet Mr. Lincoln was a very quiet one, nursing hopes which his modesty prevented him from obtruding upon others. He was wise enough to keep the fact of their existence to himself, and in the mean time to dig pitfalls and lay obstructions in the way of his most formidable competitors. His present purpose was not only to defeat Mr. Douglas for the Senate, but to "kill him,"—to get him out of the way finally and forever. If he could make him evade the Dred-Scott Decision, and deny the right of a Southern man to take his negroes into a Territory, and keep them there while it was a Territory, he would thereby sever him from the body of the Democratic party, and leave him the leader of merely a little half-hearted antislavery faction. Under such circumstances, Mr. Douglas could never be the candidate of the party at large; but he might serve a very useful purpose by running on a separate ticket, and dividing the great majority of conservative votes, which would inevitably elect a single nominee.
Mr. Douglas presented his questions on August 21st, and Mr. Lincoln didn’t respond until the 27th. They didn’t meet during that time, giving Mr. Lincoln plenty of time to think about his answers and consult his friends. But he did more than that: he seized the chance to craft a series of sneaky questions that he was confident Mr. Douglas couldn't answer without seriously jeopardizing his political future. Mr. Lincoln was vying for a significant prize, which most people didn't realize, but the thought was always on his mind. Mr. Douglas was a candidate for the presidency; however, Mr. Lincoln was still very much in the background, harboring hopes he was too modest to share with others. He was smart enough to keep those hopes to himself while secretly creating traps and hindrances for his most formidable rivals. His goal wasn't just to defeat Mr. Douglas for the Senate, but to completely eliminate him as a contender—he wanted to get him out of the way for good. If he could make Douglas dodge the Dred Scott Decision and deny a Southern man's right to bring his slaves into a territory and keep them there while it was still a territory, he would effectively cut him off from the Democratic party and leave him leading just a small, half-hearted antislavery group. In that scenario, Mr. Douglas would never be able to be the party's candidate at large, but he might still serve a useful role by running on a separate ticket and splitting the conservative vote, which would inevitably lead to the election of a single nominee.
Mr. Lincoln went to Chicago, and there intimated to some of his friends what he proposed to do. They attempted to dissuade him, because, as they insisted, if Mr. Douglas should answer that the Dred-Scott Decision might be evaded by the people of a Territory, and slavery prohibited in the face of it, the answer would draw to him the sympathies of the antislavery voters, and probably, of itself, defeat Mr. Lincoln. But, so long as Mr. Douglas held to the decision in good faith, he had no hope of more aid from that quarter than he had already received. It was therefore the part of wisdom to let him alone as to that point. Mr. Lincoln, on the contrary, looked forward to 1860, and was determined that the South should understand the antagonism between Mr. Douglas's latest conception of "squatter sovereignty," on the one hand, and the Dred-Scott Decision, the Nebraska Bill, and all previous platforms of the party, on the other. Mr. Douglas taught strange doctrines and false ones; and Mr. Lincoln thought the faithful, far and near, should know it. If Mr. Douglas was a schismatic, there ought to be a schism, of which the Republicans would reap the benefit; and therefore he insisted upon his questions. "That is no business of yours," said his friends. "Attend exclusively to your senatorial race, and let the slaveholder and Douglas fight out that question among themselves and for themselves. If you put the question to him, he will answer that the Dred-Scott Decision is simply an abstract rule, having no practical application."—"If he answers that way, he's a dead cock in the pit," responded Mr. Lincoln. "But that," said they, "is none of your business: you are concerned only about the senator-ship."—"No," continued Mr. Lincoln, "not alone exactly: I am killing larger game. The great battle of 1860 is worth a thousand of this senatorial race."
Mr. Lincoln went to Chicago and there hinted to some of his friends what he planned to do. They tried to talk him out of it because, as they insisted, if Mr. Douglas responded that the Dred-Scott Decision could be bypassed by the people of a Territory, allowing slavery to be prohibited despite it, that response would win him the support of anti-slavery voters and might even defeat Mr. Lincoln on its own. However, as long as Mr. Douglas stood by the decision in good faith, he had no hope of receiving any more support from that direction than he already had. So, it would be wise to leave that issue alone. Mr. Lincoln, on the other hand, looked ahead to 1860 and was determined that the South should clearly see the conflict between Mr. Douglas's latest idea of "squatter sovereignty" and the Dred-Scott Decision, the Nebraska Bill, and all previous party platforms. Mr. Douglas promoted strange and false ideas, and Mr. Lincoln believed that supporters, both near and far, needed to be aware of it. If Mr. Douglas was a divider, then there should be a split from which the Republicans would benefit; and so he pressed his questions. "That’s none of your business," his friends said. "Focus solely on your senatorial campaign, and let the slaveholders and Douglas sort that out among themselves. If you ask him about it, he’ll just say the Dred-Scott Decision is just a theoretical rule with no practical effect." —"If he answers like that, he’s finished," Mr. Lincoln replied. "But that," they said, "is not your concern; you should only care about the senate." —"No," Mr. Lincoln continued, "not just that: I’m aiming for bigger things. The major battle of 1860 is worth a thousand of this senatorial race."
He did accordingly propound the interrogatories as follows:—
He then presented the questions as follows:—
1. If the people of Kansas shall, by means entirely unobjectionable in all other respects, adopt a State constitution, and ask admission into the Union under it, before they have the requisite number of inhabitants according to the English Bill,—some ninety-three thousand,—will you vote to admit them?
1. If the people of Kansas, using completely acceptable means in every other way, adopt a state constitution and request admission into the Union under it, before they have the required number of inhabitants according to the English Bill—about ninety-three thousand—will you vote to admit them?
2. Can the people of a United States Territory, in any lawful way, against the wish of any citizen of the United States, exclude slavery from its limits?
2. Can the people of a United States Territory, in any legal way, against the wishes of any citizen of the United States, keep slavery out of its boundaries?
3. If the Supreme Court of the United States shall decide that States cannot exclude slavery from their limits, are you in favor of acquiescing in, adopting, and following such decision as a rule of political action?
3. If the Supreme Court of the United States decides that states cannot prohibit slavery within their borders, do you support accepting, adopting, and following that decision as a guideline for political action?
4. Are you in favor of acquiring additional territory, in disregard of how such acquisition may affect the nation on the slavery question?
4. Do you support getting more land, regardless of how that might impact the country's stance on slavery?
The first and fourth questions Mr. Douglas answered substantially in the affirmative. To the third he replied, that no judge would ever be guilty of the "moral treason" of making such a decision. But to the second—the main question, to which all the others were riders and make-weights—he answered as he was expected to answer. "It matters not," said he, "what way the Supreme Court may hereafter decide as to the abstract question whether slavery may or may not go into a Territory under the Constitution: the people have the lawful means to introduce it or exclude it, as they please, for the reason that slavery cannot exist a day or an hour anywhere, unless it is supported by local police regulations. Those police regulations can only be established by the local Legislature; and, if the people are opposed to slavery, they will elect representatives to that body who will, by unfriendly legislation, effectually prevent the introduction of it into their midst."
Mr. Douglas answered the first and fourth questions mostly with a yes. To the third, he said that no judge would ever commit the "moral treason" of making such a decision. But to the second—the main question, which all the others were related to—he answered as expected. "It doesn't matter," he said, "how the Supreme Court might decide in the future about the abstract question of whether slavery can or cannot enter a Territory under the Constitution: the people have the legal means to introduce or exclude it as they wish, because slavery can’t exist for even a moment anywhere unless it’s backed by local police regulations. Those regulations can only be put in place by the local Legislature; and if the people are against slavery, they will elect representatives to that body who will use unfriendly legislation to effectively keep it from being introduced among them."
The reply was more than enough for Mr. Lincoln's purpose. It cut Mr. Douglas off from his party, and put him in a state of perfect antagonism to it. He firmly denied the power of Congress to restrict slavery; and he admitted, that, under the Dred-Scott Decision, all Territories were open to its entrance. But he held, that, the moment the slaveholder passed the boundary of a Territory, he was at the mercy of the squatters, a dozen or two of whom might get together in a legislature, and rob him of the property which the Constitution, the Supreme Court, and Mr. Douglas himself said he had an indefeasible right to take there. Mr. Lincoln knew that the Southern people would feel infinitely safer in the hands of Congress than in the hands of the squatters. If they regarded the Republican mode of excluding slavery as a barefaced usurpation, they would consider Mr. Douglas's system of confiscation by "unfriendly legislation" mere plain stealing. The Republicans said to them, "We will regulate the whole subject by general laws, which you participate with us in passing;" but Mr. Douglas offered them, as sovereign judges and legislators, the territorial settlers themselves,—squatters they might be,—whom the aid societies rushed into the new Territories for the very purpose of keeping slavery away. The new doctrine was admirably calculated to alarm and incense the South; and, following so closely Mr. Douglas's conduct in the Lecompton affair, it was very natural that he should now be universally regarded by his late followers as a dangerous heretic and a faithless turncoat. The result justified Mr. Lincoln's anticipations. Mr. Douglas did not fully develop his new theory, nor personally promulgate it as the fixed tenet of his faction, until the next year, when he embodied it in the famous article contributed by him to "Harper's Magazine." But it did its work effectually; and, when parties began to marshal for the great struggle of 1860, Mr. Douglas was found to be, not precisely what he had promised,—a Republican, "fighting their battles,"—but an independent candidate, upon an independent platform, dividing the opposition.
The response was more than sufficient for Mr. Lincoln's aims. It alienated Mr. Douglas from his party and put him in direct opposition to it. He strongly denied Congress's authority to limit slavery and accepted that, under the Dred Scott Decision, all Territories were available for its expansion. However, he argued that once a slaveholder crossed into a Territory, he was vulnerable to squatters, a handful of whom could band together in a legislature and take away his property, which the Constitution, the Supreme Court, and Mr. Douglas himself claimed he had an undeniable right to bring there. Mr. Lincoln understood that the Southern people would feel much safer under Congressional control than under the control of squatters. If they viewed the Republican approach to preventing slavery as a blatant power grab, they would consider Mr. Douglas’s method of confiscation through “unfriendly legislation” as outright theft. The Republicans told them, “We will manage the whole issue through general laws that you participate in passing,” but Mr. Douglas presented them with the territorial settlers themselves—squatters, as they might be—whom the aid societies sent into the new Territories specifically to keep slavery out. This new doctrine was perfectly designed to alarm and infuriate the South; and coming closely on the heels of Mr. Douglas’s actions in the Lecompton affair, it was only natural that he would now be seen by his former supporters as a dangerous heretic and a traitorous turncoat. The outcome validated Mr. Lincoln’s predictions. Mr. Douglas did not fully articulate his new theory or officially promote it as the official stance of his faction until the following year when he included it in the famous article he wrote for "Harper's Magazine." But it was effective; and when parties began to organize for the major battle of 1860, Mr. Douglas was not quite what he had promised—a Republican, “fighting their battles”—but an independent candidate on an independent platform, splitting the opposition.
Mr. Lincoln pointed out on the spot the wide difference between Mr. Douglas's present views and those he had previously maintained with such dogged and dogmatic persistence. "The new state of the case" had induced "the Judge to sheer away from his original ground." The new theory was false in law, and could have no practical application. The history of the country showed it to be a naked humbug, a demagogue's imposture. Slavery was established in all this country, without "local police regulations" to protect it. Dred Scott himself was held in a Territory, not only without "local police regulations" to favor his bondage, but in defiance of a general law which prohibited it. A man who believed that the Dred-Scott Decision was the true interpretation of the Constitution could not refuse to negro slavery whatever protection it needed in the Territories without incurring the guilt of perjury. To say that slave property might be constitutionally confiscated, destroyed, or driven away from a place where it was constitutionally protected, was such an absurdity as Mr. Douglas alone in this evil strait was equal to; the proposition meaning, as he said on a subsequent occasion, "no less than that a thing may lawfully be driven away from a place where it has a lawful right to be."
Mr. Lincoln pointed out right then the big difference between Mr. Douglas's current views and those he had previously held with such stubbornness and certainty. "The new state of affairs" had led "the Judge to abandon his original position." This new theory was legally false and had no real-world application. The history of the country showed it to be a complete sham, a deceptive trick by a demagogue. Slavery was established throughout the country without "local police regulations" to support it. Dred Scott himself was held in a Territory, not only without "local police regulations" to maintain his bondage but against a general law that prohibited it. A person who believed that the Dred Scott Decision was the correct interpretation of the Constitution couldn't deny any protection for slavery it required in the Territories without committing perjury. Claiming that slave property could be constitutionally taken, destroyed, or removed from a place where it had constitutional protection was such nonsense that only Mr. Douglas, in this troubling situation, could support it; the proposition meant, as he later stated, "nothing less than that something can be legally removed from a place where it has a legal right to be."
"Of that answer at Freeport," as Mr. Herndon has it, Douglas "instantly died. The red-gleaming Southern tomahawk flashed high and keen. Douglas was removed out of Lincoln's way. The wind was taken out of Seward's sails (by the House-divided Speech), and Lincoln stood out prominent."
"Regarding that response at Freeport," as Mr. Herndon puts it, Douglas "immediately fell from grace. The bright Southern tomahawk was raised sharply. Douglas was taken out of Lincoln's path. Seward lost his momentum (due to the House-divided Speech), and Lincoln emerged as the clear leader."
The State election took place on the 2d of November, 1858. Mr. Lincoln had more than four thousand majority of the votes cast; but this was not enough to give him a majority in the Legislature. An old and inequitable apportionment law was still in operation; and a majority of the members chosen under it were, as it was intended by the law-makers they should be, Democrats. In the Senate were fourteen Democrats to eleven Republicans; and in the House, forty Democrats to thirty-five Republicans. Mr. Douglas was, of course, re-elected, and Mr. Lincoln bitterly disappointed. Some one asked Mr. Lincoln how he felt when the returns came in. He replied, "that he felt like the boy that stumped his toe,—'it hurt too bad to laugh, and he was too big to cry!'"
The state election happened on November 2, 1858. Mr. Lincoln had over four thousand more votes than his opponents, but that wasn't enough to secure a majority in the Legislature. An outdated and unfair apportionment law was still in effect, and most of the members elected under it were, as the lawmakers had intended, Democrats. In the Senate, there were fourteen Democrats and eleven Republicans; in the House, forty Democrats and thirty-five Republicans. Mr. Douglas was, of course, re-elected, leaving Mr. Lincoln feeling very disappointed. Someone asked Mr. Lincoln how he felt when the results came in. He replied that he felt "like a boy who stubbed his toe—'it hurt too much to laugh, and he was too big to cry!'"
In this canvass Mr. Lincoln earned a reputation as a popular debater second to that of no man in America,—certainly not second to that of his famous antagonist. He kept his temper; he was not prone to personalities; he indulged in few anecdotes, and those of a decent character; he was fair, frank, and manly; and, if the contest had shown nothing else, it would have shown, at least, that "Old Abe" could behave like a well-bred gentleman under very trying circumstances. His marked success in these discussions was probably no surprise to the people of the Springfield District, who knew him as well as, or better than, they did Mr. Douglas. But in the greater part of the State, and throughout the Union the series of brilliant victories successively won by an obscure man over an orator of such wide experience and renown was received with exclamations of astonishment, alike by listeners and readers. It is true that many believed, or pretended to believe, that he was privately tutored and "crammed" by politicians of greater note than himself; and, when the speeches were at last collected and printed together, it was alleged that Mr. Lincoln's had been re-written or extensively revised by Mr. Judd, Judge Logan, Judge Davis, or some one else of great and conceded abilities.
In this campaign, Mr. Lincoln earned a reputation as a popular debater, second to none in America—not even his famous rival. He maintained his composure, avoided personal attacks, shared few anecdotes, and those were respectable; he was fair, honest, and dignified. If nothing else, the contest showed that “Old Abe” could act like a true gentleman under very challenging circumstances. His notable success in these debates likely didn’t surprise the people of the Springfield District, who knew him at least as well as they did Mr. Douglas. However, throughout most of the state and the entire Union, the series of impressive victories won by this relatively unknown man over a well-known orator was met with astonished reactions from both listeners and readers. It’s true that many believed or claimed that he was secretly coached and “crammed” by more prominent politicians; when the speeches were finally compiled and published, some alleged that Mr. Lincoln’s speeches had been rewritten or heavily revised by Mr. Judd, Judge Logan, Judge Davis, or another person of considerable talent.
CHAPTER XVII
IN the winter of 1858-9, Mr. Lincoln, having no political business on hand, appeared before the public in the character of lecturer, having prepared himself with much care. His lecture was, or might have been, styled, "All Creation is a mine, and every man a miner." He began with Adam and Eve, and the invention of the "fig-leaf apron," of which he gave a humorous description, and which he said was a "joint operation." The invention of letters, writing, printing, of the application of steam, of electricity, he classed under the comprehensive head of "inventions and discoveries," along with the discovery of America, the enactment of patent-laws, and the "invention of negroes, or the present mode of using them." Part of the lecture was humorous; a very small part of it actually witty; and the rest of it so commonplace that it was a genuine mortification to his friends. He delivered it at two or three points, and then declined all further invitations. To one of these he replied, in March, as follows: "Your note, inviting me to deliver a lecture in Gales-burgh, is received. I regret to say I cannot do so now: I must stick to the courts a while. I read a sort of a lecture to three different audiences during the last month and this; but I did so under circumstances which made it a waste of no time whatever."
In the winter of 1858-9, Mr. Lincoln, with no political obligations at the moment, took to the stage as a lecturer, having prepared himself thoroughly. His talk was titled, "All Creation is a Mine, and Every Man a Miner." He started with Adam and Eve and the invention of the "fig-leaf apron," which he humorously described as a "joint operation." He grouped the invention of letters, writing, printing, the use of steam, and electricity under the broad category of "inventions and discoveries," alongside the discovery of America, the establishment of patent laws, and the "invention of Black people, or the current way of using them." Some of the lecture was funny; a tiny bit of it was actually clever, while the rest was so ordinary that it genuinely embarrassed his friends. He presented it at two or three different locations and then turned down all further invitations. To one of these, he replied in March: "I received your note inviting me to give a lecture in Galesburg. I'm sorry to say I can't do that right now; I need to stick to the courts for a while. I read a sort of lecture to three different audiences last month and this, but the circumstances made it a complete waste of time."
From the Douglas discussion many of the leaders of the Republican party believed, and the reader will agree had some foundation for the belief, that Mr. Lincoln was one of the greatest and best men in the party. It was natural, therefore, that many eyes should be turned towards him for the coming Presidential nomination. He had all the requisites of an available candidate: he had not been sufficiently prominent in national politics to excite the jealousies of powerful rivals; he was true, manly, able; he was pre-eminently a man of the people; he had sprung from a low family in the lowest class of society; he had been a rail-splitter, a flat-boatman, a grocery-keeper,—every thing that could commend him to the "popular heart." His manners, his dress, his stories, and his popular name and style of "Honest Old Abe," pointed to him as a man beside whose "running qualities" those of Taylor and Harrison were of slight comparison. That he knew all this, and thought of it a great deal, no one can doubt; and in the late campaign he had most adroitly opened the way for the realization of his hopes. But he knew very well that a becoming modesty in a "new man" was about as needful as any thing else. Accordingly, when a Mr. Pickett wrote him on the subject in March, 1859, he replied as follows: "Yours of the 2d instant, inviting me to deliver my lecture on 'Inventions' in Rock Island, is at hand, and I regret to be unable from press of business to comply therewith. In regard to the other matter you speak of, I beg that you will not give it a further mention. I do not think I am fit for the Presidency."
From the discussion with Douglas, many leaders of the Republican party believed, and the reader will agree had some basis for this belief, that Mr. Lincoln was one of the greatest and best individuals in the party. It was natural, then, that many people looked to him for the upcoming Presidential nomination. He had all the qualities of a strong candidate: he wasn't too prominent in national politics to stir up jealousy from powerful rivals; he was honest, strong, and capable; he was truly a man of the people; he came from a low background in the poorest class of society; he had worked as a rail-splitter, a flat-boatman, and a grocery store owner—everything that could earn him the "popular heart." His demeanor, his clothing, his stories, and his well-known nickname "Honest Old Abe" made him stand out as a person whose "running qualities" were far superior to those of Taylor and Harrison. It's clear he was aware of this and thought about it a lot; during the recent campaign, he cleverly paved the way for the realization of his ambitions. However, he understood that a bit of humility in a "new man" was essential. So, when a Mr. Pickett wrote to him about this in March 1859, he responded with the following: "I received your letter from the 2nd, inviting me to give my lecture on 'Inventions' in Rock Island, and I regret to say that I can't due to my busy schedule. Regarding the other matter you mentioned, I kindly ask that you don't bring it up again. I don't believe I am fit for the Presidency."
But in April the project began to be agitated in his own town. On the 27th of that month, he was in the office of "The Central Illinois Gazette," when the editor suggested his name. Mr. Lincoln, "with characteristic modesty, declined." But the editor estimated his "No" at its proper value; and he "was brought out in the next issue, May 4." Thence the movement spread rapidly and strongly. Many Republicans welcomed it, and, appreciating the pre-eminent fitness of the nomination, saw in it the assurance of certain victory.
But in April, the project started to gain traction in his hometown. On the 27th of that month, he was at the office of "The Central Illinois Gazette" when the editor suggested his name. Mr. Lincoln, "with characteristic modesty, declined." However, the editor took his "No" seriously; he was "brought out in the next issue, May 4." From there, the movement spread quickly and strongly. Many Republicans embraced it and, recognizing the exceptional suitability of the nomination, saw it as a guarantee of certain victory.
The West was rapidly filling with Germans and other inhabitants of foreign birth. Dr. Canisius, a German, foreseeing Mr. Lincoln's strength in the near future, wrote to inquire what he thought about the restrictions upon naturalization recently adopted in Massachusetts, and whether he favored the fusion of all the opposition elements in the next canvass. He replied, that, as to the restrictions, he was wholly and unalterably opposed to them; and as to fusion, he was ready for it upon "Republican grounds," but upon no other. He would not lower "the Republican standard even by a hair's breadth." The letter undoubtedly had a good effect, and brought him valuable support from the foreign population.
The West was quickly becoming home to Germans and other foreign-born residents. Dr. Canisius, a German, anticipating Mr. Lincoln's rising influence, wrote to ask what he thought about the new restrictions on naturalization in Massachusetts and whether he supported the unification of all opposing groups in the upcoming campaign. Lincoln responded that he completely and firmly opposed the restrictions, and regarding the unification, he was open to it on "Republican grounds," but not on any other terms. He would not compromise "the Republican standard even a little." The letter clearly had a positive impact and secured him important support from the foreign community.
To a gentleman who desired his views about the tariff question, he replied cautiously and discreetly as follows:—
To a man who wanted to know his thoughts on the tariff issue, he responded carefully and thoughtfully as follows:—
Dr. Edward Wallace.
Dr. Ed Wallace.
My dear Sir,—I am here just now attending court. Yesterday, before I left Springfield, your brother, Dr. William S. Wallace, showed me a letter of yours, in which you kindly mention my name, inquire for my tariff-views, and suggest the propriety of my writing a letter upon the subject. I was an old Henry-Clay Tariff Whig. In old times I made more speeches on that subject than on any other.
My dear Sir, — I’m currently at court. Yesterday, before I left Springfield, your brother, Dr. William S. Wallace, showed me a letter from you, where you kindly mentioned my name, asked about my views on tariffs, and suggested that I write a letter on the topic. I used to be a Henry Clay Tariff Whig. Back in the day, I gave more speeches on that subject than on any other.
I have not since changed my views. I believe yet, if we could have a moderate, carefully adjusted, protective tariff, so far acquiesced in as not to be a perpetual subject of political strife, squabbles, changes, and uncertain, ties, it would be better for us. Still, it is my opinion, that, just now, the revival of that question will not advance the cause itself, or the man who revives it.
I still haven't changed my views. I still believe that if we could have a balanced, well-designed protective tariff that people accept enough to avoid constant political conflict, disputes, changes, and instability, it would be better for us. However, I think that right now, bringing up that issue won't help the cause or the person who brings it up.
I have not thought much on the subject recently; but my general impression is, that the necessity for a protective tariff will ere long force its old opponents to take it up; and then its old friends can join in and establish it on a more firm and durable basis. We, the old Whigs, have been entirely beaten out on the tariff question; and we shall not be able to re-establish the policy until the absence of it shall have demonstrated the necessity for it in the minds of men heretofore opposed to it. With this view, I should prefer to not now write a public letter upon the subject.
I haven't thought much about this topic lately, but my overall impression is that the need for a protective tariff will soon compel its former critics to reconsider their stance; and then its original supporters can come together to establish it on a stronger, more lasting foundation. We, the former Whigs, have completely lost the debate over the tariff issue; and we won't be able to reinstate the policy until the lack of it shows those who once opposed it just how necessary it is. With that in mind, I prefer not to write a public letter about the subject right now.
I therefore wish this to be considered confidential.
I would like this to be treated as confidential.
I shall be very glad to receive a letter from you.
I would be really happy to get a letter from you.
In September Mr. Lincoln made a few masterly speeches in Ohio, where Mr. Douglas had preceded him on his new hobby of "squatter sovereignty," or "unfriendly legislation."
In September, Mr. Lincoln gave several impressive speeches in Ohio, where Mr. Douglas had spoken before him about his new idea of "squatter sovereignty," or "unfriendly legislation."
Clinton, Oct. 11,1859.
Clinton, October 11, 1859.
Yours truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
He spoke at Columbus, Cincinnati, and several other points, each time devoting the greater part of his address to Mr. Douglas and his theories, as if the habit of combating that illustrious chieftain was hard to break.
He spoke in Columbus, Cincinnati, and several other places, each time dedicating most of his speech to Mr. Douglas and his ideas, as if he found it difficult to stop arguing against that notable leader.
In December he went to Kansas, speaking at Elwood, Don-aphan, Troy, Atchison, and twice at Leavenworth. Wherever he went, he was met by vast assemblages of people. His speeches were principally repetitions of those previously made in Illinois; but they were very fresh and captivating to his new audiences. These journeys, which turned out to be continuous ovations, spread his name and fame far beyond the limits to which they had heretofore been restricted.
In December, he traveled to Kansas, speaking in Elwood, Doniphan, Troy, Atchison, and twice in Leavenworth. Everywhere he went, he was greeted by large crowds. His speeches mostly repeated those he had previously given in Illinois, but they felt fresh and engaging to his new audiences. These trips, which became nonstop celebrations, spread his name and reputation far beyond the limits they had previously reached.
During the winter of 1859-60, he saw that his reputation had reached such a height, that he might honorably compete with such renowned men as Seward, Chase, and Bates, for the Presidential nomination. Mr. Jackson Grimshaw of Quincy urged him very strongly on the point. At length Mr. Lincoln consented to a conference with Grimshaw and some of his more prominent friends. It took place in a committee-room in the State House. Mr. Bushnell, Mr. Hatch (the Secretary of State), Mr. Judd (Chairman of the Republican State Central Committee), Mr. Peck, and Mr. Grimshaw were present,—all of them "intimate friends." They were unanimous in opinion as to the expediency and propriety of making him a candidate. But "Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic modesty, doubted whether he could get the nomination, even if he wished it, and asked until the next morning to answer us.... The next day he authorized us to consider him, and work for him, if we pleased, as a candidate for the Presidency."
During the winter of 1859-60, he realized that his reputation had risen to a point where he could honorably compete with well-known figures like Seward, Chase, and Bates for the Presidential nomination. Mr. Jackson Grimshaw from Quincy strongly encouraged him on this matter. Eventually, Mr. Lincoln agreed to meet with Grimshaw and some of his more prominent friends. This took place in a committee room in the State House. Mr. Bushnell, Mr. Hatch (the Secretary of State), Mr. Judd (Chairman of the Republican State Central Committee), Mr. Peck, and Mr. Grimshaw were all present, and they were all "close friends." They unanimously agreed on the fitness and appropriateness of making him a candidate. However, "Mr. Lincoln, with his typical modesty, doubted whether he could secure the nomination, even if he wanted it, and asked for until the next morning to respond to us.... The next day he authorized us to consider him, and to campaign for him, if we wished, as a candidate for the Presidency."
It was in October, 1859, that Mr. Lincoln received an invitation to speak in New York. It enchanted him: no event of his life had given him more heartfelt pleasure. He went straight to his office, and, Mr. Herndon says, "looked pleased, not to say tickled. He said to me, 'Billy, I am invited to deliver a lecture in New York. Shall I go?'—'By all means,' I replied; 'and it is a good opening too.'—'If you were in my fix, what subject would you choose?' said Lincoln. 'Why, a political one: that's your forte,' I answered." Mr. Herndon remembered his partner's previous "failure,—utter failure," as a lecturer, and, on this occasion, dreaded excessively his choice of a subject. "In the absence of a friend's advice, Lincoln would as soon take the Beautiful for a subject as any thing else, when he had absolutely no sense of it." He wrote in response to the invitation, that he would avail himself of it the coming February, provided he might be permitted to make a political speech, in case he found it inconvenient to get up one of another kind. He had purposely set the day far ahead, that he might thoroughly prepare himself; and it may safely be said, that no effort of his life cost him so much labor as this one. Some of the party managers who were afterwards put to work to verify its statements, and get it out as a campaign document, are alleged to have been three weeks in finding the historical records consulted by him.
In October 1859, Mr. Lincoln got an invitation to speak in New York. He was thrilled: no event in his life had brought him more genuine joy. He went straight to his office, and Mr. Herndon says, "looked happy, even a bit tickled. He said to me, 'Billy, I've been invited to give a lecture in New York. Should I go?' — 'Absolutely,' I replied; 'it's a great opportunity too.' — 'If you were in my position, what topic would you choose?' Lincoln asked. 'Well, a political one: that’s your strength,' I answered." Mr. Herndon remembered how his partner had previously experienced "failure—utter failure" as a lecturer, and was very concerned about his choice of topic this time. "Without a friend's advice, Lincoln might just as well choose the Beautiful as any other subject, when he had no real grasp of it." He wrote back to accept the invitation for the coming February, as long as he could deliver a political speech if he found it too difficult to come up with something else. He intentionally set the date far ahead so he could prepare thoroughly; it can be said that no effort in his life cost him as much work as this one. Some of the party managers who later worked to verify its contents and get it published as a campaign document reportedly took three weeks to locate the historical records he consulted.
On the 25th of February, 1860, he arrived in New York. It was Saturday, and he spent the whole day in revising and retouching his speech. The next day he heard Beecher preach, and on Monday wandered about the city to see the sights. When the committee under whose auspices he was to speak waited upon him, they found him dressed in a sleek and shining suit of new black, covered with very apparent creases and wrinkles, acquired by being packed too closely and too long in his little valise. He felt uneasy in his new clothes and a strange place. His confusion was increased when the reporters called to get the printed slips of his speech in advance of its delivery. Mr. Lincoln knew nothing of such a custom among the orators, and had no slips. He was, in fact, not quite sure that the press would desire to publish his speech. When he reached the Cooper Institute, and was ushered into the vast hall, he was surprised to see the most cultivated men of the city awaiting him on the stand, and an immense audience assembled to hear him. Mr. Bryant introduced him as "an eminent citizen of the West, hitherto known to you only by reputation." Mr. Lincoln then began, in low, monotonous tones, which gradually became louder and clearer, the following speech:—
On February 25, 1860, he arrived in New York. It was Saturday, and he spent the entire day revising and polishing his speech. The next day, he listened to Beecher preach, and on Monday, he strolled around the city to see the sights. When the committee that had arranged for him to speak met with him, they found him wearing a sleek, shiny new black suit, which had visible creases and wrinkles from being stuffed too tightly and for too long in his small suitcase. He felt uncomfortable in his new clothes and in an unfamiliar place. His unease grew when reporters came to request printed copies of his speech before he delivered it. Mr. Lincoln was unaware of such a practice among speakers and didn’t have any copies ready. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if the press would be interested in publishing his speech. When he arrived at the Cooper Institute and was shown into the large hall, he was taken aback to find the city's most cultured men waiting for him on stage, and an enormous audience gathered to hear him. Mr. Bryant introduced him as "an eminent citizen of the West, known to you only by reputation." Mr. Lincoln then began, in soft, monotonous tones, which gradually grew louder and clearer, the following speech:—
Mr. President and Fellow-Citizens of New York,—The facts with which I shall deal this evening are mainly old and familiar; nor is there any thing new in the general use I shall make of them. If there shall be any novelty, it will be in the mode of presenting the facts, and the inferences and observations following that presentation.
Mr. President and Fellow Citizens of New York, — The information I’ll discuss tonight is mostly well-known and familiar; there’s nothing new in how I’ll use it overall. If there is anything new, it will be in how I present the information and the insights and observations that come from that presentation.
In his speech last autumn, at Columbus, Ohio, as reported in "The New-York Times," Senator Douglas said,—"Our fathers, when they framed the government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better than we do now."
In his speech last fall in Columbus, Ohio, as reported in "The New-York Times," Senator Douglas said, "Our founders, when they created the government we live under, understood this question just as well, and even better than we do now."
I fully indorse this, and I adopt it as a text for this discourse. I so adopt it, because it furnishes a precise and agreed starting-point for the discussion between Republicans and that wing of Democracy headed by Senator Douglas. It simply leaves the inquiry, "What was the understanding those fathers had of the questions mentioned?"
I completely support this and use it as a basis for this discussion. I do this because it provides a clear and common starting point for the dialogue between Republicans and that faction of the Democratic Party led by Senator Douglas. It just raises the question, "What did those founders understand about the issues mentioned?"
What is the frame of government under which we live?
What is the government system we live under?
The answer must be, "The Constitution of the United States." That Constitution consists of the original, framed in 1787 (and under which the present Government first went into operation), and twelve subsequently framed amendments, the first ten of which were framed in 1789.
The answer is, "The Constitution of the United States." That Constitution includes the original document, created in 1787 (which is when the current Government first started operating), along with twelve amendments that were added later, the first ten of which were made in 1789.
Who were our fathers that framed the Constitution? I suppose the "thirty-nine" who signed the original instrument may be fairly called our fathers who framed that part of the present Government. It is almost exactly true to say they framed it; and it is altogether true to say they fairly represented the opinion and sentiment of the whole nation at that time. Their names, being familiar to nearly all, and accessible to quite all, need not now be repeated.
Who were our founders that created the Constitution? I guess the "thirty-nine" who signed the original document can be fairly called our founders who shaped that part of the current Government. It's almost entirely accurate to say they created it; and it's completely true to say they genuinely represented the views and feelings of the entire nation at that time. Their names, being well-known to almost everyone and easy to find for nearly all, don't need to be mentioned again.
I take these "thirty-nine," for the present, as being "our fathers, who framed the Government under which we live."
I take these "thirty-nine" as "our fathers, who created the Government we live under" for now.
What is the question which, according to the text, those fathers understood just as well, and even better than we do now?
What is the question that, according to the text, those fathers understood just as well, if not better than we do today?
It is this: Does the proper division of local from Federal authority, or any thing in the Constitution, forbid our Federal Government control as to slavery in our Federal Territories?
It is this: Does the correct separation of local and Federal authority, or anything in the Constitution, prevent our Federal Government from controlling slavery in our Federal Territories?
Upon this, Douglas holds the affirmative, and Republicans the negative. This affirmative and denial form an issue; and this issue, this question, is precisely what the text declares our fathers understood better than we.
Upon this, Douglas holds the affirmative, and Republicans the negative. This affirmative and denial create a debate; and this debate, this question, is exactly what the text states our forefathers understood better than we do.
Let us now inquire whether the "thirty-nine," or any of them, ever acted upon this question; and, if they did, how they acted upon it,—how they expressed that better understanding.
Let’s now find out if the "thirty-nine," or any of them, ever addressed this question; and if they did, how they responded to it—how they conveyed that improved understanding.
In 1784,—three years before the Constitution,—the United States then owning the North-western Territory, and no other, the Congress of the Confederation had before them the question of prohibiting slavery in that Territory; and four of the "thirty-nine" who afterward framed the Constitution were in that Congress, and voted on that question. Of these, Roger Sherman, Thomas Mifflin, and Hugh Williamson voted for the prohibition; thus showing, that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from Federal authority, nor any thing else, properly forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory. The other of the four, James McHenry, voted against the prohibition, showing that, for some cause, he thought it improper to vote for it.
In 1784—three years before the Constitution—the United States owned only the Northwestern Territory. The Congress of the Confederation faced the issue of banning slavery in that Territory, and four of the "thirty-nine" who later wrote the Constitution were in that Congress and voted on it. Of these, Roger Sherman, Thomas Mifflin, and Hugh Williamson voted in favor of the ban, indicating that they believed nothing, not even the division between local and federal authority, prevented the Federal Government from regulating slavery in federal territory. The fourth, James McHenry, voted against the ban, suggesting he had reasons for not supporting it.
In 1787—still before the Constitution, but while the Convention was in session framing it, and while the North-western Territory still was the only Territory owned by the United States—the same question of prohibiting slavery in the Territory again came before the Congress of the Confederation; and three more of the "thirty-nine" who afterward signed the Constitution were in that Congress, and voted on the question. They were William Blount, William Few, and Abraham Baldwin; and they all voted for the prohibition, thus showing that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from Federal authority, nor any thing else, properly forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory. This time the prohibition became a law, being part of what is now well known as the Ordinance of '87.
In 1787—before the Constitution was finalized, but during the Convention that was drafting it, and while the North-western Territory was the only Territory owned by the United States—the issue of banning slavery in the Territory was brought before the Congress of the Confederation again. Three of the "thirty-nine" who later signed the Constitution were part of that Congress and voted on the issue. They were William Blount, William Few, and Abraham Baldwin; all of them voted for the ban, indicating that, in their view, there was no division between local and federal authority, nor anything else that prevented the federal government from regulating slavery in federal territory. This time, the ban became law, forming part of what is now commonly referred to as the Ordinance of '87.
The question of Federal control of slavery in the Territories seems not to have been directly before the convention which framed the original Constitution; and hence it is not recorded that the "thirty-nine," or any of them, while engaged on that instrument, expressed any opinion on that precise question.
The issue of federal control over slavery in the territories doesn't appear to have been directly addressed by the convention that drafted the original Constitution. As a result, there’s no record that the "thirty-nine," or any of them, shared any views on that specific issue while working on that document.
In 1789, by the First Congress which sat under the Constitution, an act was passed to enforce the Ordinance of '87, including the prohibition of slavery in the North-western Territory. The bill for this act was reported by one of the "thirty-nine,"—Thomas Fitzsimmons, then a member of the House of Representatives from Pennsylvania. It went through all its stages without a word of opposition, and finally passed both branches without yeas and nays, which is equivalent to a unanimous passage. In this Congress there were sixteen of the "thirty-nine" fathers who framed the original Constitution. They were John Langdon, Nicholas Gilman, William S. Johnson, Roger Sherman, Robert Morris, Thomas Fitzsimmons, William Few, Abraham Baldwin, Rufus King, William Patterson, George Clymer, Richard Bassett, George Read, Pierce Butler, Daniel Carrol, James Madison.
In 1789, during the First Congress that convened under the Constitution, a law was passed to enforce the Ordinance of '87, which included the ban on slavery in the Northwestern Territory. The bill for this law was introduced by one of the "thirty-nine,"—Thomas Fitzsimmons, who was then a member of the House of Representatives from Pennsylvania. It went through all its stages without any opposition and ultimately passed both chambers without a recorded vote, which means it was essentially a unanimous approval. In this Congress, there were sixteen of the "thirty-nine" founders who drafted the original Constitution. They were John Langdon, Nicholas Gilman, William S. Johnson, Roger Sherman, Robert Morris, Thomas Fitzsimmons, William Few, Abraham Baldwin, Rufus King, William Patterson, George Clymer, Richard Bassett, George Read, Pierce Butler, Daniel Carroll, and James Madison.
This shows that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from Federal authority, nor any thing in the Constitution, properly forbade Congress to prohibit slavery in the Federal territory; else both their fidelity to correct principle, and their oath to support the Constitution, would have constrained them to oppose the prohibition.
This shows that, in their view, there was no clear boundary between local and Federal authority, and nothing in the Constitution truly prevented Congress from banning slavery in Federal territory; otherwise, both their commitment to the right principles and their oath to uphold the Constitution would have compelled them to resist the ban.
Again, George Washington, another of the "thirty-nine," was then President of the United States, and, as such, approved and signed the bill, thus completing its validity as a law, and thus showing, that, in his understanding, no line dividing local from Federal authority, nor any thing in the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory.
Again, George Washington, one of the "thirty-nine," was then President of the United States, and by approving and signing the bill, he confirmed its legitimacy as a law. This demonstrated that, in his view, there was no boundary separating local from federal authority, and nothing in the Constitution prevented the federal government from regulating slavery in federal territory.
No great while after the adoption of the original Constitution, North Carolina ceded to the Federal Government the country now constituting the State of Tennessee; and a few years later Georgia ceded that which now constitutes the States of Mississippi and Alabama. In both deeds of cession it was made a condition by the ceding States that the Federal Government should not prohibit slavery in the ceded country. Besides this, slavery was then actually in the ceded country. Under these circumstances, Congress, on taking charge of these countries, did not absolutely prohibit slavery within them. But they did interfere with it, take control of it, even there, to a certain extent. In 1798, Congress organized the Territory of Mississippi. In the act of organization they prohibited the bringing of slaves into the Territory, from any place without the United States, by fine, and giving freedom to slaves so brought. This act passed both branches of Congress without yeas and nays. In that Congress were three of the "thirty-nine" who framed the original Constitution: they were John Langdon, George Read, and Abraham Baldwin. They all, probably, voted for it. Certainly they would have placed their opposition to it upon record, if, in their understanding, any line dividing local from Federal authority, or any thing in the Constitution, properly forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory.
Not long after the original Constitution was adopted, North Carolina gave the Federal Government the land that now makes up the State of Tennessee. A few years later, Georgia ceded what is now Mississippi and Alabama. In both agreements, the states that ceded the land required that the Federal Government not ban slavery in those areas. At that time, slavery already existed in the ceded territories. Given this situation, when Congress took control of these lands, it didn’t completely prohibit slavery. However, they did regulate it and exercised some control over it. In 1798, Congress established the Territory of Mississippi. In the law that set it up, they banned the importation of slaves into the Territory from anywhere outside the United States, imposing fines and granting freedom to any slaves brought in. This act was approved by both houses of Congress without recorded votes. Among the members of that Congress were three of the “thirty-nine” who framed the original Constitution: John Langdon, George Read, and Abraham Baldwin. They likely all voted for it. They would have noted their opposition if they believed there was any provision in the Constitution that prevented the Federal Government from regulating slavery in federal territories.
In 1803 the Federal Government purchased the Louisiana country. Our former territorial acquisitions came from certain of our own States; but this Louisiana country was acquired from a foreign nation. In 1804 Congress gave a territorial organization to that part of it which now constitutes the State of Louisiana. New Orleans, lying within that part, was an old and comparatively large city. There were other considerable towns and settlements, and slavery was extensively and thoroughly intermingled with the people. Congress did not, in the Territorial Act, prohibit slavery; but they did interfere with it, take control of it, in a more marked and extensive way than they did in the case of Mississippi. The substance of the provision therein made, in relation to slaves, was,—
In 1803, the federal government bought the Louisiana territory. Our earlier land acquisitions came from some of our own states, but this Louisiana territory was obtained from a foreign country. In 1804, Congress organized a territorial government for that part of the land that now makes up the State of Louisiana. New Orleans, located within that area, was an old and relatively large city. There were also other significant towns and settlements, and slavery was widely integrated into the community. Congress did not prohibit slavery in the Territorial Act, but they did regulate it more significantly and extensively than they did in the case of Mississippi. The main provision regarding slaves was,—
First, That no slave should be imported into the Territory from foreign parts.
First, no slave should be brought into the Territory from foreign places.
Second, That no slave should be carried into it who had been imported into the United States since the first day of May, 1798.
Second, no slave should be brought into it if they were imported into the United States after May 1, 1798.
Third, That no slave should be carried into it, except by the owner, and for his own use as a settler; the penalty in all the cases being a fine upon the violator of the law, and freedom to the slave.
Third, No slave should be brought into it, except by the owner, and only for their own use as a settler; the penalty for any violations being a fine for the offender and freedom for the slave.
This act also was passed without yeas and nays. In the Congress which passed it there were two of the "thirty-nine:" they were Abraham Baldwin and Jonathan Dayton. As stated in the case of Mississippi, it is probable they both voted for it. They would not have allowed it to pass without recording their opposition to it, if, in their understanding, it violated either the line proper dividing local from Federal authority or any provision of the Constitution.
This act was also passed without any recorded votes. In the Congress that passed it, there were two of the "thirty-nine": Abraham Baldwin and Jonathan Dayton. As mentioned in the case of Mississippi, it's likely that they both voted in favor of it. They wouldn't have let it pass without noting their opposition if they thought it violated the clear division between local and Federal authority or any part of the Constitution.
In 1819-20 came and passed the Missouri question. Many votes were taken by yeas and nays, in both branches of Congress, upon the various phases of the general question. Two of the "thirty-nine"—Rufus King and Charles Pinckney—were members of that Congress. Mr. King steadily voted for slavery prohibition and against all compromises; while Mr. Pinckney as steadily voted against slavery prohibition and against all compromises. By this Mr. King showed, that, in his understanding, no line dividing local from Federal authority, nor any thing in the Constitution, was violated by Congress prohibiting slavery in Federal territory; while Mr. Pinckney, by his votes, showed, that, in his understanding, there was some sufficient reason for opposing such prohibition in that case.
In 1819-20, the Missouri question came up and was eventually resolved. Numerous votes were taken by yeas and nays in both houses of Congress regarding the different aspects of this issue. Two of the "thirty-nine"—Rufus King and Charles Pinckney—were members of that Congress. Mr. King consistently voted for the prohibition of slavery and against all compromises, whereas Mr. Pinckney consistently voted against slavery prohibition and also against all compromises. By this, Mr. King demonstrated that, in his view, Congress was not violating any line between local and Federal authority, nor anything in the Constitution, by prohibiting slavery in Federal territory; while Mr. Pinckney, through his votes, indicated that he believed there was a valid reason for opposing such a prohibition in this case.
The cases I have mentioned are the only acts of the "thirty-nine," or of any of them, upon the direct issue, which I have been able to discover.
The cases I mentioned are the only actions of the "thirty-nine," or any of them, on the direct issue that I have been able to find.
To enumerate the persons who thus acted as being four in 1784, three in 1787, seventeen in 1789, three in 1798, two in 1804, and two in 1819-20,—there would be thirty-one of them. But this would be counting John Lang-don, Roger Sherman, William Few, Rufus King, and George Read each twice, and Abraham Baldwin four times. The true number of those of the "thirty-nine" whom I have shown to have acted upon the question, which, by the text, they understood better than we, is twenty-three, leaving sixteen not shown to have acted upon it in any way.
To count the individuals who acted, there were four in 1784, three in 1787, seventeen in 1789, three in 1798, two in 1804, and two in 1819-20—making a total of thirty-one. However, this would mean counting John Langdon, Roger Sherman, William Few, Rufus King, and George Read each twice, and Abraham Baldwin four times. The actual number of those "thirty-nine" that I demonstrated acted on the issue, which they understood better than we do, is twenty-three, leaving sixteen who haven’t been shown to have acted on it in any way.
Here, then, we have twenty-three out of our "thirty-nine" fathers, who framed the government under which we live, who have, upon their official responsibility and their corporal oaths, acted upon the very question which the text affirms they "understood just as well, and even better than we do now;" and twenty-one of them—a clear majority of the "thirty-nine"—so acting upon it as to make them guilty of gross political impropriety and wilful perjury if, in their understanding, any proper division between local and Federal authority, or any thing in the Constitution they had made themselves, and sworn to support, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories. Thus the twenty-one acted; and, as actions speak louder than words, so actions under such responsibility speak still louder.
Here, we have twenty-three out of our "thirty-nine" founders, who established the government we live under, and who, based on their official responsibilities and oaths, addressed the very issue that the text claims they "understood just as well, if not better than we do now." Twenty-one of them—a clear majority of the "thirty-nine"—acted in a way that would make them guilty of serious political misconduct and willful dishonesty if they believed that any legitimate separation between local and federal authority, or anything in the Constitution they created and promised to uphold, prevented the federal government from regulating slavery in the federal territories. This is how the twenty-one acted; and, since actions speak louder than words, actions taken under such responsibilities speak even louder.
Two of the twenty-three voted against congressional prohibition of slavery in the Federal Territories in the instances in which they acted upon the question; but for what reasons they so voted is not known. They may have done so because they thought a proper division of local from Federal authority, or some provision or principle of the Constitution, stood in the way; or they may, without any such question, have voted against the prohibition, on what appeared to them to be sufficient grounds of expediency. No one who has sworn to support the Constitution can conscientiously vote for what he understands to be an unconstitutional measure, however expedient he may think it; but one may and ought to vote against a measure which he deems constitutional if, at the same time, he deems it inexpedient. It, therefore, would be unsafe to set down even the two who voted against the prohibition as having done so because, in their understanding, any proper division of local from Federal authority, or any thing in the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory.
Two of the twenty-three voted against banning slavery in the Federal Territories when they had the chance; however, their reasons for voting that way are unknown. They might have believed that a proper separation of local and Federal authority, or some part of the Constitution, was an obstacle; or they could have voted against the ban simply for what they considered reasonable practical reasons. Anyone who has pledged to uphold the Constitution cannot honestly vote for something they believe is unconstitutional, no matter how sensible they think it is; but they can and should vote against something they see as constitutional if they also view it as impractical. Therefore, it's not accurate to assume that those two voted against the ban because they believed that any proper division of local from Federal authority, or anything in the Constitution, prevented the Federal Government from regulating slavery in Federal territory.
The remaining sixteen of the "thirty-nine," so far as I have discovered, have left no record of their understanding upon the direct question of Federal control of slavery in the Federal Territories. But there is much reason to believe that their understanding upon that question would not have appeared different from that of their twenty-three compeers, had it been manifested at all.
The remaining sixteen of the "thirty-nine," as far as I've found, have not left any record of their views on the specific issue of Federal control of slavery in the Federal Territories. However, it is highly likely that their views on that question would have aligned with those of their twenty-three counterparts, had they been expressed at all.
For the purpose of adhering rigidly to the text, I have purposely omitted whatever understanding may have been manifested by any person, however distinguished, other than the "thirty-nine" fathers who framed the original Constitution; and, for the same reason, I have also omitted whatever understanding may have been manifested by any of the "thirty-nine" even, on any other phase of the general question of slavery. If we should look into their acts and declarations on those other phases, as the foreign slave-trade, and the morality and policy of slavery generally, it would appear to us, that, on the direct question of Federal control of slavery in Federal Territories, the sixteen, if they had acted at all, would probably have acted just as the twenty-three did. Among that sixteen were several of the most noted antislavery men of those times,—as Dr. Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, and Gouverneur Morris; while there was not one now known to have been otherwise, unless it may be John Rutledge of South Carolina.
To stick closely to the text, I've deliberately left out any interpretations that might have come from anyone, no matter how notable, other than the "thirty-nine" founders who wrote the original Constitution. For the same reason, I've also excluded any understanding expressed by any of the "thirty-nine" on other aspects of the slavery debate. If we were to examine their actions and statements on those other topics, like the foreign slave trade and the ethics and politics of slavery in general, it would seem that regarding the question of federal oversight of slavery in federal territories, the sixteen, if they had taken any action, likely would have acted just like the twenty-three. Among those sixteen were some of the most prominent anti-slavery figures of the time, such as Dr. Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, and Gouverneur Morris; while there doesn’t appear to be anyone else known to have been against it, unless you count John Rutledge of South Carolina.
The sum of the whole is, that of our "thirty-nine" fathers who framed the original Constitution, twenty-one—a clear majority of the whole—certainly understood that no proper division of local from Federal authority, nor any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control slavery in the Federal Territories; while all the rest probably had the same understanding. Such, unquestionably, was the understanding of our fathers who framed the original Constitution; and the text affirms that they understood the question better than we.
The bottom line is that out of our "thirty-nine" founding fathers who created the original Constitution, twenty-one—a clear majority—definitely understood that there was no proper distinction between local and Federal authority, nor any part of the Constitution that prevented the Federal Government from regulating slavery in the Federal Territories; while the rest likely had the same understanding. This was undoubtedly the understanding of our founding fathers who drafted the original Constitution, and the text confirms that they grasped the issue better than we do.
But, so far, I have been considering the understanding of the question manifested by the framers of the original Constitution. In and by the original instrument, a mode was provided for amending it; and, as I have already stated, the present frame of government under which we live consists of that original, and twelve amendatory articles framed and adopted since. Those who now insist that Federal control of slavery in Federal Territories violates the Constitution point us to the provisions which they suppose it thus violates; and, as I understand, they all fix upon provisions in these amendatory articles, and not in the original instrument. The Supreme Court, in the Dred-Scott case, plant themselves upon the fifth amendment, which provides that "no person shall be deprived of property without due process of law;" while Senator Douglas and his peculiar adherents plant themselves upon the tenth amendment, providing that "the powers not granted by the Constitution are reserved to the States respectively and to the people."
But so far, I've been looking at how the framers of the original Constitution understood the question. The original document included a way to amend it, and as I've already mentioned, the government we live under now consists of that original Constitution along with twelve amendments that were framed and adopted later. Those who insist that federal control of slavery in federal territories goes against the Constitution point to the provisions they believe are being violated; and from what I understand, they focus on provisions in these amendments, not in the original document. The Supreme Court, in the Dred Scott case, bases its stance on the fifth amendment, which states that "no person shall be deprived of property without due process of law;" while Senator Douglas and his supporters rely on the tenth amendment, which states that "the powers not granted by the Constitution are reserved to the States respectively and to the people."
Now, it so happens that these amendments were framed by the first Congress which sat under the Constitution,—the identical Congress which passed the act already mentioned, enforcing the prohibition of slavery in the North-western Territory. Not only was it the same Congress, but they were the identical, same individual men, who, at the same time within the session, had under consideration, and in progress toward maturity, these constitutional amendments, and this act prohibiting slavery in all the territory the nation then owned. The constitutional amendments were introduced before, and passed after, the act enforcing the Ordinance of '87; so that, during the whole pendency of the act to enforce the Ordinance, the constitutional amendments were also pending.
Now, it just so happens that these amendments were created by the first Congress that met under the Constitution—the same Congress that passed the act mentioned earlier, which enforced the prohibition of slavery in the Northwest Territory. Not only was it the same Congress, but the exact same individuals who were also considering and moving forward on these constitutional amendments while at the same time working on the act that prohibited slavery in all the territory the nation then owned. The constitutional amendments were introduced before and passed after the act enforcing the Ordinance of '87; so, throughout the entire process of the act to enforce the Ordinance, the constitutional amendments were also in progress.
That Congress, consisting in all of seventy-six members, including sixteen of the framers of the original Constitution, as before stated, were preeminently our fathers who framed that part of the government under which we live, which is now claimed as forbidding the Federal Government to control slavery in the Federal Territories.
That Congress, made up of seventy-six members, including sixteen framers of the original Constitution, as mentioned earlier, were clearly our founding fathers who created the part of the government we live under today, which is now said to prevent the Federal Government from regulating slavery in the Federal Territories.
Is it not a little presumptuous in any one at this day to affirm that the two things which that Congress deliberately framed, and earned to maturity at the same time, are absolutely inconsistent with each other? And does not such affirmation become impudently absurd when coupled with the other affirmation, from the same mouth, that those who did the two things alleged to be inconsistent understood whether they were really inconsistent better than we,—better than he who affirms that they are inconsistent?
Isn't it a bit arrogant for anyone today to claim that the two things that Congress carefully created and developed at the same time are completely contradictory? And doesn't this claim become ridiculously absurd when it's paired with the other claim, from the same person, that those who made the two supposedly inconsistent decisions understood whether they were truly inconsistent better than we do—better than the person claiming they are inconsistent?
It is surely safe to assume that the "thirty-nine" framers of the original Constitution, and the seventy-six members of the Congress which framed the amendments thereto, taken together, do certainly include those who may be fairly called "our fathers who framed the government under which we live." And so assuming, I defy any man to show that any one of them ever, in his whole life, declared, that, in his understanding, any proper division of local from Federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories. I go a step farther. I defy any one to show that any living man in the whole world ever did, prior to the beginning of the present century (and I might almost say prior to the beginning of the last half of the present century), declare, that, in his understanding, any proper division of local from Federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories. To those who now so declare, I give, not only "our fathers, who framed the government under which we live," but with them all other living men within the century in which it was framed, among whom to search, and they shall not be able to find the evidence of a single man agreeing with them.
It’s safe to assume that the thirty-nine framers of the original Constitution, along with the seventy-six members of Congress who created the amendments, can definitely be considered "our fathers who established the government we live under." With that in mind, I challenge anyone to show that any one of them ever claimed, in their whole lives, that any proper separation of state from federal authority or any part of the Constitution prohibited the federal government from regulating slavery in federal territories. I’ll go a step further. I challenge anyone to show that any person alive in the entire world ever stated, before the start of this century (and I could almost say before the beginning of the last half of this century), that, in their opinion, any proper separation of local and federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, stopped the federal government from controlling slavery in federal territories. To those who now make such claims, I not only present the "fathers who framed the government we live under," but also all other living people from the century in which it was created, and they won’t be able to find a single individual who agrees with them.
Now, and here, let me guard a little against being misunderstood. I do not mean to say we are bound to follow implicitly in whatever our fathers did. To do so would be to discard all the lights of current experience,—to reject all progress,—all improvement. What I do say is, that, if we would supplant the opinions and policy of our fathers in any case, we should do so upon evidence so conclusive, and argument so clear, that even their great authority, fairly considered and weighed, cannot stand; and most surely not in a case whereof we ourselves declare they understood the question better than we.
Now, let me clarify to avoid any misunderstanding. I don’t mean to suggest that we must blindly follow everything our ancestors did. Doing so would mean ignoring the insights of modern experience—rejecting progress and any improvements. What I'm saying is that if we want to replace the views and policies of our forefathers in any situation, we need to have conclusive evidence and clear arguments that show their authority—when considered fairly—can’t hold up; especially not in a case where we ourselves admit they understood the issue better than we do.
If any man, at this day, sincerely believes that a proper division of local from Federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories, he is right to say so, and to enforce his position by all truthful evidence and fair argument which he can. But he has no right to mislead others, who have less access to history and less leisure to study it, into the false belief that "our fathers, who framed the government under which we live," were of the same opinion, thus substituting falsehood and deception for truthful evidence and fair argument. If any man at this day sincerely believes "our fathers, who framed the government under which we live," used and applied principles, in other cases, which ought to have led them to understand that a proper division of local from Federal authority, or some part of the Constitution, forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories, he is right to say so. But he should, at the same time, brave the responsibility of declaring, that, in his opinion, he understands their principles better than they did themselves; and especially should he not shirk that responsibility by asserting that they "understood the question just as well, and even better than we do now."
If anyone today truly believes that a proper separation of local and federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, prevents the federal government from regulating slavery in federal territories, they are right to express that belief and support their stance with truthful evidence and fair arguments. However, they have no right to mislead others, who may have less access to historical information and less time to study it, into thinking that "our fathers, who created the government we live under," shared the same opinion, thereby replacing truth with deception. If anyone today genuinely believes that "our fathers, who framed the government under which we live," applied principles in other situations that should have led them to realize that a proper division of local and federal authority, or part of the Constitution, prohibits the federal government from controlling slavery in the federal territories, they are entitled to say so. But they should also take on the responsibility of stating that, in their view, they understand those principles better than the framers did, and they especially should not shy away from that responsibility by claiming that the framers "understood the issue just as well, or even better than we do now."
But enough. Let all who believe that "our fathers, who framed the government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better than we do now," speak as they spoke, and act as they acted upon it. This is all Republicans ask, all Republicans desire, in relation to slavery. As those fathers marked it, so let it be again marked, as an evil not to be extended, but to be tolerated and protected only because of and so far as its actual presence among us makes that toleration and protection a necessity. Let all the guaranties those fathers gave it be, not grudgingly, but fully and fairly maintained. For this Republicans contend, and with this, so far as I know or believe, they will be content.
But enough. Let everyone who believes that "our fathers, who created the government we live under, understood this question just as well, if not better than we do now," speak and act as they did. This is all Republicans ask for and desire regarding slavery. As those fathers addressed it, so should it be addressed again, as an issue not to be expanded, but to be tolerated and protected only because its actual presence among us makes that tolerance and protection necessary. Let all the guarantees those fathers provided be maintained, not grudgingly, but fully and fairly. For this Republicans argue, and with this, as far as I know or believe, they will be satisfied.
And now, if they would listen,—as I suppose they will not,—I would address a few words to the Southern people.
And now, if they would listen—which I doubt they will—I want to say a few words to the people of the South.
I would say to them, You consider yourselves a reasonable and a just people; and I consider, that, in the general qualities of reason and justice, you are not inferior to any other people. Still, when you speak of us Republicans, you do so only to denounce us as reptiles, or, at the best, as no better than outlaws. You will grant a hearing to pirates or murderers, but nothing like it to "Black Republicans." In all your contentions with one another, each of you deems an unconditional condemnation of "Black Republicanism" as the first thing to be attended to. Indeed, such condemnation of us seems to be an indispensable prerequisite—license, so to speak—among you to be admitted or permitted to speak at all.
I would say to them, You think of yourselves as reasonable and fair people; and I believe that, in terms of reason and fairness, you aren't any worse than anyone else. Yet, when you talk about us Republicans, you only criticize us as if we are reptiles, or at best, no better than outlaws. You'll listen to pirates or murderers, but not to "Black Republicans." In all your arguments with each other, each of you considers a complete condemnation of "Black Republicanism" to be the first priority. In fact, condemning us seems to be a necessary requirement—like a license, so to speak—just to be able to speak at all.
Now can you, or not, be prevailed upon to pause and to consider whether this is quite just to us, or even to yourselves?
Now can you, or can't you, be convinced to stop and think about whether this is really fair to us, or even to yourselves?
Bring forward your charges and specifications, and then be patient long enough to hear us deny or justify.
Present your claims and details, and then wait patiently for us to deny or explain them.
You say we are sectional. We deny it. That makes an issue; and the burden of proof is upon you. You produce your proof; and what is it? Why, that our party has no existence in your section,—gets no votes in your section. The fact is substantially true; but does it prove the issue? If it does, then in case we should, without change of principle, begin to get votes in your section, we should thereby cease to be sectional. You cannot escape this conclusion; and yet are you willing to abide by it? If you are, you will probably soon find that we have ceased to be sectional, for we shall get votes in your section this very year. You will then begin to discover, as the truth plainly is, that your proof does not touch the issue. The fact that we get no votes in your section is a fact of your making, and not of ours. And if there be fault in that fact, that fault is primarily yours, and remains so until you show that we repel you by some wrong principle or practice. If we do repel you by any wrong principle or practice, the fault is ours; but this brings us to where you ought to have started,—to a discussion of the right or wrong of our principle. If our principle, put in practice, would wrong your section for the benefit of ours, or for any other object, then our principle, and we with it, are sectional, and are justly opposed and denounced as such. Meet us, then, on the question of whether our principle, put in practice, would wrong your section; and so meet it as if it were possible that something may be said on our side. Do you accept the challenge? No? Then you really believe that the principle which our fathers, who framed the government under which we live, thought so clearly right as to adopt it, and indorse it again and again upon their official oaths, is, in fact, so clearly wrong as to demand your condemnation without a moment's consideration.
You say we're sectional. We deny it. That brings up a debate, and the burden of proof is on you. Show us your evidence; and what is it? That our party doesn't exist in your area — that we get no votes there. That's mostly true, but does it prove your point? If it does, then if we start getting votes in your area without changing our principles, it would mean we’re no longer sectional. You can't avoid this conclusion; but are you ready to accept it? If so, you'll probably soon see that we’ve stopped being sectional, because we will get votes in your area this very year. You'll then start to realize, as the truth shows, that your evidence doesn’t affect the issue. The fact that we don’t get votes in your area is something you’ve created, not us. And if there's a problem with that fact, the fault is primarily yours, and it stays that way until you prove that we’re pushing you away with some wrong principle or action. If we are pushing you away with any wrong principle or action, then that fault is ours; but that leads us to where you should have begun — discussing whether our principle is right or wrong. If our principle would harm your area for the benefit of ours, or for any other reason, then yes, our principle and we are sectional, and it’s reasonable to oppose and condemn us for it. So let's discuss whether our principle, when put into action, would harm your area; and let’s approach it as if it’s possible that there’s something to defend on our side. Do you accept the challenge? No? Then do you truly believe that the principle which our founding fathers, who established the government we live under, believed was so clearly right that they adopted it and reaffirmed it in their official oaths, is actually so clearly wrong that it deserves your condemnation without any consideration?
Some of you delight to flaunt in our faces the warning against sectional parties given by Washington in his Farewell Address. Less than eight years before Washington gave that warning, he had, as President of the United States, approved and signed an act of Congress enforcing the prohibition of slavery in the North-western Territory, which act embodied the policy of the Government upon that subject up to and at the very moment he penned that warning; and about one year after he penned it he wrote Lafayette that he considered that prohibition a wise measure, expressing, in the same connection, his hope that we should some time have a confederacy of Free States.
Some of you love to flaunt the warning against sectional parties given by Washington in his Farewell Address. Less than eight years before he issued that warning, as President of the United States, he approved and signed an act of Congress that enforced the prohibition of slavery in the Northwest Territory, which reflected the government's policy on that issue up to and at the very moment he wrote that warning. About a year after writing it, he told Lafayette that he believed that prohibition was a wise decision and expressed his hope that we would eventually have a confederacy of Free States.
Bearing this in mind, and seeing that sectionalism has since arisen upon this same subject, is that warning a weapon in your hands against us, or in our hands against you? Could Washington himself speak, would he cast the blame of that sectionalism upon us, who sustain his policy, or upon you, who repudiate it? We respect that warning of Washington; and we commend it to you, together with his example pointing to the right application of it.
Keeping this in mind, and noticing that sectionalism has emerged around this same issue, is that warning a tool in your hands against us, or in our hands against you? If Washington could speak, would he blame that sectionalism on us, who support his policy, or on you, who reject it? We respect Washington's warning; and we recommend it to you, along with his example showing the correct way to apply it.
But you say you are conservative,—eminently conservative; while we are revolutionary, destructive, or something of the sort. What is conservatism? Is it not adherence to the old and tried against the new and untried? We stick to, contend for, the identical old-policy on the point in controversy which was adopted by our fathers who framed the government under which we live; while you, with one accord, reject and scout and spit upon that old policy, and insist upon substituting something new. True, you disagree among yourselves as to what that substitute shall be. You have considerable variety of new propositions and plans; but you are unanimous in rejecting and denouncing the old policy of the fathers. Some of you are for reviving the foreign slave-trade; some for a Congressional Slave-code for the Territories; some for Congress forbidding the Territories to prohibit slavery within their limits; some for maintaining slavery in the Territories through the judiciary; some for the "gur-reat pur-rinciple" that, "if one man would enslave another, no third man should object," fantastically called "popular sovereignty;" but never a man among you in favor of Federal prohibition of slavery in Federal Territories, according to the practice of our fathers, who framed the government under which we live. Not one of all your various plans can show a precedent or an advocate in the century within which our Government originated. Consider, then, whether your claim of conservatism for yourselves, and your charge of destructiveness against us, are based on the most clear and stable foundations.
But you say you're conservative—very conservative; while we are revolutionary, destructive, or something like that. What is conservatism? Isn't it sticking to the old and proven against the new and untested? We hold on to the same old policy on the controversial issue that our forefathers adopted when they created the government we live under; while you all unanimously dismiss, ridicule, and reject that old policy and insist on replacing it with something new. It's true that you don't all agree on what that substitute should be. You have a range of new ideas and plans; but you're all in agreement on rejecting and condemning the old policy of the founders. Some of you want to bring back the foreign slave trade; some want a Congressional Slave Code for the Territories; some want Congress to prevent the Territories from banning slavery within their boundaries; some want to maintain slavery in the Territories through the courts; some back the "great principle" that "if one man can enslave another, no third man should object," whimsically called "popular sovereignty;" but not a single one of you supports a Federal ban on slavery in Federal Territories, as our forefathers intended when they established the government we live under. None of your various plans can point to a precedent or a supporter from the century during which our Government was founded. So, consider whether your self-proclaimed conservatism and your accusations of destructiveness towards us are truly grounded on solid and clear foundations.
Again, you say we have made the slavery question more prominent than it formerly was. We deny it. We admit that it is more prominent, but we deny that we made it so. It was not we, but you, who discarded the old policy of the fathers. We resisted, and still resist, your innovation; and thence comes the greater prominence of the question. Would you have that question reduced to its former proportions? Go back to that old policy. What has been will be again, under the same conditions. If you would have the peace of the old times, re-adopt the precepts and policy of the old times.
Once again, you claim that we've brought the issue of slavery to the forefront more than it used to be. We disagree. We acknowledge that it is more prominent now, but we reject the idea that we made it so. It wasn't us, but you, who abandoned the old ways of the founding fathers. We opposed and still oppose your changes, and that's why this issue has gained more attention. Do you want to reduce this issue to what it used to be? Return to that old approach. What once was can be again, under the same circumstances. If you want the peace of the past, you need to reinstate the principles and policies of those times.
You charge that we stir up insurrections among your slaves. We deny it. And what is your proof? Harper's Ferry! John Brown! John Brown was no Republican; and you have failed to implicate a single Republican in his Harper's Ferry enterprise. If any member of our party is guilty in that matter, you know it, or you do not know it. If you do know it, you are inexcusable to not designate the man, and prove the fact. If you do not know it, you are inexcusable to assert it, and especially to persist in the assertion after you have tried and failed to make the proof. You need not be told that persisting in a charge which one does not know to be true is simply malicious slander.
You claim that we're inciting rebellions among your slaves. We disagree. And what’s your evidence? Harper's Ferry! John Brown! John Brown was not a Republican, and you haven't managed to link a single Republican to his Harper's Ferry actions. If any member of our party is involved in that situation, you either know it or you don't. If you do know it, it's inexcusable not to name the person and provide proof. If you don’t know it, it’s inexcusable to make that claim, especially to keep insisting on it after you've tried and failed to back it up. You shouldn't need to be reminded that sticking to an accusation without knowing it's true is just malicious slander.
Some of you admit that no Republican designedly aided or encouraged the Harper's-Ferry affair, but still insist that our doctrines and declarations necessarily lead to such results. We do not believe it. We know we hold to no doctrine, and make no declarations, which were not held to and made by our fathers, who framed the government under which we live. You never deal fairly by us in relation to this affair. When it occurred, some important State elections were near at hand; and you were in evident glee with the belief, that, by charging the blame upon us, you could get an advantage of us in those elections. The elections came; and your expectations were not quite fulfilled. Every Republican man knew, that, as to himself at least, your charge was a slander, and he was not much inclined by it to cast his vote in your favor. Republican doctrines and declarations are accompanied with a continual protest against any interference whatever with your slaves, or with you about your slaves. Surely this does not encourage them to revolt. True, we do, in common with our fathers who framed the government under which we live, declare our belief that slavery is wrong; but the slaves do not hear us declare even this. For any thing we say or do, the slaves would scarcely know there is a Republican party. I believe they would not, in fact, generally know it but for your misrepresentations of us in their hearing. In your political contest among yourselves, each faction charges the other with sympathy with Black Republicanism; and then, to give point to the charge, defines Black Republicanism to simply be insurrection, blood, and thunder among the slaves.
Some of you acknowledge that no Republican intentionally supported or encouraged the Harper's Ferry incident, but you still argue that our beliefs and statements inevitably lead to such outcomes. We disagree. We know we uphold no belief and make no statements that weren't also held and made by our forefathers, who established the government under which we live. You don’t treat us fairly regarding this incident. When it happened, some important state elections were approaching, and you were clearly pleased with the idea that by blaming us, you could gain an advantage in those elections. The elections took place, and your expectations weren't entirely met. Every Republican man knew that your accusation was a falsehood aimed at him, and he was not inclined to vote for you because of it. Republican beliefs and statements come with a constant objection to any interference with your slaves or with you concerning your slaves. Surely, this does not incite them to rebel. It’s true that, like our forefathers who founded the government we live under, we declare our belief that slavery is wrong; but the slaves don’t hear us say even that. Based on what we say or do, the slaves would hardly know there is a Republican party. I believe they generally wouldn’t, in fact, know about it if it weren’t for your misrepresentations of us in front of them. In your political battles among yourselves, each group accuses the other of having ties to Black Republicanism; and then, to sharpen the accusation, defines Black Republicanism as just insurrection, violence, and chaos among the slaves.
Slave insurrections are no more common now than they were before the Republican party was organized. What induced the Southampton Insurrection, twenty-eight years ago, in which, at least, three times as many lives were lost as at Harper's Ferry? You can scarcely stretch your very elastic fancy to the conclusion that Southampton was got up by Black Republicanism. In the present state of things in the United States, I do not think a general, or even a very extensive slave insurrection, is possible. The indispensable concert of action cannot be attained. The slaves have no means of rapid communication; nor can incendiary free men, black or white, supply it. The explosive materials are everywhere in parcels; but there neither are, nor can be supplied, the indispensable connecting trains.
Slave rebellions are no more common now than they were before the Republican Party was formed. What triggered the Southampton Insurrection, twenty-eight years ago, where at least three times as many lives were lost compared to Harper's Ferry? It's hard to imagine that Southampton was sparked by Black Republicanism. Given the current situation in the United States, I don't believe a widespread or even a major slave uprising is possible. The necessary coordination can't be achieved. The slaves have no quick means of communication, and incendiary free individuals, whether Black or white, cannot provide it. The potential for explosions exists everywhere in small pockets, but there are no connecting links that can supply what is absolutely needed.
Much is said by Southern people about the affection of slaves for their masters and mistresses; and a part of it, at least, is true. A plot for an uprising could scarcely be devised and communicated to twenty individuals before some one of them, to save the life of a favorite master or mistress, would divulge it. This is the rule; and the slave revolution in Hayti was not an exception to it, but a case occurring under peculiar circumstances. The gunpowder plot of British history, though not connected with the slaves, was more in point. In that case, only about twenty were admitted to the secret; and yet one of them, in his anxiety to save a friend, betrayed the plot to that friend, and, by consequence, averted the calamity. Occasional poisoning from the kitchen, and open or stealthy assassinations in the field, and local revolts extending to a score or so, will continue to occur as the natural results of slavery; but no general insurrection of slaves, as I think, can happen in this country for a long time. Whoever much fears, or much hopes, for such an event will be alike disappointed.
A lot is said by people in the South about the bond between slaves and their masters and mistresses, and at least some of it is true. It would be nearly impossible to plan an uprising and share it with twenty people without one of them revealing it to protect a beloved master or mistress. This is the norm; the slave rebellion in Haiti was no exception, but rather a situation that came with unique circumstances. The Gunpowder Plot in British history, while not involving slaves, is more relevant here. In that case, only about twenty people knew the secret, yet one of them, eager to protect a friend, ended up revealing the plot, which prevented disaster. There will be occasional poisonings from the kitchen, along with open or sneaky assassinations in the fields, and small local revolts will still happen as a natural consequence of slavery; however, I believe a widespread slave uprising in this country is unlikely for a long time. Those who fear or hope excessively for such an event will be equally disappointed.
In the language of Mr. Jefferson, uttered many years ago, "It is still in our power to direct the process of emancipation and deportation peaceably, and in such slow degrees, as that the evil will wear off insensibly; and their places be, pari passu, filled up by free white laborers. If, on the contrary, it is left to force itself on, human nature must shudder at the prospect held up."
In the words of Mr. Jefferson, spoken many years ago, "We still have the ability to manage the process of freeing and relocating people peacefully, and at such a gradual pace that the harm will fade away unnoticed; and their positions will be, pari passu, taken by free white workers. If, on the other hand, it's allowed to happen forcefully, human nature must tremble at the future that's being suggested."
Mr. Jefferson did not mean to say, nor do I, that the power of emancipation is in the Federal Government. He spoke of Virginia; and, as to the power of emancipation, I speak of the slaveholding States only.
Mr. Jefferson didn’t intend to say, nor do I, that the power to free the enslaved is in the Federal Government. He was talking about Virginia; and when it comes to the power to emancipate, I’m only referring to the slaveholding States.
The Federal Government, however, as we insist, has the power of restraining the extension of the institution,—the power to insure that a slave insurrection shall never occur on any American soil which is now free from slavery.
The Federal Government, however, as we insist, has the power to limit the spread of the institution — the power to ensure that a slave uprising will never happen on any American soil that is currently free from slavery.
John Brown's effort was peculiar. It was not a slave insurrection. It was an attempt by white men to get up a revolt among slaves, in which the slaves refused to participate. In fact, it was so absurd that the slaves, with all their ignorance, saw plainly enough it could not succeed. 'That affair, in its philosophy, corresponds with the many attempts, related in history, at the assassination of kings and emperors. An enthusiast broods over the oppression of a people till he fancies himself commissioned by Heaven to liberate them. He ventures the attempt, which ends in little else than in his own execution. Orsini's attempt on Louis Napoleon, and John Brown's attempt at Harper's Ferry, were, in their philosophy, precisely the same. The eagerness to cast blame on old England in the one case, and on New England in the other, does not disprove the sameness of the two things.
John Brown's effort was unusual. It wasn't a slave uprising; it was an attempt by white men to spark a revolt among slaves, who ultimately chose not to join in. In fact, it was so ridiculous that the slaves, despite their lack of knowledge, clearly understood it wouldn't work. 'That situation, in its reasoning, is similar to the many historical attempts to assassinate kings and emperors. An enthusiast fixates on the oppression of a people until he believes he's chosen by a higher power to free them. He makes the attempt, which usually ends with him being executed. Orsini's attempt on Louis Napoleon and John Brown's attempt at Harper's Ferry were, in their reasoning, essentially the same. The desire to blame old England in one case and New England in the other doesn't change the fact that the two situations are alike.
And how much would it avail you, if you could, by the use of John Brown, Helper's book, and the like, break up the Republican organization? Human action can be modified to some extent; but human nature cannot be changed. There is a judgment and a feeling against slavery in this nation, which cast at least a million and a half of votes. You cannot destroy that judgment and feeling, that sentiment, by breaking up the political organization which rallies around it. You can scarcely scatter and disperse an army which has been formed into order in the face of your heaviest fire; but, if you could, how much would you gain by forcing the sentiment which created it out of the peaceful channel of the ballot-box, into some other channel? What would that other channel probably be? Would the number of John Browns be lessened or enlarged by the operation?
And how much would it help you if you could, by using John Brown, Helper's book, and similar works, dismantle the Republican organization? Human action can be adjusted to some degree, but human nature cannot be changed. There's a judgment and a sentiment against slavery in this country that represents at least one and a half million votes. You cannot eliminate that judgment and sentiment by breaking up the political organization that supports it. You can hardly break apart an army that has been organized in the face of your strongest opposition; but even if you could, how much would you really gain by pushing the sentiment that created it from the peaceful process of voting into some other form? What do you think that other form would likely be? Would the number of John Browns decrease or increase as a result?
But you will break up the Union rather than submit to a denial of your constitutional rights.
But you'll break up the Union instead of accepting a denial of your constitutional rights.
That has a somewhat reckless sound; but it would be palliated, if not fully justified, were we proposing by the mere force of numbers to deprive you of some right plainly written down in the Constitution. But we are proposing no such thing.
That sounds a bit reckless, but it would be softened, if not fully justified, if we were trying to take away some right clearly stated in the Constitution just because we have the numbers. But we aren't suggesting anything like that.
When you make these declarations, you have a specific and well-under-stood allusion to an assumed constitutional right of yours to take slaves into the Federal Territories, and hold them there as property; but no such right is specifically written in the Constitution. That instrument is literally silent about any such right. We, on the contrary, deny that such a right has any existence in the Constitution, even by implication.
When you make these statements, you're specifically referring to an assumed constitutional right to bring slaves into the Federal Territories and keep them as property; however, there’s no such right explicitly stated in the Constitution. That document is completely silent on this issue. We, on the other hand, argue that this right doesn’t exist in the Constitution, even by implication.
Your purpose then, plainly stated, is, that you will destroy the government, unless you be allowed to construe and enforce the Constitution as you please on all points in dispute between you and us. You will rule or ruin in all events.
Your purpose, then, to put it clearly, is that you will dismantle the government unless you're allowed to interpret and enforce the Constitution however you want on all the issues in dispute between us. You will either control everything or cause chaos in any case.
This, plainly stated, is your language to us. Perhaps you will say the Supreme Court has decided the disputed constitutional question in your favor. Not quite so. But waiving the lawyer's distinction between dictum and decision, the courts have decided the question for you in a sort of way. The courts have substantially said, it is your constitutional right to take slaves into the Federal Territories, and to hold them there as property.
This, simply put, is your message to us. You might say the Supreme Court has ruled on the contested constitutional issue in your favor. Not exactly. But putting aside the lawyer’s distinction between dictum and decision, the courts have addressed the issue for you in a certain sense. The courts have effectively stated that it is your constitutional right to bring slaves into the Federal Territories and keep them there as property.
When I say the decision was made in a sort of way, I mean it was made in a divided court by a bare majority of the judges, and they not quite agreeing with one another in the reasons for making it; that it is so made as that its avowed supporters disagree with one another about its meaning, and that it was mainly based upon a mistaken statement of fact,—the statement in the opinion that "the right of property in a slave is distinctly and expressly affirmed in the Constitution."
When I say the decision was made in a certain way, I mean it was decided in a split court by a slim majority of the judges, who weren’t entirely on the same page about their reasons for making it; that it’s made in such a way that its declared supporters disagree about its meaning, and that it was mostly based on an incorrect statement of fact—the claim in the opinion that "the right of property in a slave is clearly and explicitly affirmed in the Constitution."
An inspection of the Constitution will show that the right of property in a slave is not distinctly and expressly affirmed in it. Bear in mind, the judges do not pledge their judicial opinion that such right is impliedly affirmed in the Constitution; but they pledge their veracity that it is distinctly and expressly affirmed there,—"distinctly," that is, not mingled with any thing else; "expressly," that is, in words meaning just that, without the aid of any inference, and susceptible of no other meaning.
An examination of the Constitution will reveal that the right to own a slave is not clearly and directly stated in it. Keep in mind, the judges don't claim that such a right is implied in the Constitution; instead, they assert their truthfulness that it is clearly and directly stated there—“clearly,” meaning not mixed with anything else; “directly,” meaning in words that specifically convey that idea, without needing any assumptions, and open to no other interpretation.
If they had only pledged their judicial opinion that such right is affirmed in the instrument by implication, it would be open to others to show that neither the word "slave" nor "slavery" is to be found in the Constitution, nor the word "property" even, in any connection with language alluding to the things slave or slavery, and that, wherever in that instrument the slave is alluded to, he is called a "person;" and wherever his master's legal right in relation to him is alluded to, it is spoken of as "service or labor due,"—as a "debt" payable in service or labor. Also it would be open to show, by contemporaneous history, that this mode of alluding to slaves and slavery, instead of speaking of them, was employed on purpose to exclude from the Constitution the idea that there could be property in man.
If they had simply stated their legal opinion that such a right is implied in the document, it would allow others to point out that neither the word "slave" nor "slavery" appears in the Constitution, nor does the word "property" in any context related to the terms slave or slavery. Whenever the Constitution mentions a slave, it refers to them as a "person," and when discussing the master's legal rights regarding them, it's referred to as "service or labor due," treated as a "debt" payable in service or labor. It would also be possible to demonstrate, through contemporary history, that this way of referring to slaves and slavery—rather than directly mentioning them—was intentionally used to exclude the notion of property in people from the Constitution.
To show all this is easy and certain.
To demonstrate all of this is simple and clear.
When this obvious mistake of the judges shall be brought to their notice, is it not reasonable to expect that they will withdraw the mistaken statement, and reconsider the conclusion based upon it?
When this clear mistake by the judges is pointed out to them, isn’t it reasonable to expect that they will take back the incorrect statement and reevaluate the conclusion that came from it?
And then it is to be remembered that "our fathers, who framed the government under which we live,"—the men who made the Constitution,—decided this same constitutional question in our favor long ago,—decided it without a division among themselves, when making the decision; without division among themselves about the meaning of it after it was made, and, so far as any evidence is left, without basing it upon any mistaken statement of facts.
And it's important to remember that "our founding fathers, who created the government we live under,"—the men who wrote the Constitution—resolved this very constitutional issue in our favor a long time ago. They did so without any disagreement among themselves, both when making the decision and afterward regarding its meaning, and as far as any evidence shows, they did not base it on any incorrect statements of fact.
Under all these circumstances, do you really feel yourselves justified to break up this Government, unless such a court decision as yours is shall be at once submitted to, as a conclusive and final rule of political action?
Under all these circumstances, do you really believe you have the right to break up this government unless a court decision like yours is immediately accepted as a conclusive and final rule of political action?
But you will not abide the election of a Republican President. In that supposed event, you say, you will destroy the Union; and then, you say, the great crime of having destroyed it will be upon us!
But you won't accept the election of a Republican President. In that case, you claim you will ruin the Union; and then, you say, the significant fault of having destroyed it will rest on us!
That is cool. A highwayman holds a pistol to my ear, and mutters through his teeth, "Stand and deliver, or I shall kill you; and then you will be a murderer!"
That’s cool. A robber has a gun to my ear and hisses through his teeth, "Stand and deliver, or I’ll kill you; and then you’ll be a murderer!"
To be sure, what the robber demanded of me—my money—was my own; and I had a clear right to keep it; but it was no more my own than my vote is my own; and threat of death to me to extort my money, and threat of destruction to the Union to extort my vote, can scarcely be distinguished in principle.
To be clear, what the robber demanded from me—my money—was mine; and I had every right to keep it; but it was no more mine than my vote is mine; and the threat of death against me to force me to give up my money, and the threat of destroying the Union to compel me to cast my vote, can hardly be seen as different in principle.
A few words now to Republicans. It is exceedingly desirable that all parts of this great Confederacy shall be at peace, and in harmony, one with another. Let us Republicans do our part to have it so. Even though much provoked, let us do nothing through passion and ill-temper. Even though the Southern people will not so much as listen to us, let us calmly consider their demands, and yield to them if, in our deliberate view of our duty, we possibly can. Judging by all they say and do, and by the subject and nature of their controversy with us, let us determine, if we can, what will satisfy them.
A few words now to Republicans. It’s extremely important that all parts of this great Confederacy are at peace and in harmony with each other. Let’s do our part as Republicans to make that happen. Even when we feel provoked, let’s avoid acting out of anger and frustration. Even if the Southern people refuse to listen to us, let’s calmly consider their demands and find ways to meet them if we can, based on our careful understanding of our responsibilities. By observing everything they say and do, along with the nature of their disagreement with us, let’s try to figure out what will satisfy them.
Will they be satisfied if the Territories be unconditionally surrendered to them? We know they will not. In all their present complaints against us, the Territories are scarcely mentioned. Invasions and insurrections are the rage now. Will it satisfy them if, in the future, we have nothing to do with invasions and insurrections? We know it will not. We so know because we know we never had any thing to do with invasions and insurrections; and yet this total abstaining does not exempt us from the charge and the denunciation.
Will they be happy if the Territories are completely given up to them? We know they won't be. In all their current complaints against us, the Territories are hardly mentioned. Invasions and rebellions are the focus right now. Will they be satisfied if, in the future, we have nothing to do with invasions and rebellions? We know they won't be. We know this because we have never been involved with invasions and rebellions; yet, this complete avoidance doesn't protect us from accusations and criticism.
The question recurs, what will satisfy them? Simply this: We must not only let them alone, but we must, somehow, convince them that we do let them alone. This we know by experience is no easy task. We have been so trying to convince them from the very beginning of our organization, but with no success. In all our platforms and speeches we have constantly protested our purpose to let them alone; but this has had no tendency to convince them. Alike unavailing to convince them is the fact that they have never detected a man of us in any attempt to disturb them.
The question keeps coming up: what will make them satisfied? Simply this: we need to not only leave them alone, but we also have to, in some way, convince them that we are leaving them alone. We know from experience that this isn't easy. We've been trying to convince them from the very start of our organization, but without any success. Throughout all our platforms and speeches, we've consistently stated our intention to let them be; however, this hasn't helped to convince them. The fact that they have never caught any of us trying to interfere with them is also ineffective in convincing them.
These natural, and apparently adequate means all failing, what will convince them? This, and this only: cease to call slavery wrong, and join them in calling it right. And this must be done thoroughly,—done in acts as well as in words. Silence will not be tolerated: we must place ourselves avowedly with them. Douglas's new sedition law must be enacted and enforced, suppressing all declarations that slavery is wrong, whether made in politics, in presses, in pulpits, or in private. We must arrest and return their fugitive slaves with greedy pleasure. We must pull down our Free-State Constitutions. The whole atmosphere must be disinfected from all taint of opposition to slavery, before they will cease to believe that all their troubles proceed from us.
These natural and seemingly sufficient methods are all failing; what will convince them? Only this: stop calling slavery wrong and start calling it right alongside them. This must be done completely—in actions as well as in words. Silence won't be accepted: we must openly align ourselves with them. Douglas's new sedition law must be created and enforced, silencing all statements that slavery is wrong, whether those statements come from politics, the press, churches, or private discussions. We must capture and return their runaway slaves eagerly. We must dismantle our Free-State Constitutions. The entire environment must be cleansed of any hint of opposition to slavery before they will stop believing that all their problems stem from us.
I am quite aware they do not state their case precisely in this way. Most of them would probably say to us, "Let us alone, do nothing to us, and say what you please about slavery." But we do let them alone, have never disturbed them; so that, after all, it is what we say which dissatisfies them. They will continue to accuse us of doing until we cease saying.
I know they don't put it exactly like this. Most of them would probably say to us, "Leave us alone, don't bother us, and say whatever you want about slavery." But we do leave them alone; we've never interfered with them. So in the end, it's our words that upset them. They'll keep blaming us for our actions until we stop speaking out.
I am also aware they have not as yet, in terms, demanded the overthrow of our Free-State constitutions. Yet those constitutions declare the wrong of slavery with more solemn emphasis than do all other sayings against it; and when all these other sayings shall have been silenced, the overthrow of these constitutions will be demanded, and nothing be left to resist the demand. It is nothing to the contrary, that they do not demand the whole of this just now. Demanding what they do, and for the reason they do, they can voluntarily stop nowhere short of this consummation. Holding, as they do, that slavery is morally right, and socially elevating, they cannot cease to demand a full national recognition of it, as a legal right and a social blessing.
I also recognize that they haven't officially called for the abolition of our Free-State constitutions yet. However, these constitutions emphasize the injustice of slavery more seriously than any other arguments against it. Once all those other arguments are silenced, the call to abolish these constitutions will emerge, and there will be nothing left to oppose that demand. It doesn't change the situation that they aren't demanding it all at once. Given what they are asking for and why, they won't stop until they achieve this goal. Since they believe that slavery is morally acceptable and beneficial to society, they can’t help but insist on full national acknowledgment of it as a legal right and a social good.
Nor can we justifiably withhold this on any ground, save our conviction that slavery is wrong. If slavery is right, all words, acts, laws, and constitutions against it are themselves wrong, and should be silenced and swept away. If it is right, we cannot justly object to its nationality, its universality; if it is wrong, they cannot justly insist upon its extension, its enlargement. All they ask, we could readily grant, if we thought slavery right; all we ask, they could as readily grant, if they thought it wrong. Their thinking it right, and our thinking it wrong, is the precise fact upon which depends the whole controversy. Thinking it right, as they do, they are not to blame for desiring its full recognition, as being right; but thinking it wrong, as we do, can we yield to them? Can we cast our votes with their view, and against our own? In view of our moral, social, and political responsibilities, can we do this?
We can't reasonably hold back our stance on this issue for any reason other than our belief that slavery is wrong. If slavery is right, then all words, actions, laws, and constitutions against it are also wrong and should be silenced and abolished. If it is right, we can't fairly object to it being common everywhere; if it is wrong, then they can't reasonably push for its spread and growth. We could easily agree to everything they ask if we believed slavery was right; likewise, they could just as easily agree to everything we ask if they believed it was wrong. The core of the disagreement lies in our differing beliefs—while they believe it is right, we believe it is wrong. They aren't at fault for wanting it fully recognized as right; but can we, believing it is wrong, give in to them? Can we support their views and go against our own? Given our moral, social, and political responsibilities, can we do that?
Wrong as we think slavery is, we can yet afford to let it alone where it is, because that much is due to the necessity arising from its actual presence in the nation; but can we, while our votes will prevent it, allow it to spread into the national Territories, and to overrun us here in these Free States?
Wrong as we think slavery is, we can still afford to leave it alone where it is because that much is due to the necessity arising from its actual presence in the nation; but can we, while our votes can stop it, allow it to spread into the national Territories and take over here in these Free States?
If our sense of duty forbids this, then let us stand by our duty fearlessly and effectively. Let us be diverted by none of those sophistical contrivances wherewith we are so industriously plied and belabored,—contrivances such as groping for some middle ground between the right and the wrong, vain as the search for a man who should be neither a living man nor a dead man,—such as a policy of "don't care" on a question about which all true men do care,—such as Union appeals beseeching true Union men to yield to Dis-unionists, reversing the divine rule, and calling, not the sinners, but the righteous, to repentance,—such as invocations to Washington, imploring men to unsay what Washington said, and undo what Washington did.
If our sense of duty tells us not to do this, then let's stick to our duty boldly and effectively. Let’s not be distracted by any of those clever tricks that we are so tirelessly bombarded with—tricks like trying to find a middle ground between right and wrong, as pointless as searching for someone who is neither alive nor dead—like a "don’t care" attitude towards an issue that genuinely matters to all decent people—like Union appeals asking true Union supporters to compromise with Disunionists, flipping the divine principle by urging not the wrongdoers, but the righteous, to change their ways—like calls to Washington, begging people to go against what Washington said and reverse what Washington did.
Neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction to the Government, nor of dungeons to ourselves. Let us have faith that right makes might; and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.
Neither let us be discouraged from our duty by false accusations against us, nor scared away from it by threats of destruction to the Government, or of imprisonment for ourselves. Let us believe that what is right gives us strength; and with that belief, let us, until the end, have the courage to do our duty as we see it.
The next morning "The Tribune" presented a report of the speech, but, in doing so, said, "the tones, the gestures, the kindling eye, and the mirth-provoking look defy the reporter's skill.... No man ever before made such an impression on his first appeal to a New York audience." "The Evening Post" said, "We have made room for Mr. Lincoln's speech, notwithstanding the pressure of other matters; and our readers will see that it was well worthy of the deep attention with which it was heard." For the publication of such arguments the editor was "tempted to wish" that his columns "were indefinitely elastic." And these are but fair evidences of the general tone of the press.
The next morning, "The Tribune" published a report on the speech but said, "the tone, the gestures, the sparkling eyes, and the humor-filled expression defy the reporter's ability.... No one has ever made such an impression on their first appeal to a New York audience." "The Evening Post" remarked, "We have made space for Mr. Lincoln's speech, despite the pressure of other topics; our readers will see that it deserved the serious attention it received." The editor expressed he was "tempted to wish" that his columns "were endlessly expandable." These are just a few examples of the overall sentiment in the press.
Mr. Lincoln was much annoyed, after his return home, by the allegation that he had sold a "political speech," and had been generally governed by mercenary motives in his Eastern trip. Being asked to explain it, he answered as follows:—
Mr. Lincoln was really annoyed, after getting back home, by the claim that he had sold a "political speech" and had mostly been driven by selfish motives during his trip to the East. When asked to explain, he responded as follows:—
Springfield, April 6, 1860.
Springfield, April 6, 1860.
C. F. McNeill, Esq.
C. F. McNeill, Esq.
Dear Sir,—Reaching home yesterday, I found yours of the 23d March, enclosing a slip from "The Middleport Press." It is not true that I ever charged any thing for a political speech in my life; but this much is true. Last October I was requested by letter to deliver some sort of speech in Mr. Beecher's church in Brooklyn,—$200 being offered in the first letter. I wrote that I could do it in February, provided they would take a political speech if I could find time to get up no other. They agreed; and subsequently I informed them the speech would have to be a political one. When I reached New York, I, for the first, learned that the place was changed to "Cooper Institute." I made the speech, and left for New Hampshire, where I have a son at school, neither asking for pay nor having any offered me. Three days after, a check for $200 was sent to me at N.H.; and I took it, and did not know it was wrong. My understanding now is, though I knew nothing of it at the time, that they did charge for admittance at the Cooper Institute, and that they took in more than twice $200.
Dear Sir,—I got home yesterday and found your letter from March 23rd, along with a clip from "The Middleport Press." It’s not true that I’ve ever charged for a political speech in my life, but here’s the truth. Last October, I was asked via letter to give some kind of speech at Mr. Beecher's church in Brooklyn—$200 was offered in the first letter. I responded that I could do it in February, as long as they were okay with me giving a political speech if I couldn’t come up with anything else. They agreed, and later I let them know it would need to be a political speech. When I got to New York, I found out for the first time that the venue had been changed to "Cooper Institute." I made the speech and then left for New Hampshire, where my son is in school, without asking for payment or having any offered to me. Three days later, I received a check for $200 in New Hampshire, and I took it, not knowing it was wrong. My understanding now is, though I was completely oblivious at the time, that they did charge for admission at Cooper Institute, and that they collected more than twice $200.
I have made this explanation to you as a friend; but I wish no explanation made to our enemies. What they want is a squabble and a fuss: and that they can have if we explain; and they cannot have it if we don't.
I’ve shared this explanation with you as a friend, but I don’t want any explanations for our enemies. What they want is a fight and a commotion: they can have that if we explain, and they can’t if we don’t.
When I returned through New York from New England, I was told by the gentlemen who sent me the check, that a drunken vagabond in the club, having learned something about the $200, made the exhibition out of which "The Herald" manufactured the article quoted by "The Press" of your town.
When I came back from New England to New York, the guys who sent me the check told me that a drunk wanderer at the club, having heard something about the $200, made a scene that "The Herald" turned into the article that "The Press" from your town quoted.
My judgment is, and therefore my request is, that you give no denial, and no explanations.
My decision is clear, so I ask that you provide no refusal and no explanations.
Thanking you for your kind interest in the matter, I remain
Thank you for your interest in this matter. I remain
Yours truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
From New York Mr. Lincoln travelled into New England, to visit his son Robert, who was a student at Harvard; but he was overwhelmed with invitations to address Republican meetings. In Connecticut he spoke at Hartford, Norwich, New Haven, Meriden, and Bridgeport; in Rhode Island, at Woonsocket; in New Hampshire, at Concord and Manchester. Everywhere the people poured out in multitudes, and the press lavished encomiums. Upon his speech at Manchester, "The Mirror," a neutral paper, passed the following criticisms of his style of oratory,—criticisms familiar enough to the people of his own State: "He spoke an hour and a half with great fairness, great apparent candor, and with wonderful interest. He did not abuse the South, the administration, or the Democrats, or indulge in any personalities, with the exception of a few hits at Douglas's notions. He is far from prepossessing in personal appearance, and his voice is disagreeable; and yet he wins your attention and good-will from the start.... He indulges in no flowers of rhetoric, no eloquent passages. He is not a wit, a humorist, or a clown; yet so great a vein of pleasantry and good-nature pervades what he says, gilding over a deep current of practical argument, he keeps his hearers in a smiling mood, with their mouths open ready to swallow all he says. His sense of the ludicrous is very keen; and an exhibition of that is the clincher of all his arguments,—not the ludicrous acts of persons, but ludicrous ideas. Hence he is never offensive, and steals away willingly into his train of belief persons who were opposed to him. For the first half-hour his opponents would agree with every word he uttered; and from that point he began to lead them off little by little, until it seemed as if he had got them all into his fold. He displays more shrewdness, more knowledge of the masses of mankind, than any public speaker we have heard since Long Jim Wilson left for California."
From New York, Mr. Lincoln traveled to New England to visit his son Robert, who was a student at Harvard. However, he was inundated with invitations to speak at Republican meetings. In Connecticut, he addressed crowds in Hartford, Norwich, New Haven, Meriden, and Bridgeport; in Rhode Island, he spoke in Woonsocket; and in New Hampshire, he was in Concord and Manchester. Everywhere, people turned out in large numbers, and the press sang his praises. After his speech in Manchester, "The Mirror," a neutral paper, offered the following comments on his oratory style—remarks that were quite familiar to folks from his own state: "He spoke for an hour and a half with great fairness, apparent honesty, and kept the audience engaged. He didn't attack the South, the administration, or the Democrats, nor did he resort to personal jabs, except for a few shots at Douglas's ideas. He's not particularly appealing in terms of looks, and his voice isn't pleasant; yet he grabs your attention and goodwill from the get-go... He doesn't use flowery language or grandiloquent passages. He's not a wit, a comedian, or a buffoon; however, a strong sense of humor and kindness runs through what he says, layering a solid foundation of practical argument that keeps his audience smiling and ready to absorb everything he says. His sense of humor is quite sharp, and he often uses that as the clincher for his points—not through the ridiculous actions of individuals, but through absurd ideas. As a result, he never comes off as offensive and easily brings along those who initially opposed him. For the first thirty minutes, his opponents would agree with everything he said; from that point on, he started to gradually guide them away until it felt like he had brought them all under his influence. He shows more insight and understanding of everyday people than any public speaker we've heard since Long Jim Wilson left for California."
On the morning after the Norwich speech, Mr. Lincoln was met, or is said to have been met, in the cars by a preacher, one Gulliver,—a name suggestive of fictions. Gulliver says he told Mr. Lincoln that he thought his speech "the most remarkable one he ever heard." Lincoln doubted his sincerity; but Gulliver persisted. "Indeed, sir," said he, "I learned more of the art of public speaking last evening than I could from a whole course of lectures on rhetoric." Lincoln found he had in hand a clerical sycophant, and a little politician at that,—a class of beings whom he most heartily despised. Whereupon he began to quiz the fellow, and told him, for a most "remarkable circumstance," that the professors of Yale College were running all around after him, taking notes of his speeches, and lecturing about him to the classes. "Now," continued he, "I should like very much to know what it was in my speech which you thought so remarkable, and which interested my friend the professor so much?" Gulliver was equal to the occasion, and answered with an opinion which Mr. Bunsby might have delivered, and died, leaving to the world a reputation perfected by that single saying. "The clearness of your statements," said Gulliver, "the unanswerable style of your reasoning, and especially your illustrations, which were romance and pathos, and fun and logic, all welded together." Gulliver closed the interview with the cant peculiar to his kind. "Mr. Lincoln," said he, "may I say one thing to you before we separate?"—"Certainly; any thing you please," replied the good-natured old Abe. "You have just spoken," preached Gulliver, "of the tendency of political life in Washington to debase the moral convictions of our representatives there by the admixture of mere political expediency. You have become, by the controversy with Mr. Douglas, one of our leaders in this great struggle with slavery, which is undoubtedly the struggle of the nation and the age. What I would like to say is this, and I say it with a full heart: Be true to your principles; and we will be true to you, and God will be true to us all." To which modest, pious, and original observation, Mr. Lincoln responded, "I say Amen to that! Amen to that!"
On the morning after the Norwich speech, Mr. Lincoln was greeted, or was said to have been greeted, on the train by a preacher named Gulliver—a name that suggests fiction. Gulliver stated he told Mr. Lincoln that he thought his speech was "the most remarkable one he ever heard." Lincoln questioned his sincerity, but Gulliver insisted. "Indeed, sir," he said, "I learned more about public speaking last evening than I could from a whole course of lectures on rhetoric." Lincoln realized he was dealing with a clerical sycophant and a bit of a politician—types he greatly despised. He then began to tease the man and told him, as a most "remarkable circumstance," that the professors at Yale College were running around after him, taking notes of his speeches and lecturing about him in their classes. "Now," he continued, "I would really like to know what it was in my speech that you found so remarkable, which also interested my professor friend so much?" Gulliver was ready with a response and answered with a thought that Mr. Bunsby might have expressed, which would have left a lasting reputation through that single remark. "The clarity of your statements," said Gulliver, "the unassailable style of your reasoning, and especially your illustrations, which blended romance, pathos, fun, and logic all into one." Gulliver ended the conversation with the cliché typical of his kind. "Mr. Lincoln," he said, "may I say one thing to you before we part?" "Certainly; anything you like," replied the good-natured old Abe. "You just spoke," preached Gulliver, "about the way political life in Washington tends to weaken the moral convictions of our representatives through mere political expediency. By your dispute with Mr. Douglas, you've become one of our leaders in this vital struggle against slavery, which is undoubtedly the struggle of our nation and our time. What I want to say is this, and I say it with all my heart: Be true to your principles; and we will be true to you, and God will be true to us all." To this humble, pious, and original remark, Mr. Lincoln responded, "I say Amen to that! Amen to that!"
CHAPTER XVIII
IT was not until May 9 and 10 that the Republican State Convention of Illinois met at Decatur. Mr. Lincoln was present, and is said to have been there as a mere "spectator." He had no special interest in the proceedings, and appears to have had no notion that any business relating to him was to be transacted that day. It was a very large and spirited body, comprising an immense number of delegates, among whom were the most brilliant, as well as the shrewdest men in the party. It was evident that something of more than usual importance was expected to transpire. A few moments after the convention organized, "Old Abe" was seen squatting, or sitting on his heels, just within the door of the Wigwam. Gov. Oglesby rose and said amid increasing silence, "I am informed that a distinguished citizen of Illinois, and one whom Illinois will ever delight to honor, is present; and I wish to move that this body invite him to a seat on the stand." Here the governor paused, as if to tease and dally, and work curiosity up to the highest point; but at length he shouted the magic name "Abraham Lincoln!" Not a shout, but a roar of applause, long and deep, shook every board and joist of the Wigwam. The motion was seconded and passed. A rush was made for the hero that sat on his heels. He was seized, and jerked to his feet. An effort was made to "jam him through the crowd" to his place of honor on the stage; but the crowd was too dense, and it failed. Then he was "troosted,"—lifted up bodily,—and lay for a few seconds sprawling and kicking upon the heads and shoulders of the great throng. In this manner he was gradually pushed toward the stand, and finally reached it, doubtless to his great relief, "in the arms of some half-dozen gentlemen," who set him down in full view of his clamorous admirers. "The cheering was like the roar of the sea. Hats were thrown up by the Chicago delegation, as if hats were no longer useful." Mr. Lincoln rose, bowed, smiled, blushed, and thanked the assembly as well as he could in the midst of such a tumult. A gentleman who saw it all says, "I then thought him one of the most diffident and worst-plagued men I ever saw."
It wasn't until May 9 and 10 that the Republican State Convention of Illinois met in Decatur. Mr. Lincoln was there and is said to have attended as a mere "spectator." He didn't have any special interest in the proceedings and seemed unaware that any business related to him would be conducted that day. The convention was large and lively, made up of a significant number of delegates, including some of the most brilliant and cleverest people in the party. It was clear that something unusually important was expected to happen. A few moments after the convention started, "Old Abe" was seen squatting or sitting on his heels just inside the door of the Wigwam. Governor Oglesby stood up and said, amid growing silence, "I have been informed that a distinguished citizen of Illinois, one whom Illinois will always be proud to honor, is here; and I would like to move that this body invite him to take a seat on the platform." Here, the governor paused to build anticipation and heighten curiosity, but eventually he shouted the magic name, "Abraham Lincoln!" Not just a shout, but a roar of applause, loud and deep, shook every board and beam of the Wigwam. The motion was seconded and passed. There was a rush to the hero sitting on his heels. He was grabbed and yanked to his feet. An attempt was made to "jam him through the crowd" to his place of honor on the stage, but the crowd was too thick, and it didn’t work. Then he was "troosted,"—picked up completely—and ended up sprawled and kicking on the heads and shoulders of the massive crowd for a few seconds. This way, he was gradually pushed toward the platform, eventually reaching it, probably to his great relief, "in the arms of some half-dozen gentlemen," who set him down in full view of his enthusiastic supporters. "The cheering was like the roar of the sea. Hats were thrown up by the Chicago delegation as if they were no longer needed." Mr. Lincoln stood up, bowed, smiled, blushed, and thanked the crowd as best as he could amid such chaos. A gentleman who witnessed the event said, "At that moment, I thought he was one of the most shy and overwhelmed men I had ever seen."
At another stage of the proceedings, Gov. Oglesby rose again with another provoking and mysterious speech. "There was," he said, "an old Democrat outside who had something he wished to present to this Convention."—"Receive it!" "Receive it!" cried some. "What is it?" "What is it?" screamed some of the lower Egyptians, who had an idea the old Democrat might want to blow them up with an infernal machine. But the party for Oglesby and the old Democrat was the stronger, and carried the vote with a tremendous hurrah. The door of the Wigwam opened; and a fine, robust old fellow, with an open countenance and bronzed cheeks, marched into the midst of the assemblage, bearing on his shoulder "two small triangular heart rails," surmounted by a banner with this inscription:—
At another point in the proceedings, Gov. Oglesby stood up again with another intriguing and puzzling speech. "There’s," he said, "an old Democrat outside who has something to share with this Convention."—"Let’s receive it!" "Let’s receive it!" shouted some people. "What is it?" "What is it?" yelled some of the lower Egyptians, who thought the old Democrat might be planning to blow them up with some kind of explosive device. But the group backing Oglesby and the old Democrat was stronger and won the vote with a huge cheer. The door of the Wigwam opened, and a big, sturdy old man, with a friendly face and sun-kissed cheeks, walked into the crowd, carrying on his shoulder "two small triangular heart rails," topped with a banner that read:—
TWO RAILS,
TWO TRACKS,
FROM A LOT MADE BY ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND JOHN HANKS, IN THE SANGAMON BOTTOM, IN THE YEAR 1830.
FROM A LOT MADE BY ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND JOHN HANKS, IN THE SANGAMON BOTTOM, IN THE YEAR 1830.
The sturdy bearer was old John Hanks himself, enjoying the great field-day of his life. He was met with wild and tumultuous cheers, prolonged through several minutes; and it was observed that the Chicago and Central-Illinois men put up the loudest and longest. The whole scene was for a time simply tempestuous and bewildering. But it ended at last; and now the whole body, those in the secret and those out of it, clamored like men beside themselves for a speech from Mr. Lincoln, who in the mean time "blushed, but seemed to shake with inward laughter." In response to the repeated appeals he rose and said,—
The strong supporter was old John Hanks himself, relishing the biggest day of his life. He was greeted with wild and thunderous cheers that went on for several minutes. It was noted that the Chicago and Central Illinois folks cheered the loudest and longest. For a while, the entire scene was simply chaotic and overwhelming. But it eventually calmed down, and now everyone, both those in the know and those who weren’t, eagerly shouted for a speech from Mr. Lincoln, who in the meantime "blushed, but seemed to shake with inward laughter." In response to the relentless requests, he stood up and said,—
"Gentlemen, I suppose you want to know something about those things" (pointing to old John and the rails). "Well, the truth is, John Hanks and I did make rails in the Sangamon Bottom. I don't know whether we made those rails or not; fact is, I don't think they are a credit to the makers" (laughing as he spoke). "But I do know this: I made rails then, and I think I could make better ones than these now."
"Gentlemen, I guess you're curious about those things" (pointing to old John and the rails). "Well, the truth is, John Hanks and I did make rails in the Sangamon Bottom. I’m not sure if we made those rails or not; honestly, I don’t think they reflect well on the makers" (laughing as he said this). "But I do know this: I made rails back then, and I believe I could make better ones than these now."
By this time the innocent Egyptians began to open their eyes: they saw plainly enough now the admirable Presidential scheme unfolded to their view. The result of it all was a resolution declaring that "Abraham Lincoln is the first choice of the Republican party of Illinois for the Presidency, and instructing the delegates to the Chicago Convention to use all honorable means to secure his nomination, and to cast the vote of the State as a unit for him."
By this time, the unsuspecting Egyptians started to realize what was happening: they could clearly see the impressive Presidential plan laid out before them. The outcome was a resolution stating that "Abraham Lincoln is the first choice of the Republican party of Illinois for the Presidency, and instructing the delegates to the Chicago Convention to use all honorable means to secure his nomination, and to cast the vote of the State as a unit for him."
The crowd at Decatur, delegates and private citizens, who took part in these proceedings, was estimated at five thousand. Neither the numbers nor the enthusiasm was a pleasant sight to the divided and demoralized Democrats. They disliked to hear so much about "honest Old Abe," "the rail-splitter," "the flat-boatman," "the pioneer." These cries had an ominous sound in their ears. Leaving Decatur on the cars, an old man out of Egypt, devoted to the great principles of Democracy, and excessively annoyed by the demonstration in progress, approached Mr. Lincoln and said, "So you're Abe Lincoln?"—"That's my name, sir," answered Mr. Lincoln. "They say you're a self-made man," said the Democrat. "Well, yes," said Mr. Lincoln, "what there is of me is self-made."—"Well, all I've got to say," observed the old man, after a careful survey of the statesman before him, "is, that it was a d—n bad job."
The crowd at Decatur, made up of delegates and regular citizens, was estimated to be around five thousand. The numbers and enthusiasm were not a comforting sight for the divided and demoralized Democrats. They didn’t like hearing so much about “honest Old Abe,” “the rail-splitter,” “the flat-boatman,” and “the pioneer.” These cheers struck a troubling chord for them. As they left Decatur on the train, an elderly man from Egypt, committed to the core principles of Democracy and deeply irritated by the ongoing demonstration, approached Mr. Lincoln and said, “So you’re Abe Lincoln?”—“That’s my name, sir,” Mr. Lincoln replied. “They say you’re a self-made man,” the Democrat commented. “Well, yes,” Mr. Lincoln said, “what there is of me is self-made.” The old man then remarked, after carefully examining the statesman in front of him, “Well, all I’ve got to say is that it was a damn bad job.”
In the mean time Mr. Lincoln's claims had been attractively presented to the politicians of other States. So early as 1858, Mr. Herndon had been to Boston partly, if not entirely, on this mission; and latterly Judge Davis, Leonard Swett, and others had visited Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and Maryland in his behalf. Illinois was, of course, overwhelmingly and vociferously for him.
In the meantime, Mr. Lincoln's credentials had been appealingly showcased to the politicians of other states. As early as 1858, Mr. Herndon had gone to Boston partly, if not entirely, for this purpose; and recently, Judge Davis, Leonard Swett, and others had traveled to Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and Maryland on his behalf. Illinois, of course, was overwhelmingly and loudly in support of him.
On the 16th of May, the Republican Convention assembled at Chicago. The city was literally crammed with delegates, alternates, "outside workers," and spectators. No nominating convention had ever before attracted such multitudes to the scene of its deliberations.
On May 16th, the Republican Convention gathered in Chicago. The city was packed with delegates, alternates, "outside workers," and spectators. No nominating convention had ever drawn such large crowds to its discussions.
The first and second days were spent in securing a permanent organization, and the adoption of a platform. The latter set out by reciting the Declaration of Independence as to the equality of all men, not forgetting the usual quotation about the right to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." The third resolution denounced disunion in any possible event; the fourth declared the right of each State to "order and control its own domestic institutions according to its own judgment exclusively;" the fifth denounced the administration and its treatment of Kansas, as well as its general support of the supposed rights of the South under the Constitution; the sixth favored "economy;" the seventh denied the "new dogma, that the Constitution, of its own force, carries slavery into any or all of the Territories of the United States;" the eighth denied the "authority of Congress, of a Territorial Legislature, or of any individuals, to give legal existence to slavery in any Territory of the United States;" the ninth called the African slave-trade a "burning shame;" the tenth denounced the governors of Kansas and Nebraska for vetoing certain antislavery bills; the eleventh favored the admission of Kansas; the twelfth was a high-tariff manifesto, and a general stump speech to the mechanics; the thirteenth lauded the Homestead policy; the fourteenth opposed any Federal or State legislation "by which the rights of citizenship, hitherto accorded to immigrants from foreign lands, shall be abridged or impaired," with some pretty words, intended as a further bid for the foreign vote; the fifteenth declared for "river and harbor improvements," and the sixteenth for a "Pacific Railroad." It was a very comprehensive "platform;" and, if all classes for whom planks were provided should be kind enough to stand upon them, there could be no failure in the election.
The first and second days were focused on establishing a permanent organization and adopting a platform. The platform started by quoting the Declaration of Independence, emphasizing the equality of all people and including the famous phrase about the right to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." The third resolution condemned any form of disunion; the fourth affirmed each state’s right to "manage its own domestic institutions as it sees fit;" the fifth criticized the administration's handling of Kansas and its overall support for the so-called rights of the South under the Constitution; the sixth supported "economy;" the seventh rejected the "new idea that the Constitution alone allows slavery in any or all of the Territories of the United States;" the eighth denied the "authority of Congress, a Territorial Legislature, or any individuals to legally recognize slavery in any Territory of the United States;" the ninth referred to the African slave trade as a "burning shame;" the tenth criticized the governors of Kansas and Nebraska for vetoing certain anti-slavery bills; the eleventh supported Kansas's admission; the twelfth was a pro-high-tariff statement and a general speech appealing to workers; the thirteenth praised the Homestead policy; the fourteenth opposed any Federal or State laws that would "restrict or undermine the rights of citizenship previously granted to immigrants from foreign countries," with some nice words aimed at attracting foreign votes; the fifteenth called for "improvements to rivers and harbors," and the sixteenth advocated for a "Pacific Railroad." It was a very detailed "platform;" and if all the groups represented by the various points of the platform could just support it, there would be no failure in the election.
On the third day the balloting for a candidate was to begin. Up to the evening of the second day, Mr. Seward's prospects were far the best. It was certain that he would receive the largest vote on the first ballot; and outside of the body itself the "crowd" for him was more numerous and boisterous than for any other, except Mr. Lincoln. For Mr. Lincoln, however, the "pressure" from the multitude, in the Wigwam, in the streets, and in the hotels, was tremendous. It is sufficiently accounted for by the fact that the "spot" was Chicago, and the State Illinois. Besides the vast numbers who came there voluntarily to urge his claims, and to cheer for him, as the exigency demanded, his adherents had industriously "drummed up" their forces in the city and country, and were now able to make infinitely more noise than all the other parties put together. There was a large delegation of roughs there for Mr. Seward, headed by Tom Hyer, the pugilist. These, and others like them, filled the Wigwam toward the evening of the second day in expectation that the voting would begin. The Lincoln party found it out, and determined to call a check to that game. They spent the whole night in mustering and organizing their "loose fellows" from far and near, and at daylight the next morning "took charge" of the Wigwam, filling every available space, and much that they had no business to fill. As a result, the Seward men were unable to get in, and were forced to content themselves with curbstone enthusiasm.
On the third day, the voting for a candidate was set to start. By the evening of the second day, Mr. Seward looked to have the best chance. It was clear he would get the most votes on the first ballot, and outside of the assembly, the supporters for him were louder and more numerous than any other candidate’s, except for Mr. Lincoln. However, the support for Mr. Lincoln from the crowd in the Wigwam, in the streets, and in the hotels was overwhelming. This was largely because the location was Chicago, in the state of Illinois. In addition to the many who came on their own to support him and cheer for him as needed, his followers had worked hard to gather their supporters both in the city and the surrounding areas, making far more noise than all the other groups combined. A large group of rough individuals gathered there for Mr. Seward, led by Tom Hyer, the boxer. These individuals, and others like them, filled the Wigwam as evening approached on the second day, anticipating the start of voting. The Lincoln supporters caught wind of this and decided to put a stop to it. They spent the entire night gathering and organizing their "loose fellows" from near and far, and by dawn the next morning, they had taken control of the Wigwam, filling every available space, even those they shouldn’t have. As a result, the Seward supporters were unable to get in and had to settle for cheering from the sidelines.
Mr. Lincoln seemed to be very sure, all along, that the contest would be ultimately between him and Mr. Seward. The "Bates men" were supposed to be conservative, that is, not Abolitionists; and the object of the move in favor of Mr. Bates was to lower the fanatical tone of the party, and save the votes of certain "Union men" who might otherwise be against it. But a Seward man had telegraphed to St. Louis, to the friends of Mr. Bates, to say that Lincoln was as bad as Seward, and to urge them to go for Mr. Seward in case their own favorite should fail. The despatch was printed in "The Missouri Democrat," but was not brought to Mr. Lincoln's attention until the meeting of the Convention. He immediately caught up the paper, and "wrote on its broad margin," "Lincoln agrees with Seward in his irrepressible-conflict idea, and in negro equality; but he is opposed to Seward's Higher Law." With this he immediately despatched a friend to Chicago, who handed it to Judge Davis or Judge Logan.
Mr. Lincoln seemed to be certain from the beginning that the contest would ultimately be between him and Mr. Seward. The "Bates men" were seen as conservative, meaning they were not Abolitionists; the goal of supporting Mr. Bates was to tone down the radical stance of the party and keep the votes of some "Union men" who might otherwise oppose it. However, a Seward supporter had sent a message to St. Louis, to Mr. Bates' supporters, saying that Lincoln was just as bad as Seward and urging them to back Mr. Seward if their own candidate failed. The message was published in "The Missouri Democrat," but Mr. Lincoln didn't see it until the Convention met. He quickly grabbed the paper and "wrote on its broad margin," "Lincoln agrees with Seward on his idea of an irrepressible conflict and on racial equality; but he opposes Seward's Higher Law." With this, he immediately sent a friend to Chicago, who delivered it to Judge Davis or Judge Logan.
Simon Cameron of Pennsylvania was nominally a candidate; but, in the language of Col. McClure, "it meant nothing:" it was a mere sham, got up to enable Cameron to make a bargain with some real candidate, and thus secure for himself and his friends the lion's share of the spoils in the event of a victory at the polls. The genuine sentiment of the Pennsylvania delegation was divided between Judge Bates and Judge McLean. But Cameron was in a fine position to trade, and his friends were anxious for business. On the evening of the second day, these gentlemen were gratified. A deputation of them—Casey, Sanderson, Reeder, and perhaps others—were invited to the Lincoln Head-quarters at the Tremont House, where they were met by Messrs. Davis, Swett, Logan, and Dole, on the part of Mr. Lincoln. An agreement was there made, that, if the Cameron men would go for Lincoln, and he should be nominated and elected, Cameron should have a seat in his Cabinet, provided the Pennsylvania delegation could be got to recommend him. The bargain was fulfilled, but not without difficulty. Cameron's strength was more apparent than real. There was, however, "a certain class of the delegates under his immediate influence;" and these, with the aid of Mr. Wilmot and his friends, who were honestly for Lincoln, managed to carry the delegation by a very small majority,—"about six."
Simon Cameron from Pennsylvania was officially a candidate; but, in Col. McClure's words, "it meant nothing:" it was just a pretense, created to let Cameron strike a deal with a real candidate, allowing him and his allies to grab the biggest share of the rewards if they won at the polls. The true feelings of the Pennsylvania delegation were split between Judge Bates and Judge McLean. However, Cameron was in a great position to negotiate, and his supporters were eager to make a deal. On the evening of the second day, they got what they wanted. A group of them—Casey, Sanderson, Reeder, and possibly others—were invited to Lincoln's headquarters at the Tremont House, where they met with Messrs. Davis, Swett, Logan, and Dole, who represented Mr. Lincoln. They struck an agreement that if the Cameron supporters backed Lincoln and he was nominated and elected, Cameron would get a spot in his Cabinet, as long as the Pennsylvania delegation backed him. The deal was made, but it wasn't easy. Cameron's support was more apparent than real. However, there was "a certain group of delegates under his immediate influence;" and with the help of Mr. Wilmot and his friends, who genuinely supported Lincoln, they managed to win the delegation by a very slim margin—"about six."
About the same time a similar bargain was made with the friends of Caleb B. Smith of Indiana; and with these two contracts quietly ratified, the Lincoln men felt strong and confident on the morning of the third day.
About the same time, a similar deal was made with the friends of Caleb B. Smith from Indiana; with these two agreements quietly approved, the Lincoln supporters felt strong and confident on the morning of the third day.
While the candidates were being named, and when the ballotings began, every mention of Mr. Lincoln's name was received with thundering shouts by the vast mass of his adherents by whom the building had been packed. In the phrase of the day, the "outside pressure" was all in his favor. On the first ballot, Mr. Seward had 173 1/2 votes; Mr. Lincoln, 102; Mr. Cameron, 50 1/2; Mr. Chase, 49; Mr. Bates, 48; Mr. Dayton, 14; Mr. McLean, 12; Mr. Collamer, 10; and 6 were scattered. Mr. Cameron's name was withdrawn on the second ballot, according to the previous understanding; Mr. Seward had 184 1/2; Mr. Lincoln, 181; Mr. Chase, 42 1/2; Mr. Bates, 35; Mr. Dayton, 10; Mr. McLean, 8; and the rest scattered. It was clear that the nomination lay between Mr. Seward and Mr. Lincoln, and the latter was receiving great accessions of strength. The third ballot came, and Mr. Lincoln ran rapidly up to 231 1/2 votes; 233 being the number required to nominate. Hundreds of persons were keeping the count; and it was well known, without any announcement, that Mr. Lincoln lacked but a vote and a half to make him the nominee. At this juncture, Mr. Cartter of Ohio rose, and changed four votes from Mr. Chase to Mr. Lincoln. He was nominated. The Wigwam shook to its foundation with the roaring cheers. The multitude in the streets answered the multitude within, and in a moment more all the holiday artillery of Chicago helped to swell the grand acclamation. After a time, the business of the convention proceeded amid great excitement. All the votes that had heretofore been cast against Mr. Lincoln were cast for him before this ballot concluded; and, upon motion, the nomination was made unanimous. The convention then adjourned for dinner, and in the afternoon finished its work by the nomination of Hannibal Hamlin of Maine for Vice-President.
While the candidates were announced and the voting began, every time Mr. Lincoln's name was mentioned, it was met with thunderous cheers from the large crowd of his supporters who filled the building. In the popular phrase of the time, the "outside pressure" was entirely in his favor. In the first round of voting, Mr. Seward had 173 1/2 votes; Mr. Lincoln, 102; Mr. Cameron, 50 1/2; Mr. Chase, 49; Mr. Bates, 48; Mr. Dayton, 14; Mr. McLean, 12; Mr. Collamer, 10; and 6 were scattered. Mr. Cameron's name was withdrawn in the second round, as previously agreed; Mr. Seward had 184 1/2 votes; Mr. Lincoln, 181; Mr. Chase, 42 1/2; Mr. Bates, 35; Mr. Dayton, 10; Mr. McLean, 8; and the remaining votes were scattered. It was clear that the nomination was between Mr. Seward and Mr. Lincoln, and Mr. Lincoln was gaining significant support. The third round arrived, and Mr. Lincoln quickly climbed to 231 1/2 votes; 233 was needed for the nomination. Hundreds of people were keeping track of the count, and it was well known, without any formal announcement, that Mr. Lincoln was just a vote and a half short of being the nominee. At this point, Mr. Cartter of Ohio stood up and switched four votes from Mr. Chase to Mr. Lincoln. He was nominated. The Wigwam shook with roaring cheers. The crowd outside echoed the cheers of those inside, and soon all the cannon in Chicago joined in the celebration. After a while, the convention continued its work amid great excitement. All the votes that had been cast against Mr. Lincoln were switched to him before this round ended, and, upon a motion, the nomination was made unanimous. The convention then adjourned for dinner, and in the afternoon completed its work by nominating Hannibal Hamlin of Maine for Vice-President.
All that day and all the day previous Mr. Lincoln was in Springfield, trying to behave as usual, but watching the proceedings of the Convention, as they were reported by telegraph, with nervous anxiety. Mr. Baker, the friend who had taken "The Missouri Democrat" to Chicago with Mr. Lincoln's pregnant indorsement upon it, returned on the night of the 18th. Early in the morning, he and Mr. Lincoln went to the balll-alley to play at "fives;" but the alley was pre-engaged. They went to an "excellent and neat beer saloon" to play a game of billiards; but the table was occupied. In this strait they contented themselves with a glass of beer, and repaired to "The Journal" office for news.
All day and all the day before, Mr. Lincoln was in Springfield, trying to act normally but anxiously following the Convention updates reported by telegraph. Mr. Baker, the friend who took "The Missouri Democrat" to Chicago with Mr. Lincoln's strong endorsement, returned on the night of the 18th. Early the next morning, he and Mr. Lincoln went to the ball alley to play "fives," but the alley was already booked. They then went to a "great and tidy beer joint" to play billiards, but the table was taken. In this situation, they settled for a glass of beer and headed to "The Journal" office for news.
C. P. Brown says that Lincoln played ball a great deal that day, notwithstanding the disappointment when he went with Baker; and Mr. Zane informs us that he was engaged in the same way the greater part of the day previous. It is probable that he took this physical mode of working off or keeping down the unnatural excitement that threatened to possess him.
C. P. Brown says that Lincoln played a lot of ball that day, despite being disappointed when he went with Baker; and Mr. Zane tells us that he was doing the same for most of the previous day. It’s likely that he used this physical activity to release or manage the unnatural excitement that was threatening to overwhelm him.
About nine o'clock in the morning, Mr. Lincoln came to the office of Lincoln & Herndon. Mr. Zane was then conversing with a student, "Well, boys," said Mr. Lincoln, "what do you know?"—"Mr. Rosette," answered Zane, "who came from Chicago this morning, thinks your chances for the nomination are good." Mr. Lincoln wished to know what Mr. Rosette's opinion was founded upon; and, while Zane was explaining, Mr. Baker entered with a telegram, "which said the names of the candidates for nomination had been announced," and that Mr. Lincoln's had been received with more applause than any other. Mr. Lincoln lay down on a sofa to rest. Soon after, Mr. Brown entered; and Mr. Lincoln said to him, "Well, Brown, do you know any thing?" Brown did not know much; and so Mr. Lincoln, secretly nervous and impatient, rose and exclaimed, "Let's go to the telegraph-office." After waiting some time at the office, the result of the first ballot came over the wire. It was apparent to all present that Mr. Lincoln thought it very favorable. He believed that if Mr. Seward failed to get the nomination, or to "come very near it," on the first ballot, he would fail altogether. Presently the news of the second ballot arrived, and Mr. Lincoln showed by his manner that he considered the contest no longer doubtful. "I've got him," said he. He then went over to the office of "The Journal," where other friends were awaiting decisive intelligence. The local editor of that paper, Mr. Zane, and others, remained behind to receive the expected despatch. In due time it came: the operator was intensely excited; at first he threw down his pencil, but, seizing it again, wrote off the news that threw Springfield into a frenzy of delight. The local editor picked it up, and rushed to "The Journal" office. Upon entering the room, he called for three cheers for the next President. They were given, and then the despatch was read. Mr. Lincoln seemed to be calm, but a close observer could detect in his countenance the indications of deep emotion. In the mean time cheers for Lincoln swelled up from the streets, and began to be heard throughout the town. Some one remarked, "Mr. Lincoln, I suppose now we will soon have a book containing your life."—"There is not much," he replied, "in my past life about which to write a book, as it seems to me." Having received the hearty congratulations of the company in the office, he descended to the street, where he was immediately surrounded by "Irish and American citizens;" and, so long as he was willing to receive it, there was great handshaking and felicitating. "Gentlemen," said the great man with a happy twinkle in his eye, "you had better come up and shake my hand while you can: honors elevate some men, you know." But he soon bethought him of a person who was of more importance to him than all this crowd. Looking toward his house, he said, "Well, gentlemen, there is a little short woman at our house who is probably more interested in this despatch than I am; and, if you will excuse me, I will take it up and let her see it."
About nine in the morning, Mr. Lincoln arrived at the office of Lincoln & Herndon. Mr. Zane was chatting with a student. “Well, boys,” Mr. Lincoln said, “what do you know?”—“Mr. Rosette,” Zane replied, “who came from Chicago this morning, thinks your chances for the nomination are good.” Mr. Lincoln wanted to know what Mr. Rosette based his opinion on; and while Zane was explaining, Mr. Baker walked in with a telegram that said the names of the candidates for the nomination had been announced, and Mr. Lincoln’s name had received more applause than anyone else’s. Mr. Lincoln lay down on a sofa to rest. Soon after, Mr. Brown entered, and Mr. Lincoln asked him, “Well, Brown, do you know anything?” Brown didn’t know much; so Mr. Lincoln, feeling secretly anxious and impatient, got up and said, “Let’s go to the telegraph office.” After waiting for a while at the office, the result of the first ballot came through. It was clear to everyone present that Mr. Lincoln thought it was very favorable. He believed that if Mr. Seward didn’t get the nomination, or come very close, on the first ballot, he would fail altogether. Shortly, the news of the second ballot arrived, and Mr. Lincoln’s demeanor showed that he no longer thought the contest was uncertain. “I’ve got him,” he said. He then went over to the office of “The Journal,” where other friends were waiting for definitive news. The local editor, Mr. Zane, and others stayed behind to receive the anticipated dispatch. Eventually, it arrived: the operator was extremely excited; at first he dropped his pencil but quickly picked it up again and wrote down the news that sent Springfield into a frenzy of joy. The local editor grabbed it and rushed to “The Journal” office. Upon entering, he called for three cheers for the next President. They cheered, and then the dispatch was read. Mr. Lincoln appeared calm, but a close observer could see signs of deep emotion on his face. Meanwhile, cheers for Lincoln rose from the streets and echoed throughout the town. Someone remarked, “Mr. Lincoln, I suppose now we will soon have a book containing your life.” —“There isn’t much,” he replied, “in my past life to write a book about, as it seems to me.” After receiving the warm congratulations from those in the office, he went down to the street, where he was immediately surrounded by “Irish and American citizens,” and as long as he was willing to accept it, there was a lot of handshaking and congratulations. “Gentlemen,” said the great man with a happy gleam in his eye, “you better come up and shake my hand while you can: honors elevate some men, you know.” But soon he thought of someone more important to him than the crowd. Looking toward his house, he said, “Well, gentlemen, there’s a little short woman at our house who is probably more interested in this dispatch than I am; and, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take it up and let her see it.”
During the day a hundred guns were fired at Springfield; and in the evening a great mass meeting "ratified" the nomination, and, after doing so, adjourned to the house of the nominee. Mr. Lincoln appeared, made a "model" speech, and invited into his house everybody that could get in. To this the immense crowd responded that they would give him a larger house the next year, and in the mean time beset the one he had until after midnight.
During the day, a hundred guns were fired at Springfield, and in the evening, a large gathering confirmed the nomination and then moved to the nominee's house. Mr. Lincoln showed up, delivered an impressive speech, and welcomed everyone who could fit inside. The huge crowd responded by saying they would get him a bigger house next year, and in the meantime, they crowded around his house until after midnight.
On the following day the Committee of the Convention, with Mr. Ashmun, the president, at its head, arrived at Springfield to notify Mr. Lincoln of his nomination. Contrary to what might have been expected, he seemed sad and dejected. The re-action from excessive joy to deep despondency—a process peculiar to his constitution—had already set in. To the formal address of the Committee, he responded with admirable taste and feeling;—
On the next day, the Convention Committee, led by Mr. Ashmun, the president, arrived in Springfield to inform Mr. Lincoln of his nomination. Contrary to what might have been expected, he appeared sad and downcast. The shift from overwhelming joy to deep sadness—a reaction unique to his nature—had already begun. In response to the Committee's formal address, he replied with impressive grace and emotion;—
"Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen of the Committee,—I tender to you, and through you to the Republican National Convention, and all the people represented in it, my profoundest thanks for the high honor done me, which you now formally announce. Deeply and even painfully sensible of the great responsibility which is inseparable from this high honor,—a responsibility which I could almost wish had fallen upon some one of the far more eminent men and experienced statesmen whose distinguished names were before the Convention, I shall, by your leave, consider more fully the resolutions of the Convention, denominated the platform, and, without unnecessary and unreasonable delay, respond to you, Mr. Chairman, in writing, not doubting that the platform will be found satisfactory, and the nomination gratefully accepted. And now I will not longer defer the pleasure of taking you, and each of you, by the hand."
"Mr. Chairman and Members of the Committee,—I want to express my deepest thanks to you, and through you to the Republican National Convention and everyone it represents, for the great honor you are now formally bestowing upon me. I am acutely aware of the significant responsibility that comes with this honor—a responsibility that I sometimes wish had been given to one of the more prominent and experienced leaders whose notable names were presented at the Convention. With your permission, I will take more time to consider the Convention's resolutions, known as the platform, and I promise to respond to you, Mr. Chairman, in writing without unnecessary delay, believing that the platform will be acceptable and that the nomination will be gratefully received. Now, I won’t hold back any longer from the pleasure of shaking your hand, along with each of you."
The Committee handed him a letter containing the official notice, accompanied by the resolutions of the Convention; and to this he replied on the 23d as follows:—
The Committee gave him a letter with the official notice, along with the resolutions from the Convention; he responded to this on the 23rd as follows:—
Springfield, Ill, May 23,1860.
Springfield, IL, May 23, 1860.
Hon. George Ashmun, President of the Republican National Convention.
Hon. George Ashmun, President of the Republican National Convention.
Sir,—I accept the nomination tendered me by the Convention over which you presided, and of which I am formally apprised in the letter of yourself and others, acting as a Committee of the Convention for that purpose.
Sir, — I accept the nomination offered to me by the Convention that you chaired, and I have formally received notice of this in your letter along with others, who are acting as a Committee of the Convention for that purpose.
The declaration of principles and sentiments which accompanies your letter meets my approval; and it shall be my care not to violate or disregard it in any part.
The declaration of principles and sentiments that comes with your letter meets my approval; and I will make sure not to violate or ignore it in any way.
Imploring the assistance of Divine Providence, and with due regard to the views and feelings of all who were represented in the Convention; to the rights of all the States and Territories, and people of the nation; to the inviolability of the Constitution, and the perpetual union, harmony, and prosperity of all,—I am most happy to co-operate for the practical success of the principles declared by the Convention.
Seeking the help of Divine Providence, and considering the views and feelings of everyone represented in the Convention; the rights of all the States and Territories, and the people of the nation; the integrity of the Constitution, and the lasting unity, harmony, and prosperity of all, I am very pleased to work together for the practical success of the principles set forth by the Convention.
Your obliged friend and fellow-citizen,
Your grateful friend and neighbor,
Abraham Lincoln.
Abraham Lincoln.
In the mean time the National Democratic Convention had met at Charleston, S.C., and split in twain. The South utterly repudiated Mr. Douglas's new heresy; and Mr. Douglas insisted that the whole party ought to become heretics with him, and, turning their backs on the Dred-Scott Decision and the Cincinnati Platform, give up slavery in the Territories to the tender mercies of "squatter sovereignty" and "unfriendly legislation." Neither party to the controversy would be satisfied with a simple re-affirmation of the Cincinnati Platform; for under it Mr. Douglas could go to the North and say that it meant "squatter sovereignty," and Mr. Breckinridge could go to the South and say that it meant Congressional protection to slavery. In fact, it meant neither, and said neither, but declared, in plain English words, that Congress had no power to interfere with slavery in the Territories; and that, when the Territories were about to become States, they had all power to settle the question for themselves. Gen. B. F. Butler of Massachusetts proposed to heal the ominous divisions in the Convention by the re-adoption of that clear and emphatic provision; but his voice was soon drowned in the clamors of the fiercer disputants. The differences were irreconcilable. Mr. Douglas's friends had come there determined to nominate him at any cost; and, in order to nominate him, they dared not concede the platform to the South. A majority of the Committee on Resolutions reported the Cincinnati Platform, with the Southern interpretation of it; and the minority reported the same platform with a recitation concerning the "differences of opinion" "in the Democratic party," and a pledge to abide by the decision of the Supreme Court "on the questions of constitutional law,"—a pledge supposed to be of little value, since those who gave it were that moment in the very act of repudiating the only decision the Court had ever rendered. The minority report was adopted after a protracted and acrimonious debate, by a vote of one hundred and sixty-five to one hundred and thirty-eight. Thereupon the Southern delegates, most of them under instructions from their State conventions, withdrew, and organized themselves into a separate convention. The remaining delegates, called "the rump" by their Democratic adversaries, proceeded to ballot for a candidate for President, and voted fifty-seven times without effecting a nomination. Mr. Douglas, of course, received the highest number of votes; but, the old two-thirds rule being in force, he failed of a nomination. Mr. Guthrie of Kentucky was his principal competitor; but at one time and another Mr. Hunter of Virginia, Gen. Lane of Oregon, and Mr. Johnson of Tennessee, received flattering and creditable votes. After the fifty-seventh ballot, the Convention adjourned to meet at Baltimore on the 18th of June.
In the meantime, the National Democratic Convention had met in Charleston, S.C., and split in two. The South completely rejected Mr. Douglas's new ideas, while Mr. Douglas insisted that the whole party should join him in abandoning the Dred-Scott Decision and the Cincinnati Platform, leaving slavery in the Territories to “squatter sovereignty” and “unfriendly legislation.” Neither side in the argument would accept just reaffirming the Cincinnati Platform; Mr. Douglas could go to the North and claim it meant “squatter sovereignty,” while Mr. Breckinridge could go to the South and say it meant Congressional protection for slavery. In reality, it meant neither and clearly stated that Congress had no power to interfere with slavery in the Territories; and that when the Territories were about to become States, they had full power to decide the issue themselves. Gen. B. F. Butler from Massachusetts suggested healing the serious divisions in the Convention by readopting that clear and strong provision; however, his voice was soon drowned out by the louder voices of the more intense debaters. The differences were irreconcilable. Mr. Douglas's supporters were determined to nominate him at any cost; they couldn’t afford to give the platform to the South. A majority of the Committee on Resolutions presented the Cincinnati Platform, along with the Southern interpretation, while the minority offered the same platform with a mention of the “differences of opinion” in the Democratic party, and a promise to abide by the Supreme Court’s decision “on the questions of constitutional law”—a promise seen as pretty meaningless since those making it were at that very moment rejecting the only decision the Court had ever made. The minority report ended up being adopted after a lengthy and heated debate, with a vote of one hundred sixty-five to one hundred thirty-eight. As a result, the Southern delegates, most of whom were following instructions from their State conventions, withdrew and organized a separate convention. The remaining delegates, referred to as “the rump” by their Democratic opponents, proceeded to vote for a presidential candidate, attempting fifty-seven times without reaching a nomination. Mr. Douglas, of course, received the most votes; however, due to the old two-thirds rule still in place, he was unable to be nominated. Mr. Guthrie from Kentucky was his main competitor, but at various times, Mr. Hunter from Virginia, Gen. Lane from Oregon, and Mr. Johnson from Tennessee also received encouraging and respectable votes. After the fifty-seventh ballot, the Convention adjourned to meet again in Baltimore on June 18th.
The seceders met in another hall, adopted the majority platform, as the adhering delegates had adopted the minority platform, and then adjourned to meet at Richmond on the second Monday in June. Faint hopes of accommodation were still entertained; and, when the seceders met at Richmond, they adjourned again to Baltimore, and the 28th of June.
The breakaway group gathered in a different hall, accepted the majority platform, just as the remaining delegates had accepted the minority platform, and then decided to meet again in Richmond on the second Monday in June. There were still some slight hopes for compromise; however, when the breakaway group convened in Richmond, they postponed once more to meet in Baltimore on June 28th.
The Douglas Convention, assuming to be the regular one, had invited the Southern States to fill up the vacant seats which belonged to them; but, when the new delegates appeared, they were met with the apprehension that their votes might not be perfectly secure for Mr. Douglas, and were therefore, in many instances, lawlessly excluded. This was the signal for another secession: the Border States withdrew; Mr. Butler and the Massachusetts delegation withdrew; Mr. Cushing deserted the chair, and took that of the rival Convention. The "regular" Convention, it was said, was now "the rump of a rump."
The Douglas Convention, thought to be the official one, had invited the Southern States to fill the empty seats that were rightfully theirs; however, when the new delegates showed up, there was concern that their votes might not be completely guaranteed for Mr. Douglas, so they were often unlawfully excluded. This triggered another secession: the Border States pulled out; Mr. Butler and the Massachusetts delegation left; Mr. Cushing abandoned the chair and joined the opposing Convention. The "regular" Convention was referred to as "the rump of a rump."
On the first ballot for a candidate, Mr. Douglas had 173 1/2 votes; Mr. Guthrie, 10; Mr. Breckinridge, 5; and 3 were scattered. On the second ballot, Mr. Douglas had 181 1/2; Mr. Breckinridge, 5; and Mr. Guthrie, 5 1/2. It was plain that under the two-thirds rule no nomination could be made here. Neither Mr. Douglas nor any one else could receive two-thirds of a full convention. It was therefore resolved that Mr. Douglas, "having received two-thirds of all the votes given in this Convention," should be declared the nominee. Mr. Fitzpatrick of Alabama was nominated for Vice-President, but declined to stand; and Mr. Johnson of Georgia was substituted for him by the Douglas "National Committee."
On the first vote for a candidate, Mr. Douglas had 173.5 votes; Mr. Guthrie had 10; Mr. Breckinridge had 5; and 3 were distributed among other candidates. On the second vote, Mr. Douglas had 181.5; Mr. Breckinridge had 5; and Mr. Guthrie had 5.5. It was clear that under the two-thirds rule, no one could be nominated here. Neither Mr. Douglas nor anyone else could get two-thirds of the total votes from the convention. So, it was decided that Mr. Douglas, "having received two-thirds of all the votes given in this Convention," should be declared the nominee. Mr. Fitzpatrick from Alabama was nominated for Vice-President but declined to run; Mr. Johnson from Georgia was then chosen to replace him by the Douglas "National Committee."
In the seceders' Convention, twenty-one States were represented more or less fully. It had no trouble in selecting a candidate. John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky and Joseph Lane of Oregon were unanimously nominated for the offices of President and Vice-President.
In the seceders' Convention, twenty-one states were represented to varying degrees. It had no trouble choosing a candidate. John C. Breckinridge from Kentucky and Joseph Lane from Oregon were unanimously nominated for President and Vice-President.
In the mean time another party—the "Constitutional Union party"—had met in Baltimore on the 19th of May, and nominated John Bell of Tennessee for President, and Edward Everett of Massachusetts for Vice-President. Its platform was, in brief, "The Constitution of the Country, the Union of the States, and the Enforcement of the Laws." This body was composed for the most part of impenitent Know-Nothings and respectable old-line Whigs.
In the meantime, another group—the "Constitutional Union party"—gathered in Baltimore on May 19th and nominated John Bell from Tennessee for President and Edward Everett from Massachusetts for Vice-President. Their platform was basically, "The Constitution of the Country, the Union of the States, and the Enforcement of the Laws." This group mostly consisted of unrepentant Know-Nothings and respected old-line Whigs.
The spring elections had given the democracy good reason to hope for success in the fall. The commercial classes, the shipping classes, and large numbers of the manufacturers, were thoroughly alarmed for the safety of the great trade dependent upon a political connection with the South. It seemed probable that a great re-action against antislavery agitations might take place. But the division at Charleston, the permanent organization of the two factions at Baltimore, and their mutual and rancorous hostility, completely reversed the delusive prospect. A majority of the whole people of the Union looked forward to a Republican victory with dread, and a large part with actual terror; and yet it was now clear that that majority was fatally bent upon wasting its power in the bitter struggles of the factions which composed it. Mr. Lincoln's election was assured; and for them there was nothing left but to put the house in order for the great convulsion which all our political fathers and prophets had predicted as the necessary consequence of such an event.
The spring elections had given the democracy good reason to be hopeful for success in the fall. The business community, shipping industry, and many manufacturers were seriously worried about the security of the vital trade that relied on a political connection with the South. It seemed likely that a significant backlash against antislavery movements might occur. However, the split in Charleston, the formal organization of the two factions in Baltimore, and their mutual hostility completely changed the misleading outlook. A majority of the entire Union was anticipating a Republican victory with fear, and many felt real terror; yet, it was clear that this majority was dangerously focused on squandering its power in the bitter conflicts between the factions. Mr. Lincoln's election was certain; and for them, there was nothing left to do but prepare for the major upheaval that all our political leaders and visionaries had warned would follow such an event.
On the 6th of November, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. He received 1,857,610 votes; Mr. Douglas had 1,291,574; Mr. Breckinridge, 850,082; Mr. Bell, 646,124. Against Mr. Lincoln there was a majority of 980,170 of all the votes cast. Of the electoral votes, Mr. Lincoln had 180; Mr. Breckinridge, 72; Mr. Bell, 30; and Mr. Douglas, 12. It is more than likely that Mr. Lincoln owed this, his crowning triumph, to the skill and adroitness with which he questioned Mr. Douglas in the canvass of 1858, and drew out of him those fatal opinions about "squatter sovereignty" and "unfriendly legislation" in the Territories. But for Mr. Douglas's committal to those opinions, it is not likely that. Mr. Lincoln would ever have been President.
On November 6th, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. He received 1,857,610 votes; Mr. Douglas had 1,291,574; Mr. Breckinridge, 850,082; and Mr. Bell, 646,124. Against Mr. Lincoln, there was a majority of 980,170 of all the votes cast. Of the electoral votes, Mr. Lincoln had 180; Mr. Breckinridge, 72; Mr. Bell, 30; and Mr. Douglas, 12. It's likely that Mr. Lincoln owed this significant victory to the skill and strategy with which he questioned Mr. Douglas during the campaign of 1858, revealing his damaging views on "squatter sovereignty" and "unfriendly legislation" in the Territories. If it weren't for Mr. Douglas's commitment to those views, it's unlikely that Mr. Lincoln would have ever become President.
The election over, Mr. Lincoln was sorely beset by office-seekers. Individuals, deputations, "delegations," from all quarters, pressed in upon him in a manner that might have killed a man of less robust constitution. The hotels of Springfield were filled with gentlemen who came with, light baggage and heavy schemes. The party had never been in office: a "clean sweep" of the "ins" was expected; and all the "outs" were patriotically anxious to take the vacant places. It was a party that had never fed; and it was voraciously hungry. Mr. Lincoln and Artemus Ward saw a great deal of fun in it; and in all human probability it was the fun alone that enabled Mr. Lincoln to bear it.
The election over, Mr. Lincoln was overwhelmed by people seeking jobs. Individuals and groups from all directions crowded around him in a way that could have exhausted a less resilient person. The hotels in Springfield were packed with men who arrived with minimal luggage but big plans. The party had never held office before, and a complete turnover of the current officials was anticipated; everyone who was out of a job was eagerly wanting to fill the empty positions. This was a party that had never been in power and was extremely hungry for it. Mr. Lincoln and Artemus Ward found a lot of humor in the situation, and most likely, it was that humor that helped Mr. Lincoln cope with it.
Judge Davis says that Mr. Lincoln had determined to appoint "Democrats and Republicans alike to office." Many things confirm this statement. Mr. Lincoln felt deeply the responsibility of his great trust; and he felt still more keenly the supposed impossibility of administering the government for the sole benefit of an organization which had no existence in one-half of the Union. He was therefore willing, not only to appoint Democrats to office, but to appoint them to the very highest offices within his gift. At this time he thought very highly of Mr. Stephens of Georgia, and would gladly have taken him into his Cabinet but for the fear that Georgia might secede, and take Mr. Stephens along with her. He did actually authorize his friend, Mr. Speed, to offer the Treasury Department to Mr. Guthrie of Kentucky; and Mr. Guthrie, for good reasons of his own, declined it. The full significance of this act of courageous magnanimity cannot be understood without reference to the proceedings of the Charleston Convention, where Mr. Guthrie was one of the foremost candidates. He considered the names of various other gentlemen from the Border States, each of them with good proslavery antecedents. He commissioned Thurlow Weed to place a seat in the Cabinet at the disposal of Mr. Gilmore of North Carolina; but Mr. Gilmore, finding that his State was likely to secede, was reluctantly compelled to decline it. He was, in fact, sincerely and profoundly anxious that the South should be honestly represented in his councils by men who had an abiding-place in the hearts of her people. To accomplish that high purpose, he was forced to go beyond the ranks of his own party; and he had the manliness to do it. He felt that his strength lay in conciliation at the outset: that was his ruling conviction during all those months of preparation for the great task before him. It showed itself, not only in the appointments which he sought to make, but in those which he did make. Harboring no jealousies, entertaining no fears concerning his personal interests in the future, he called around him the most powerful of his late rivals,—Seward, Chase, Bates,—and unhesitatingly gave into their hands powers which most presidents would have shrunk from committing to their equals, and much more to their superiors in the conduct of public affairs.
Judge Davis says that Mr. Lincoln decided to appoint "Democrats and Republicans alike to office." Many things support this statement. Mr. Lincoln strongly felt the weight of his significant responsibility; he was even more acutely aware of the perceived impossibility of running the government solely for the benefit of a party that didn’t exist in half of the Union. Therefore, he was willing not just to appoint Democrats but to place them in the highest positions available. At that time, he held Mr. Stephens of Georgia in high regard and would have happily included him in his Cabinet if he hadn’t been worried that Georgia might secede and take Mr. Stephens with them. He actually allowed his friend, Mr. Speed, to offer the Treasury Department to Mr. Guthrie of Kentucky; however, Mr. Guthrie declined for his own valid reasons. The full significance of this brave act of generosity can’t be understood without referencing the proceedings of the Charleston Convention, where Mr. Guthrie was one of the leading candidates. He considered various other gentlemen from the Border States, each with strong proslavery backgrounds. He tasked Thurlow Weed with offering a Cabinet position to Mr. Gilmore of North Carolina; but Mr. Gilmore, realizing his state was likely to secede, sadly had to turn it down. He was genuinely and deeply concerned about having honest Southern representation in his administration, composed of individuals respected by the people there. To achieve that noble goal, he had to look beyond his own party, and he had the integrity to do so. He believed that his strength lay in conciliation from the start: that was his guiding conviction during all those months of preparation for the significant task ahead. This was evident not only in the appointments he aimed to make but also in those he actually did. Without jealousy or fear regarding his personal future interests, he surrounded himself with the most influential of his former rivals—Seward, Chase, Bates—and confidently entrusted them with powers that most presidents would have hesitated to give to their equals, let alone to their superiors in handling public affairs.
The cases of Cameron and Smith, however, were very distressing. He had authorized no one to make such bargains for him as had been made with the friends of these men. He would gladly have repudiated the contracts, if it could have been done with honor and safety. For Smith he had great regard, and believed that he had rendered important services in the late elections. But his character was now grossly assailed; and it would have saved Mr. Lincoln serious embarrassments if he had been able to put him aside altogether, and select Mr. Lane or some other Indiana statesman in his place. He wavered long, but finally made up his mind to keep the pledge of his friends; and Smith was appointed.
The situations with Cameron and Smith were really troubling. He hadn’t authorized anyone to make those deals on his behalf as had been made with these men’s associates. He would have happily rejected the contracts if it could have been done honorably and safely. He had a lot of respect for Smith and believed he had made significant contributions during the recent elections. But now his character was being severely attacked; it would have saved Mr. Lincoln a lot of serious issues if he could have completely set him aside and chosen Mr. Lane or another Indiana politician instead. He hesitated for a long time, but ultimately decided to honor the promise he made to his friends, and Smith was appointed.
In Cameron's case the contest was fierce and more protracted. At Chicago, Cameron's agents had demanded that he should have the Treasury Department; but that was too much; and the friends of Mr. Lincoln, tried, pushed, and anxious as they were, declined to consider it. They would say that he should be appointed to a Cabinet position, but no more; and to secure this, he must get a majority of the Pennsylvania delegation to recommend him. Mr. Cameron was disposed to exact the penalty of his bond, hard as compliance might be on the part of Mr. Lincoln. But Cameron had many and formidable enemies, who alleged that he was a man notorious for his evil deeds, shameless in his rapacity and corruption, and even more shameless in his mean ambition to occupy exalted stations, for which he was utterly and hopelessly incompetent; that he had never dared to offer himself as a candidate before the people of Pennsylvania, but had more than once gotten high offices from the Legislature by the worst means ever used by a politician; and that it would be a disgrace, a shame, a standing offence to the country, if Mr. Lincoln should consent to put him into his Cabinet. On the other hand, Mr. Cameron had no lack of devoted friends to deny these charges, and to say that his was as "white a soul" as ever yearned for political preferment: they came out to Springfield in numbers,—Edgar Cowan, J. K. Moorehead, Alexander Cummins, Mr. Sanderson, Mr. Casey, and many others, besides Gen. Cameron himself. On the ground, of course, were the powerful gentlemen who had made the original contract on the part of Mr. Lincoln, and who, from first to last, strenuously insisted upon its fulfilment. It required a hard struggle to overcome Mr. Lincoln's scruples; and the whole force was necessarily mustered in order to accomplish it. "All that I am in the world," said he,—"the Presidency and all else,—I owe to that opinion of me which the people express when they call me 'honest Old Abe.' Now, what will they think of their honest Abe, when he appoints Simon Cameron to be his familiar adviser?"
In Cameron's situation, the competition was intense and stretched out. In Chicago, Cameron's supporters insisted that he should be given the Treasury Department, but that was too much to ask. Despite being eager and trying hard, Lincoln's allies refused to entertain the idea. They believed he should be given a Cabinet position but nothing more; to secure this, he needed to gain the support of the majority of the Pennsylvania delegation. Cameron was inclined to enforce the terms of his agreement, no matter how difficult it might be for Lincoln. However, Cameron faced many powerful adversaries who claimed he was notorious for his wrongdoings, greedy and corrupt, and even more disgraceful in his lowly ambition to hold prestigious positions that he was utterly unqualified for. They argued that he had never had the courage to run for office in Pennsylvania but had obtained high offices from the Legislature through the worst tactics ever used by a politician; they asserted that it would be a disgrace, a shame, and an ongoing insult to the country if Lincoln were to appoint him to his Cabinet. On the flip side, Cameron had plenty of loyal supporters to counter these accusations, insisting that he had as "pure a heart" as anyone who longs for political advancement. They traveled to Springfield in numbers—Edgar Cowan, J. K. Moorehead, Alexander Cummins, Mr. Sanderson, Mr. Casey, among many others, including General Cameron himself. There were also the influential individuals who had originally secured the deal on Lincoln's behalf, and they remained adamant about seeing it through from start to finish. It took a considerable effort to overcome Lincoln's reservations, and all resources had to be mobilized to achieve this. "All that I am in the world," he said, "the Presidency and everything else—I owe to the view people have of me when they call me 'honest Old Abe.' Now, what will they think of their honest Abe when he appoints Simon Cameron as his trusted advisor?"
In Pennsylvania it was supposed for a while that Cameron's audacity had failed him, and that he would abandon the attempt. But about the 1st of January Mr. Swett, one of the contracting parties, appeared at Harrisburg, and immediately afterwards Cameron and some of his friends took flight to Springfield. This circumstance put the vigilant opposition on the alert, and aroused them to a clear sense of the impending calamity. The sequel is a painful story; and it is, perhaps, better to give it in the words of a distinguished actor,—Col. Alexander K. McClure. "I do not know," says he, "that any went there to oppose the appointment but myself. When I learned that Cameron had started to Springfield, and that his visit related to the Cabinet, I at once telegraphed Lincoln that such an appointment would be most unfortunate. Until that time, no one outside a small circle of Cameron's friends dreamed of Lincoln's calling him to the Cabinet. Lincoln's character for honesty was considered a complete guaranty against such a suicidal act. No efforts had therefore been made to guard against it.
In Pennsylvania, there was a time when people thought Cameron's boldness had let him down and that he would give up on his plans. But around January 1st, Mr. Swett, one of the key players, showed up in Harrisburg, and shortly after, Cameron and some of his allies fled to Springfield. This situation alerted the watchful opposition and made them recognize the looming disaster. The aftermath is a painful tale; it might be best to share it in the words of a notable figure—Col. Alexander K. McClure. "I don’t know," he says, "if anyone else went there to challenge the appointment except me. When I found out that Cameron had headed to Springfield and that his visit was related to the Cabinet, I immediately wired Lincoln that such an appointment would be very unfortunate. Until that moment, no one outside a small circle of Cameron's friends had any idea that Lincoln might consider him for the Cabinet. Lincoln's reputation for honesty was seen as a solid assurance against such a reckless move. Therefore, no measures had been taken to prevent it."
"In reply to my telegram, Mr. Lincoln answered, requesting me to come to Springfield at once. I hastily got letters from Gov. Curtin, Secretary Slifer, Mr. Wilmot, Mr. Dayton, Mr. Stevens, and started. I took no affidavits with me, nor were any specific charges made against him by me, or by any of the letters I bore; but they all sustained me in the allegation, that the appointment would disgrace the administration and the country, because of the notorious incompetency and public and private villany of the candidate. I spent four hours with Mr. Lincoln alone; and the matter was discussed very fully and frankly. Although he had previously decided to appoint Cameron, he closed our interview by a reconsideration of his purpose, and the assurance that within twenty-four hours he would write me definitely on the subject. He wrote me, as he promised, and stated, that, if I would make specific charges against Mr. Cameron, and produce the proof, he would dismiss the subject. I answered, declining to do so for reasons I thought should be obvious to every one. I believe that affidavits were sent to him, but I had no hand in it.
"In response to my telegram, Mr. Lincoln asked me to come to Springfield immediately. I quickly gathered letters from Gov. Curtin, Secretary Slifer, Mr. Wilmot, Mr. Dayton, and Mr. Stevens, and I set off. I didn’t take any affidavits with me, nor did I make any specific accusations against him, or any of the letters I carried; however, they all supported my claim that the appointment would embarrass the administration and the country due to the candidate's well-known incompetence and both public and private wrongdoing. I spent four hours alone with Mr. Lincoln, and we discussed the matter in great detail and honesty. Even though he had initially decided to appoint Cameron, he ended our conversation by reconsidering his decision and assured me that he would write to me about it within twenty-four hours. He sent me the promised letter stating that if I could make specific accusations against Mr. Cameron and provide proof, he would drop the matter. I responded, refusing to do so for reasons I believed should be clear to everyone. I think affidavits were sent to him, but I wasn’t involved in that."
"Subsequently Cameron regarded his appointment as impossible, and he proposed to Stevens to join in pressing him. Stevens wrote me of the fact; and I procured strong letters from the State administration in his favor. A few days after Stevens wrote me a most bitter letter, saying that Cameron had deceived him, and was then attempting to enforce his own appointment. The bond was demanded of Lincoln; and that decided the matter."1
"After that, Cameron saw his appointment as impossible, and he suggested to Stevens that they should push for it together. Stevens told me about this; and I got some strong letters from the State administration to support him. A few days later, Stevens sent me a very harsh letter, saying that Cameron had lied to him and was now trying to push through his own appointment. The bond was demanded from Lincoln, and that settled the issue."1
1 As this was one of the few public acts which Mr. Lincoln performed with a bad conscience, the reader ought to know the consequences of it; and, because it may not be convenient to revert to them in detail at another place, we give them here, still retaining the language of the eye-witness, Col. McClure:—
1 Since this was one of the few public actions that Mr. Lincoln carried out with a guilty conscience, the reader should be aware of the consequences; and, because it may not be practical to go back to them in detail later, we present them here, still using the words of the eyewitness, Col. McClure:—
"I saw Cameron the night of the day that Lincoln removed him. We met in the room of a mutual friend, and he was very violent against Lincoln for removing him without consultation or notice. His denunciation against the President was extremely bitter, for attempting, as he said, his 'personal as well as his political destruction.' He exhibited the letter, which was all in Mr. Lincoln's handwriting, and was literally as follows. I quote from carefully-treasured recollection:—
"I saw Cameron the night Lincoln let him go. We met in a mutual friend’s room, and he was really angry at Lincoln for removing him without any discussion or warning. His criticism of the President was intensely harsh, claiming it was an attempt at his 'personal and political destruction.' He showed me the letter, which was entirely in Lincoln's handwriting, and it went exactly like this. I quote from my carefully preserved memory:—"
"'Hon. Simon Cameron, Secretary of War.
'Hon. Simon Cameron, Secretary of War.
"Dear Sir,—I have this day nominated Hon. Edwin M. Stanton to be Secretary of War, and you to be Minister Plenipotentiary to Russia.
"Dear Sir,—Today, I have nominated Hon. Edwin M. Stanton to be Secretary of War, and you to be Minister Plenipotentiary to Russia."
"I am sure there is no material error in my quotation of the letter.
"I’m sure there’s no significant mistake in my quoting of the letter."
"Cameron's chief complaint was, that he had no knowledge or intimation of the change until Chase delivered the letter. We were then, as ever before and since, and as we ever shall be, not in political sympathy, but our personal relations were ever kind. Had he been entirely collected, he would probably not have said and done what I heard and witnessed; but he wept like a child, and appealed to me to aid in protecting him against the President's attempt at personal degradation, assuring me that under like circumstances he would defend me. In my presence the proposition was made and determined upon to ask Lincoln to allow a letter of resignation to be antedated, and to write a kind acceptance of the same in reply. The effort was made, in which Mr. Chase joined, although perhaps ignorant of all the circumstances of the case; and it succeeded. The record shows that Mr. Cameron voluntarily resigned; while, in point of fact, he was summarily removed without notice.
Cameron's main issue was that he had no idea about the change until Chase handed him the letter. We were, as we always had been and always would be, politically mismatched, but our personal relationship was always friendly. If he had been fully composed, he probably wouldn’t have said and done the things I witnessed; however, he cried like a child and pleaded with me to help protect him from the President's attempt to shame him, assuring me that he would defend me in similar circumstances. In my presence, the idea was proposed and decided upon to ask Lincoln to backdate a resignation letter and to write a kind response to it. This attempt was made, with Mr. Chase joining in, though he might have been unaware of all the details of the situation; and it worked. The record indicates that Mr. Cameron resigned voluntarily, while in reality, he was abruptly removed without any notice.
"In many subsequent conversations with Mr. Lincoln, he did not attempt to conceal the great misfortune of Cameron's appointment and the painful necessity of his removal."
"In many later conversations with Mr. Lincoln, he didn't try to hide the major mistake of Cameron's appointment and the difficult need for his removal."
Very truly,
Sincerely,
A. LINCOLN.'
A. LINCOLN.
As a slight relief to the miseries of his high position, and the doleful tales of the office-hunters, who assailed him morning, noon, and night, Mr. Lincoln ran off to Chicago, where he met with the same annoyances, and a splendid reception besides. Here, however, he enjoyed the great satisfaction of a long private conference with his old friend Speed; and it was then that he authorized him to invite Mr. Guthrie to the Cabinet.
As a small break from the struggles of his elevated position and the sad stories from the office seekers who bombarded him all day, Mr. Lincoln escaped to Chicago, where he faced the same hassles and also received a warm welcome. However, he was pleased to have an extended private meeting with his old friend Speed; it was during this time that he gave Speed the green light to invite Mr. Guthrie to join the Cabinet.
And now he began to think very tenderly of his friends and relatives in Coles County, especially of his good stepmother and her daughters. By the first of February, he concluded that he could not leave his home to assume the vast responsibilities that awaited him without paying them a visit. Accordingly, he left Springfield on the first day of that month, and went straight to Charleston, where Col. Chapman and family resided. He was accompanied by Mr. Marshall, the State Senator from that district, and was entertained at his house. The people crowded by hundreds to see him; and he was serenaded by "both the string and brass bands of the town, but declined making a speech." Early the next morning, he repaired "to his cousin, Dennis Hanks;" and our Jolly old friend Dennis had the satisfaction of seeing a grand levee under his own roof. It was all very pleasant to Mr. Lincoln to see such multitudes of familiar faces smiling upon his wonderful successes. But the chief object of his solicitude was not here; Mrs. Lincoln lived in the southern part of the county, and he was all impatience to see her. As soon, therefore, as he had taken a frugal breakfast with Dennis, he and Col. Chapman started off in a "two-horse buggy" toward Farmington, where his step-mother was living with her daughter, Mrs. Moore. They had much difficulty in crossing "the Kickapoo" River, which was running full of ice; but they finally made the dangerous passage, and arrived at Farmington in safety. The meeting between him and the old lady was of a most affectionate and tender character. She fondled him as her own "Abe," and he her as his own mother. It was soon arranged that she should return with him to Charleston, so that they might enjoy by the way the unrestricted and uninterrupted intercourse which they both desired above all things, but which they were not likely to have where the people could get at him. Then Mr. Lincoln and Col. Chapman drove to the house of John Hall, who lived "on the old Lincoln farm," where Abe split the celebrated rails, and fenced in the little clearing in 1830. Thence they went to the spot where old Tom Lincoln was buried. The grave was unmarked and utterly neglected. Mr. Lincoln said he wanted to "have it enclosed, and a suitable tombstone erected." He told Col. Chapman to go to a "marble-dealer," ascertain the cost of the work proposed, and write him in full. He would then send Dennis Hanks the money, and an inscription for the stone; and Dennis would do the rest. (Col. Chapman performed his part of the business, but Mr. Lincoln noticed it no further; and the grave remains in the same condition to this day.)
And now he started to think fondly of his friends and family in Coles County, especially his good stepmother and her daughters. By the first of February, he decided that he couldn't leave home to take on the huge responsibilities waiting for him without visiting them. So, he left Springfield on the first day of that month and went straight to Charleston, where Col. Chapman and his family lived. He was accompanied by Mr. Marshall, the State Senator from that area, and stayed at his home. People came in droves to see him, and he was serenaded by both the string and brass bands of the town, but he declined to give a speech. Early the next morning, he went to visit his cousin, Dennis Hanks, and our jolly old friend Dennis enjoyed the pleasure of hosting a big gathering at his house. Mr. Lincoln was very happy to see so many familiar faces celebrating his incredible successes. But the main person he wanted to see was not there; Mrs. Lincoln lived in the southern part of the county, and he was eager to see her. So, as soon as he had a simple breakfast with Dennis, he and Col. Chapman set off in a two-horse buggy toward Farmington, where his stepmother was living with her daughter, Mrs. Moore. They had a lot of trouble crossing the Kickapoo River, which was full of ice, but they eventually made it across safely and arrived in Farmington. The reunion between him and the old lady was very warm and loving. She embraced him as her own "Abe," and he treated her like his own mother. They quickly arranged for her to come back with him to Charleston, so they could enjoy the time together without interruptions, which they both wanted more than anything, but wouldn't be possible where the townspeople could reach him. Then Mr. Lincoln and Col. Chapman drove to John Hall's house, who lived on the old Lincoln farm where Abe had split the famous rails and fenced in the small clearing back in 1830. From there, they went to the place where old Tom Lincoln was buried. The grave was unmarked and completely neglected. Mr. Lincoln said he wanted to have it enclosed and a suitable tombstone put up. He told Col. Chapman to go to a marble dealer, find out the cost for the work he proposed, and write him all the details. He would then send Dennis Hanks the money and an inscription for the stone, and Dennis would take care of the rest. (Col. Chapman did his part, but Mr. Lincoln didn't follow up on it further, and the grave remains in the same state to this day.)
"We then returned," says Col. Chapman, "to Farmington, where we found a large crowd of citizens—nearly all old acquaintances—waiting to see him. His reception was very enthusiastic, and appeared to gratify him very much. After taking dinner at his step-sister's (Mrs. Moore), we returned to Charleston, his step-mother coming with us.
"We then returned," says Col. Chapman, "to Farmington, where we found a large crowd of citizens—almost all old friends—waiting to see him. His welcome was very enthusiastic and seemed to please him a lot. After having dinner at his step-sister's (Mrs. Moore), we went back to Charleston, with his step-mother joining us."
"Our conversation during the trip was mostly concerning family affairs. Mr. Lincoln spoke to me on the way down to Farmington of his step-mother in the most affectionate manner; said she had been his best friend in the world, and that no son could love a mother more than he loved her. He also told me of the condition of his father's family at the time he married his step-mother, and of the change she made in the family, and of the encouragement he (Abe) received from her.... He spoke of his father, and related some amusing incidents of the old man; of the bull-dogs' biting the old man on his return from New Orleans; of the old man's escape, when a boy, from an Indian who was shot by his uncle Mordecai. He spoke of his uncle Mordecai as being a man of very great natural gifts, and spoke of his step-brother, John
"Our conversation during the trip mostly revolved around family matters. Mr. Lincoln shared with me on the way to Farmington his deep affection for his step-mother, saying she had been his best friend in the world and that no son could love a mother more than he loved her. He also talked about the state of his father's family at the time he married his step-mother, the changes she brought about, and the support he (Abe) received from her. He mentioned his father and recounted some funny stories about him, like when the bulldogs bit his father on his return from New Orleans and how, as a boy, he escaped from an Indian who was shot by his uncle Mordecai. He described uncle Mordecai as a man of great natural talents and also spoke about his step-brother, John."
D. Johnston, who had died a short time previous, in the most affectionate manner.
D. Johnston, who had passed away shortly before, in the most loving way.
"Arriving at Charleston on our return from Farmington, we proceeded to my residence. Again the house was crowded by persons wishing to see him. The crowd finally became so great, that he authorized me to announce that he would hold a public reception at the Town Hall that evening at seven o'clock; but that, until then, he wished to be left with relations and friends. After supper he proceeded to the Town Hall, where large numbers from the town and surrounding country, irrespective of party, called to see him.
"Arriving in Charleston on our way back from Farmington, we went to my house. Once again, it was packed with people wanting to see him. The crowd grew so large that he asked me to let everyone know he would hold a public reception at the Town Hall that evening at seven o'clock; however, until then, he preferred to spend time with family and friends. After dinner, he went to the Town Hall, where many locals and people from the nearby areas, regardless of their political affiliations, came to see him."
"He left this place Wednesday morning at four o'clock to return to Springfield.... Mr. Lincoln appeared to enjoy his visit here remarkably well. His reception by his old acquaintances appeared to be very gratifying to him. They all appeared so glad to see him, irrespective of party, and all appeared so anxious that his administration might be a success, and that he might have a pleasant and honorable career as President."
"He left this place Wednesday morning at 4:00 AM to head back to Springfield. Mr. Lincoln seemed to really enjoy his visit here. His old friends were clearly very pleased to see him. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to have him back, regardless of political party, and they all seemed hopeful that his administration would be successful and that he would have a positive and respected presidency."
The parting between Mr. Lincoln and his mother was very touching. She embraced him with deep emotion, and said she was sure she would never behold him again, for she felt that his enemies would assassinate him. He replied, "No, no, mamma: they will not do that. Trust in the Lord, and all will be well: we will see each other again." Inexpressibly affected by this new evidence of her tender attachment and deep concern for his safety, he gradually and reluctantly withdrew himself from the arms of the only mother he had ever known, feeling still more oppressed by the heavy cares which time and events were rapidly augmenting.
The goodbye between Mr. Lincoln and his mother was very emotional. She hugged him tightly and told him she was sure she'd never see him again because she felt his enemies would kill him. He responded, "No, no, Mom: they won't do that. Trust in the Lord, and everything will be okay: we'll see each other again." Deeply moved by this new display of her love and concern for his safety, he slowly and reluctantly pulled away from the arms of the only mother he had ever known, feeling even more weighed down by the heavy responsibilities that were increasingly piling up.
The fear that Mr. Lincoln would be assassinated was not peculiar to his step-mother. It was shared by very many of his neighbors at Springfield; and the friendly warnings he received were as numerous as they were silly and gratuitous. Every conceivable precaution was suggested. Some thought the cars might be thrown from the track; some thought he would be surrounded and stabbed in some great crowd; others thought he might be shot from a house-top as he rode up Pennsylvania Avenue on inauguration day; while others still were sure he would be quietly poisoned long before the 4th of March. One gentleman insisted that he ought, in common prudence, to take his cook with him from Springfield,—one from "among his own female friends."
The fear that Mr. Lincoln would be assassinated wasn't just felt by his stepmother. Many of his neighbors in Springfield shared the same concern, and the friendly warnings he got were as frequent as they were absurd and unnecessary. Every possible precaution was suggested. Some thought the train cars might be derailed; others worried he would be surrounded and stabbed in a large crowd; some believed he might be shot from a rooftop while riding up Pennsylvania Avenue on inauguration day; and still others were convinced he would be quietly poisoned well before March 4th. One man insisted that, out of common sense, he should take his cook with him from Springfield—one from “among his own female friends.”
Mingled with the thousands who came to see him were many of his old New-Salem and Petersburg friends and constituents; and among these was Hannah Armstrong, the wife of Jack and the mother of William. Hannah had been to see him once or twice before, and had thought there was something mysterious in his conduct. He never invited her to his house, or introduced her to his wife; and this circumstance led Hannah to suspect that "there was something wrong between him and her." On one occasion she attempted a sort of surreptitious entrance to his house by the kitchen door; but it ended very ludicrously, and poor Hannah was very much discouraged. On this occasion she made no effort to get upon an intimate footing with his family, but went straight to the State House, where he received the common run of strangers. He talked to her as he would have done in the days when he ran for the Legislature, and Jack was an "influential citizen." Hannah was perfectly charmed, and nearly beside herself with pride and pleasure. She, too, was filled with the dread of some fatal termination to all his glory. "Well," says she, "I talked to him some time, and was about to bid him good-by; had told him that it was the last time I should ever see him: something told me that I should never see him; they would kill him. He smiled, and said jokingly, 'Hannah, if they do kill me, I shall never die another death.' I then bade him good-by."
Mixed in with the thousands who came to see him were many of his old friends and supporters from New Salem and Petersburg; among them was Hannah Armstrong, the wife of Jack and mother of William. Hannah had visited him once or twice before and had sensed something mysterious about his behavior. He never invited her to his home or introduced her to his wife, which made Hannah suspect that "there was something wrong between him and her." One time, she tried to sneak into his house through the kitchen door, but it ended up being quite funny, and poor Hannah felt very discouraged. On this occasion, she didn’t try to get close to his family but went straight to the State House, where he met the usual crowd of strangers. He spoke to her just like he did back when he was running for the Legislature and Jack was an "influential citizen." Hannah was utterly charmed and almost beside herself with pride and joy. She was also filled with a fear that something terrible might happen to all his success. "Well," she said, "I talked to him for a while, and I was about to say goodbye; I told him that it would be the last time I would ever see him: something told me that I would never see him again; they would kill him. He smiled and said jokingly, 'Hannah, if they do kill me, I shall never die another death.' I then said goodbye."
CHAPTER XIX.
IT was now but a few weeks until Mr. Lincoln was to become the constitutional ruler of one of the great nations of the earth, and to begin to expend appropriations, to wield armies, to apportion patronage, powers, offices, and honors, such as few sovereigns have ever had at command. The eyes of all mankind were bent upon him to see how he would solve a problem in statesmanship to which the philosophy of Burke and the magnanimity of Wellington might have been unequal. In the midst of a political canvass in his own State but a few years before, impressed with the gravity of the great issues which then loomed but just above the political horizon, he had been the first to announce, amid the objections and protestations of his friends and political associates, the great truth, that "a house divided against itself cannot stand;" that the perpetuity of the Union depended upon its becoming devoted either to the interests of freedom or slavery. And now, by a turn of fortune unparalleled in history, he had been chosen to preside over the interests of the nation; while, as yet unseen to him, the question that perplexed the founders of the government, which ever since had been a disturbing element in the national life, and had at last arrayed section against section, was destined to reach its final settlement through the fierce struggle of civil war. In many respects his situation was exceptionally trying. He was the first President of the United States elected by a strictly sectional vote. The party which elected him, and the parties which had been defeated, were inflamed by the heat of the canvass. The former, with faith in their principles, and a natural eagerness for the prizes now within their reach, were not disposed to compromise their first success by any lowering of their standard or any concession to the beaten; while many of the latter saw in the success of the triumphant party an attack on their most cherished rights, and refused in consequence to abide by the result of the contest. To meet so grave an exigency, Mr. Lincoln had neither precedents nor experience to guide him, nor could he turn elsewhere for greater wisdom than he possessed. The leaders of the new party were as yet untried in the great responsibilities which had fallen upon him and them. There were men among them who had earned great reputation as leaders of an opposition; but their eloquence had been expended upon a single subject of national concern. They knew how to depict the wrongs of a subject race, and also how to set forth the baleful effects of an institution like slavery on national character. But was it certain that they were equally able to govern with wisdom and prudence the mighty people whose affairs were now given to their keeping?
IT was now only a few weeks until Mr. Lincoln would become the constitutional leader of one of the great nations of the world, and start to allocate funds, command armies, distribute patronage, and manage powers, offices, and honors, like few rulers have ever had at their disposal. The eyes of everyone were on him to see how he would tackle a statesmanship problem that even the philosophy of Burke and the greatness of Wellington might have struggled with. Just a few years earlier, during a political campaign in his own State, recognizing the seriousness of the major issues looming on the political horizon, he had been the first to declare, despite the objections of his friends and political allies, the important truth that "a house divided against itself cannot stand;" that the survival of the Union depended on whether it committed itself to freedom or slavery. And now, through an unprecedented turn of fate, he had been chosen to lead the interests of the nation; while still unknown to him, the issue that had troubled the founders of the government, which had since been a source of national discord, and had finally set region against region, was destined to reach its conclusion through the fierce struggle of civil war. In many ways, his situation was extraordinarily challenging. He was the first President of the United States elected by a purely sectional vote. The party that elected him and the defeated parties were still fired up from the campaign. The former, confident in their principles and eager for the rewards now within their grasp, were not willing to compromise their initial success by lowering their standards or making concessions to the defeated; meanwhile, many from the latter group saw the success of the winning party as an assault on their most valued rights and refused to accept the outcome of the election. To address such a serious situation, Mr. Lincoln had no precedents or experiences to guide him, nor could he look elsewhere for more wisdom than he already had. The leaders of the new party were still untested in the significant responsibilities that had fallen upon him and them. Among them were individuals who had gained great reputations as opposition leaders; however, their rhetoric had focused on a single national issue. They knew how to illustrate the injustices faced by a subject race and the harmful effects of an institution like slavery on national character. But was it certain that they had the ability to govern wisely and prudently the vast population whose affairs were now in their hands?
Until the day of his overthrow at Chicago, Mr. Seward had been the recognized chief of the party; had, like Mr. Lincoln, taught the existence of an irrepressible conflict between the North and the South, and had also inculcated the idea of a law higher than the Constitution, which was of more binding force than any human enactment, until many of his followers had come to regard the Constitution with little respect. It was this Constitution which Mr. Lincoln, having sworn to preserve, protect, and defend, was to attempt to administer to the satisfaction of the minority which had elected him, and which was alone expected to support him. To moderate the passions of his own partisans, to conciliate his opponents in the North, and divide and weaken his enemies in the South, was a task which no mere politician was likely to perform, yet one which none but the most expert of politicians and wisest of statesmen was fitted to undertake. It required moral as well as intellectual qualities of the highest order. William of Orange, with a like duty and similar difficulties, was ready at one time and another to give up the effort in despair, although aided by "the divinity that hedges round a king." Few men believed that Mr. Lincoln possessed a single qualification for his great office. His friends had indicated what they considered his chief merit, when they insisted that he was a very common, ordinary man, just like the rest of "the people,"—"Old Abe," a rail-splitter and a story-teller. They said he was good and honest and well-meaning; but they took care not to pretend that he was great. He was thoroughly convinced that there was too much truth in this view of his character. He felt deeply and keenly his lack of experience in the conduct of public affairs. He spoke then and afterwards about the duties of the Presidency with much diffidence, and said, with a story about a justice of the peace in Illinois, that they constituted his "great first case misunderstood." He had never been a ministerial or an executive officer. His most intimate friends feared that he possessed no administrative ability; and in this opinion he seems to have shared himself, at least in his calmer and more melancholy moments.
Until the day of his downfall in Chicago, Mr. Seward was acknowledged as the leader of the party; like Mr. Lincoln, he had taught that there was an unavoidable conflict between the North and the South and had also promoted the idea of a higher law than the Constitution, which he believed was more binding than any human-made law. This perspective led many of his followers to lose respect for the Constitution. It was this very Constitution that Mr. Lincoln, who had sworn to preserve, protect, and defend it, would try to manage to satisfy the minority that had elected him, and who were expected to support him. Moderating the passions of his own supporters, winning over his opponents in the North, and dividing and weakening his enemies in the South was a challenge no ordinary politician was likely to manage, yet it was a task that only the most skilled politicians and wisest statesmen were equipped to undertake. It required both moral and intellectual qualities of the highest caliber. William of Orange, faced with a similar duty and difficulties, was at times ready to give up in despair, even though he was aided by "the divinity that protects a king." Few believed Mr. Lincoln had any qualifications for his high office. His friends pointed out what they considered his main quality by insisting he was just a very ordinary man, just like the rest of "the people"—"Old Abe," a rail-splitter and a storyteller. They described him as good, honest, and well-meaning, but they didn’t pretend he was great. He was deeply aware of how true this assessment of his character was. He felt keenly his lack of experience in public affairs. He spoke then and later about the duties of the Presidency with a lot of hesitance, mentioning a story about a justice of the peace in Illinois, claiming that they made up his "great first case misunderstood." He had never been in a ministerial or executive position. His closest friends worried that he lacked administrative skills; and he seemed to share this concern himself, at least in his calmer and more reflective moments.
Having put his house in order, arranged all his private business, made over his interest in the practice of Lincoln & Herndon to Mr. Herndon, and requested "Billy," as a last favor, to leave his name on the old sign for four years at least, Mr. Lincoln was ready for the final departure from home and all familiar things. And this period of transition from private to public life—a period of waiting and preparing for the vast responsibilities that were to bow down his shoulders during the years to come—affords us a favorable opportunity to turn back and look at him again as his neighbors saw him from 1837 to 1861.
Having organized his house, settled all his personal affairs, transferred his interest in the law practice of Lincoln & Herndon to Mr. Herndon, and asked "Billy" as a final favor to keep his name on the old sign for at least four more years, Mr. Lincoln was prepared for his final departure from home and all the familiar things. This transitional period from private to public life—a time of waiting and getting ready for the huge responsibilities that would weigh on him in the coming years—gives us a good opportunity to look back and see him again as his neighbors viewed him from 1837 to 1861.
Mr. Lincoln was about six feet four inches high,—the length of his legs being out of all proportion to that of his body. When he sat down on a chair, he seemed no taller than an average man, measuring from the chair to the crown of his head; but his knees rose high in front, and a marble placed on the cap of one of them would roll down a steep descent to the hip. He weighed about a hundred and eighty pounds; but he was thin through the breast, narrow across the shoulders, and had the general appearance of a consumptive subject. Standing up, he stooped slightly forward; sitting down, he usually crossed his long legs, or threw them over the arms of the chair, as the most convenient mode of disposing of them. His "head was long, and tall from the base of the brain and the eyebrow;" his forehead high and narrow, but inclining backward as it rose. The diameter of his head from ear to ear was six and a half inches, and from front to back eight inches. The size of his hat was seven and an eighth. His ears were large, standing out almost at right-angles from his head; his cheek-bones high and prominent; his eyebrows heavy, and jutting forward over small, sunken blue eyes; his nose long, large, and blunt, the tip of it rather ruddy, and slightly awry toward the right-hand side; his chin, projecting far and sharp, curved upward to meet a thick, material, lower lip, which hung downward; his cheeks were flabby, and the loose skin fell in wrinkles, or folds; there was a large mole on his right cheek, and an uncommonly prominent Adam's apple on his throat; his hair was dark brown in color, stiff, unkempt, and as yet showing little or no sign of advancing age or trouble; his complexion was very dark, his skin yellow, shrivelled, and "leathery." In short, to use the language of Mr. Herndon, "he was a thin, tall, wiry, sinewy, grizzly, raw-boned man," "looking woe-struck." His countenance was haggard and careworn, exhibiting all the marks of deep and protracted suffering. Every feature of the man—the hollow eyes, with the dark rings beneath; the long, sallow, cadaverous face, intersected by those peculiar deep lines; his whole air; his walk; his long, silent reveries, broken at long intervals by sudden and startling exclamations, as if to confound an observer who might suspect the nature of his thoughts—showed he was a man of sorrows,—not sorrows of to-day or yesterday, but long-treasured and deep,—bearing with him a continual sense of weariness and pain.
Mr. Lincoln was about six feet four inches tall, with his legs being way longer in proportion to his body. When he sat down in a chair, he looked no taller than an average guy, measuring from the chair to the top of his head; but his knees were up high in front, and if you placed a marble on one of them, it would roll down steeply to his hip. He weighed around a hundred and eighty pounds, but he was thin through the chest, narrow across the shoulders, and generally looked like a person who was unwell. Standing up, he leaned slightly forward; when sitting down, he often crossed his long legs or threw them over the arms of the chair, which was the most convenient way to manage them. His head was long and tall from the base of the brain to the eyebrow; his forehead was high and narrow but sloped backward as it rose. The width of his head from ear to ear was six and a half inches, and from front to back, it was eight inches. His hat size was seven and an eighth. His ears were large and stuck out almost at right angles from his head; his cheekbones were high and prominent; his eyebrows were thick and jutted forward over small, sunken blue eyes; his nose was long, large, and blunt, with the tip being somewhat reddish and slightly crooked to the right; his chin was sharp and protruding, curving upward to meet a thick lower lip that hung down; his cheeks were saggy, with loose skin that fell into wrinkles or folds; he had a large mole on his right cheek and a noticeably prominent Adam's apple on his throat; his hair was dark brown, stiff, messy, and showed little sign of age or stress; his complexion was very dark with yellow, shriveled, and "leathery" skin. In short, to quote Mr. Herndon, "he was a thin, tall, wiry, sinewy, grizzly, raw-boned man," "looking woe-struck." His face was haggard and tired, showing clear signs of deep and prolonged suffering. Every feature—the hollow eyes with dark rings beneath, the long, sallow, cadaverous face marked by those unique deep lines; his entire presence; his walk; his long, silent daydreams, interrupted only occasionally by sudden, startling exclamations, as if to confuse anyone who might guess the nature of his thoughts—indicated he was a man of sorrows—not just the sorrows of today or yesterday, but deep-seated and long-held sorrows—carrying a constant sense of weariness and pain.
He was a plain, homely, sad, weary-looking man, to whom one's heart warmed involuntarily, because he seemed at once miserable and kind.
He was an ordinary, unremarkable, sad, and tired-looking man, to whom your heart naturally went out, because he appeared both unhappy and gentle.
On a winter's morning, this man could be seen wending his way to the market, with a basket on his arm, and a little boy at his side, whose small feet rattled and pattered over the ice-bound pavement, attempting to make up by the number of his short steps for the long strides of his father. The little fellow jerked at the bony hand which held his, and prattled and questioned, begged and grew petulant, in a vain effort to make his father talk to him. But the latter was probably unconscious of the other's existence, and stalked on, absorbed in his own reflections. He wore on such occasions an old gray shawl, rolled into a coil, and wrapped like a rope around his neck. The rest of his clothes were in keeping. "He did not walk cunningly,—Indian-like,—but cautiously and firmly." His tread was even and strong. He was a little pigeon-toed; and this, with another peculiarity, made his walk very singular. He set his whole foot flat on the ground, and in turn lifted it all at once,—not resting momentarily upon the toe as the foot rose, nor upon the heel as it fell. He never wore his shoes out at the heel and the toe more, as most men do, than at the middle of the sole; yet his gait was not altogether awkward, and there was manifest physical power in his step. As he moved along thus silent, abstracted, his thoughts dimly reflected in his sharp face, men turned to look after him as an object of sympathy as well as curiosity: "his melancholy," in the words of Mr. Herndon, "dripped from him as he walked." If, however, he met a friend in the street, and was roused by a loud, hearty "Good-morning, Lincoln!" he would grasp the friend's hand with one or both of his own, and, with his usual expression of "Howdy, howdy," would detain him to hear a story: something reminded him of it; it happened in Indiana, and it must be told, for it was wonderfully pertinent.
On a winter morning, this man could be seen making his way to the market, with a basket on his arm and a little boy by his side. The boy's small feet rattled and pattered over the icy pavement, trying to match his father's long strides with his short steps. The little one tugged at the bony hand holding his, chattering and asking questions, begging for attention, and growing whiny as he tried to get his father to talk to him. But the man seemed unaware of the boy's existence and walked on, lost in his own thoughts. He wore an old gray shawl wrapped like a rope around his neck. His other clothes matched that style. "He didn't walk sneakily—like a Native American—but carefully and steadily." His walk was even and strong. He was slightly pigeon-toed, and that, along with another quirk, made his walking unique. He placed his whole foot flat on the ground and lifted it all at once—not pausing on his toes as he rose or on his heels as he fell. He never wore his shoes out at the heels and toes more than in the middle of the soles; yet his walk wasn’t completely awkward, and there was clear physical strength in his step. As he moved along silently and lost in thought, his expressions faintly showing on his sharp face, people turned to watch him, feeling both sympathy and curiosity: "his sadness," as Mr. Herndon put it, "dripped from him as he walked." However, if he encountered a friend on the street who greeted him with a loud, cheerful "Good morning, Lincoln!" he would grip the friend's hand with one or both of his own and, with his usual "Howdy, howdy," would hold him back to share a story: something reminded him of it; it happened in Indiana, and it needed to be told because it was incredibly relevant.
After his breakfast-hour, he would appear at his office, and go about the labors of the day with all his might, displaying prodigious industry and capacity for continuous application, although he never was a fast worker. Sometimes it happened that he came without his breakfast; and then he would have in his hands a piece of cheese, or Bologna sausage, and a few crackers, bought by the way. At such times he did not speak to his partner or his friends, if any happened to be present: the tears were, perhaps, struggling into his eyes, while his pride was struggling to keep them back. Mr. Herndon knew the whole story at a glance: there was no speech between them; but neither wished the visitors to the office to witness the scene; and, therefore, Mr. Lincoln retired to the back office, while Mr. Herndon locked the front one, and walked away with the key in his pocket. In an hour or more the latter would return, and perhaps find Mr. Lincoln calm and collected; otherwise he went out again, and waited until he was so. Then the office was opened, and every thing went on as usual.
After breakfast, he would show up at his office and tackle the day’s work with all his effort, demonstrating incredible diligence and the ability to focus for long stretches, even though he was never a quick worker. Sometimes, he would arrive without having breakfast; instead, he might have a piece of cheese, a bologna sausage, and some crackers that he had picked up along the way. During these times, he wouldn’t talk to his partner or any friends present; tears might have been fighting to escape his eyes, while his pride worked to hold them back. Mr. Herndon could read the situation immediately: there were no words exchanged between them, but neither wanted the office visitors to see what was happening. So, Mr. Lincoln would go to the back office while Mr. Herndon locked the front office and took the key with him. After about an hour, Mr. Herndon would return and might find Mr. Lincoln calm and composed; if not, he would step out again and wait until he was. Then the office would open, and everything would resume as usual.
When Mr. Lincoln had a speech to write, which happened very often, he would put down each thought, as it struck him, on a small strip of paper, and, having accumulated a number of these, generally carried them in his hat or his pockets until he had the whole speech composed in this odd way, when he would sit down at his table, connect the fragments, and then write out the whole speech on consecutive sheets in a plain, legible handwriting.
When Mr. Lincoln had a speech to write, which was quite common, he would jot down each thought as it came to him on a small piece of paper. After gathering several of these, he usually carried them in his hat or pockets until he had the whole speech put together in this unique way. Then he'd sit at his table, link the pieces, and write out the complete speech on consecutive sheets in clear, readable handwriting.
His house was an ordinary two-story frame-building, with a stable and a yard: it was a bare, cheerless sort of a place. He planted no fruit or shade trees, no shrubbery or flowers. He did on one occasion set out a few rose-bushes in front of his house; but they speedily perished, or became unsightly for want of attention. Mrs. Wallace, Mrs. Lincoln's sister, undertook "to hide the nakedness" of the place by planting some flowers; but they soon withered and died. He cultivated a small garden for a single year, working in it himself; but it did not seem to prosper, and that enterprise also was abandoned. He had a horse and a cow: the one was fed and curried, and the other fed and milked, by his own hand. When at home, he chopped and sawed all the wood that was used in his house. Late one night he returned home, after an absence of a week or so. His neighbor, Webber, was in bed; but, hearing an axe in use at that unusual hour, he rose to see what it meant. The moon was high; and by its light he looked down into Lincoln's yard, and there saw him in his shirt-sleeves "cutting wood to cook his supper with." Webber turned to his watch, and saw that it was one o'clock. Besides this house and lot, and a small sum of money, Mr. Lincoln had no property, except some wild land in Iowa, entered for him under warrants, received for his service in the Black Hawk War.
His house was a typical two-story frame building, with a stable and a yard; it was a bare, bleak kind of place. He didn’t plant any fruit or shade trees, no shrubs or flowers. Once, he tried to plant a few rose bushes in front of his house, but they quickly died or looked terrible because he didn’t take care of them. Mrs. Wallace, Mrs. Lincoln's sister, tried to "hide the emptiness" of the place by planting some flowers, but those soon withered and died too. He managed a small garden for just one year, doing the work himself, but it didn’t thrive, and that effort was also given up. He had a horse and a cow: he took care of feeding and grooming the horse, and feeding and milking the cow himself. When he was home, he chopped and sawed all the wood used in his house. Late one night, he came back after being away for a week or so. His neighbor, Webber, was in bed, but when he heard an axe being used at that odd hour, he got up to see what was going on. The moon was high, and by its light, he looked into Lincoln's yard and saw him in his shirt sleeves "cutting wood to cook his supper." Webber checked his watch and saw that it was one o’clock. Besides this house and lot and a small amount of cash, Mr. Lincoln had no property except for some wild land in Iowa, claimed for him under warrants he received for his service in the Black Hawk War.
Mrs. Wallace thinks "Mr. Lincoln was a domestic man by nature." He was not fond of other people's children, but was extremely fond of his own: he was patient, indulgent, and generous with them to a fault. On Sundays he often took those that were large enough, and walked with them into the country, and, giving himself up entirely to them, rambled through the green fields or the cool woods, amusing and instructing them for a whole day at a time. His method of reading is thus quaintly described. "He would read, generally aloud (couldn't read otherwise),—would read with great warmth, all funny or humorous things; read Shakspeare that way. He was a sad man, an abstracted man. He would lean back, his head against the top of a rocking-chair; sit abstracted that way for minutes,—twenty, thirty minutes,—and all at once would burst out into a joke."
Mrs. Wallace believes that "Mr. Lincoln was a homebody by nature." He didn't really like other people's kids, but he absolutely adored his own. He was incredibly patient, lenient, and generous to a fault with them. On Sundays, he often took the older ones for walks in the countryside, fully engaging with them as they explored the lush fields or cool woods, entertaining and teaching them for an entire day. His reading style is described in a charming way: "He would read, usually out loud (he couldn't read any other way)—he would read with a lot of enthusiasm, especially funny or humorous things; he read Shakespeare that way too. He was a serious, contemplative man. He would lean back, resting his head against the top of a rocking chair; he’d sit lost in thought for several minutes—twenty, thirty minutes—and then suddenly start telling a joke."
Mrs. Col. Chapman, daughter of Dennis Hanks, and therefore a relative of Mr. Lincoln, made him a long visit previous to her marriage. "You ask me," says she, "how Mr. Lincoln acted at home. I can say, and that truly, he was all that a husband, father, and neighbor should be,—kind and affectionate to his wife and child ('Bob' being the only one they had when I was with them), and very pleasant to all around him. Never did I hear him utter an unkind word. For instance: one day he undertook to correct his child, and his wife was determined that he should not, and attempted to take it from him; but in this she failed. She then tried tongue-lashing, but met with the same fate; for Mr. Lincoln corrected his child as a father ought to do, in the face of his wife's anger, and that, too, without even changing his countenance or making any reply to his wife.
Mrs. Col. Chapman, daughter of Dennis Hanks and a relative of Mr. Lincoln, spent a long visit with him before her marriage. "You ask me," she says, "how Mr. Lincoln was at home. I can honestly say he was everything a husband, father, and neighbor should be—kind and loving to his wife and child (with 'Bob' being the only one they had when I was there), and really pleasant to everyone around him. I never heard him say an unkind word. For example, one day he tried to correct his child, and his wife was determined he shouldn't, so she tried to take the child from him; but she failed. Then she tried scolding him, but that didn't work either, because Mr. Lincoln corrected his child like a father should, despite his wife's anger, and did so without changing his expression or responding to her."
"His favorite way of reading, when at home, was lying down on the floor. I fancy I see him now, lying full-length in the hall of his old house reading. When not engaged reading law-books, he would read literary works, and was very fond of reading poetry, and often, when he would be, or appear to be, in deep study, commence and repeat aloud some piece that he had taken a fancy to, such as the one you already have in print, and 'The Burial of Sir John Moore,' and so on. He often told laughable jokes and stories when he thought we were looking gloomy."
"His favorite way to read at home was by lying on the floor. I can almost see him now, stretched out in the hallway of his old house, absorbed in a book. When he wasn't reading law books, he enjoyed literary works, especially poetry. He often seemed to be deep in thought, but then he would start reciting a poem he liked, like the one you already have in print or 'The Burial of Sir John Moore,' among others. He frequently shared funny jokes and stories whenever he noticed we looked a bit down."
Mr. Lincoln was not supremely happy in his domestic relations: the circumstances of his courtship and marriage alone made that impossible. His engagement to Miss Todd was one of the great misfortunes of his life and of hers. He realized the mistake too late; and when he was brought face to face with the lie he was about to enact, and the wrong he was about to do, both to himself and an innocent woman, he recoiled with horror and remorse. For weeks together, he was sick, deranged, and on the verge of suicide,—a heavy care to his friends, and a source of bitter mortification to the unfortunate lady, whose good fame depended, in a great part, upon his constancy. The wedding garments and the marriage feast were prepared, the very hour had come when the solemn ceremony was to be performed; and the groom failed to appear! He was no longer a free agent: he was restrained, carefully guarded, and soon after removed to a distant place, where the exciting causes of his disease would be less constant and active in their operation. He recovered slowly, and at length returned to Springfield. He spoke out his feelings frankly and truly to the one person most interested in them. But he had been, from the beginning, except in the case of Ann Rutledge, singularly inconstant and unstable in his relations with the few refined and cultivated women who had been the objects of his attention. He loved Miss Rutledge passionately, and the next year importuned Miss Owens to be his wife. Failing in his suit, he wrote an unfeeling letter about her, apparently with no earthly object but to display his levity and make them both ridiculous. He courted Miss Todd, and at the moment of success fell in love with her relative, and, between the two, went crazy, and thought of ending all his woes with a razor or a pocket-knife. It is not impossible that the feelings of such a man might have undergone another and more sudden change. Perhaps they did. At all events, he was conscientious and honorable and just. There was but one way of repairing the injury he had done Miss Todd, and he adopted it. They were married; but they understood each other, and suffered the inevitable consequences, as other people do under similar circumstances. But such troubles seldom fail to find a tongue; and it is not strange, that, in this case, neighbors and friends, and ultimately the whole country, came to know the state of things in that house. Mr. Lincoln scarcely attempted to conceal it, but talked of it with little or no reserve to his wife's relatives, as well as his own friends. Yet the gentleness and patience with which he bore this affliction from day to day, and from year to year, was enough to move the shade of Socrates. It touched his acquaintances deeply, and they gave it the widest publicity. They made no pause to inquire, to investigate, and to apportion the blame between the parties, according to their deserts. Almost ever since Mr. Lincoln's death, a portion of the press has never tired of heaping brutal reproaches upon his wife and widow; whilst a certain class of his friends thought they were honoring his memory by multiplying outrages and indignities upon her, at the very moment when she was broken by want and sorrow, defamed, defenceless, in the hands of thieves, and at the mercy of spies. If ever a woman grievously expiated an offence not her own, this woman did. In the Herndon manuscripts, there is a mass of particulars under this head; but Mr. Herndon sums them all up in a single sentence, in a letter to one of Mr. Lincoln's biographers: "All that I know ennobles both."
Mr. Lincoln wasn’t particularly happy in his personal life; the circumstances of his courtship and marriage made that impossible. His engagement to Miss Todd was one of the biggest misfortunes of both their lives. He realized his mistake too late, and when he had to confront the lie he was about to live and the wrong he was inflicting on both himself and an innocent woman, he was filled with horror and regret. For weeks, he was sick, troubled, and on the edge of suicide, causing great worry for his friends and deep embarrassment for the unfortunate lady, whose reputation relied heavily on his commitment. The wedding attire and celebration were ready, the time had come for the ceremony, and the groom didn’t show up! He was no longer free; he was being watched over carefully, and soon taken to a remote location where the triggers for his distress would be less frequent and intense. He slowly recovered and eventually returned to Springfield. He expressed his true feelings to the one person most affected by them. However, from the start, he had been notably inconsistent and unpredictable in his relationships with the few refined and educated women who caught his interest, except for Ann Rutledge. He loved Miss Rutledge deeply, but the following year he pressured Miss Owens to marry him. After failing to win her over, he wrote an insensitive letter about her, apparently just to show off his carelessness and make them both look foolish. He pursued Miss Todd, and at the moment of success, fell for one of her relatives, which drove him to madness, contemplating ending all his suffering with a razor or a pocketknife. It’s possible that a man like him might have experienced another sudden emotional shift; maybe he did. Regardless, he was sincere, honorable, and fair. There was only one way to fix the harm he had caused Miss Todd, and he chose it. They got married, but they understood each other and dealt with the inevitable fallout like many others do in similar situations. But such issues rarely stay quiet, and it's not surprising that, in this case, neighbors, friends, and eventually the whole country learned about the situation in their home. Mr. Lincoln hardly tried to hide it and spoke about it openly to his wife's relatives and his own friends. Yet, the kindness and patience with which he handled this burden day after day, year after year, would have moved even Socrates. It deeply affected his acquaintances, and they made it widely known. They didn’t stop to ask questions, investigate, or assign blame to either party as deserved. Almost since Mr. Lincoln's death, parts of the press haven’t stopped throwing harsh accusations at his wife and widow, while some of his friends thought they honored his memory by directing insults and mistreatment toward her at the very moment she was struggling with poverty and grief, slandered, defenseless, in the hands of thieves, and at the mercy of deceitful people. If any woman ever paid dearly for an offense that wasn’t hers, it was this woman. The Herndon manuscripts contain a wealth of details on this subject, but Mr. Herndon summarizes it all in one sentence in a letter to one of Mr. Lincoln's biographers: "All that I know ennobles both."
It would be very difficult to recite all the causes of Mr. Lincoln's melancholy disposition. That it was partly owing to physical causes there can be no doubt. Mr. Stuart says, that in some respects he was totally unlike other people, and was, in fact, a "mystery." Blue-pills were the medicinal remedy which he affected most. But whatever the history or the cause,—whether physical reasons, the absence of domestic concord, a series of painful recollections of his mother, of his father and master, of early sorrows, blows, and hardships, of Ann Rutledge and fruitless hopes, or all these combined, Mr. Lincoln was the saddest and gloomiest man of his time. "I do not think that he knew what happiness was for twenty years," says Mr. Herndon. "Terrible" is the word which all his friends use to describe him in the black mood. "It was terrible! It was terrible!" says one and another.
It would be very difficult to list all the reasons for Mr. Lincoln's sad demeanor. There’s no doubt that some of it was due to physical issues. Mr. Stuart notes that in certain ways he was completely different from other people and was, in fact, a "mystery." He often relied on blue pills as his go-to medicine. But regardless of the history or the causes—be it physical reasons, a lack of home harmony, painful memories of his mother, father, and mentor, early struggles, hardships, disappointments with Ann Rutledge, or a mix of all these—Mr. Lincoln was the saddest and most sorrowful man of his time. "I don't think he knew what happiness was for twenty years," says Mr. Herndon. "Terrible" is the word his friends use to describe his dark moods. "It was terrible! It was terrible!" say one after the other.
His mind was filled with gloomy forebodings and strong apprehensions of impending evil, mingled with extravagant visions of personal grandeur and power. His imagination painted a scene just beyond the veil of the immediate future, gilded with glory yet tarnished with blood. It was his "destiny,"—splendid but dreadful, fascinating but terrible. His case bore little resemblance to those of religious enthusiasts like Bunyan, Cowper, and others. His was more like the delusion of the fatalist, conscious of his star. At all events, he never doubted for a moment but that he was formed for "some great or miserable end." He talked about it frequently and sometimes calmly. Mr. Herndon remembers many of these conversations in their office at Springfield, and in their rides around the circuit. Mr. Lincoln said the impression had grown in him "all his life;" but Mr. Herndon thinks it was about 1840 that it took the character of a "religious conviction." He had then suffered much, and, considering his opportunities, achieved great things. He was already a leader among men, and a most brilliant career had been promised him by the prophetic enthusiasm of many friends. Thus encouraged and stimulated, and feeling himself growing gradually stronger and stronger, in the estimation of "the plain people," whose voice was more potent than all the Warwicks, his ambition painted the rainbow of glory in the sky, while his morbid melancholy supplied the clouds that were to overcast and obliterate it with the wrath and ruin of the tempest. To him it was fate, and there was no escape or defence. The presentiment never deserted him: it was as clear, as perfect, as certain, as any image conveyed by the senses. He had now entertained it so long, that it was as much a part of his nature as the consciousness of identity. All doubts had faded away, and he submitted humbly to a power which he could neither comprehend nor resist. He was to fall,—fall from a lofty place, and in the performance of a great work. The star under which he was born was at once brilliant and malignant: the horoscope was cast, fixed, irreversible; and he had no more power to alter or defeat it in the minutest particular than he had to reverse the law of gravitation.
His mind was filled with dark premonitions and strong fears of looming disaster, mixed with grand visions of personal greatness and power. His imagination created a scene just beyond the immediate future, shining with glory but tainted with blood. It was his "destiny"—magnificent yet horrifying, captivating but dreadful. His situation was different from those of religious enthusiasts like Bunyan and Cowper. His feelings resembled the delusion of a fatalist, aware of his fate. Regardless, he never doubted for a second that he was meant for "some great or tragic purpose." He often spoke about it, sometimes calmly. Mr. Herndon remembers many of these discussions in their office in Springfield and during their rides around the circuit. Mr. Lincoln said the feeling had grown in him "all his life," but Mr. Herndon thinks it became more like a "religious conviction" around 1840. He had endured much and, given his circumstances, accomplished significant things. He was already a leader among men, and many friends predicted a brilliant future for him. Encouraged and motivated, feeling himself gaining strength in the eyes of "the plain people," whose opinion mattered more than any powerful nobles, his ambition painted a colorful dream of success in the sky, while his dark melancholy filled the clouds that would overshadow and destroy it with the fury and chaos of a storm. To him, it felt like fate, and there was no escape or defense. The premonition never left him: it was as clear, perfect, and certain as anything perceived by the senses. He had held onto it for so long that it became a part of him, just like the awareness of his own existence. All doubts had vanished, and he humbly accepted a force that he couldn’t understand or resist. He was destined to fall—from a high position, while engaged in a significant task. The star that marked his birth was both brilliant and harmful: his fate was set, unchangeable; and he had no more ability to alter or escape it in the smallest detail than he did to defy the law of gravity.
After the election, he conceived that he would not "last" through his term of office, but had at length reached the point where the sacrifice would take place. All precautions against assassination he considered worse than useless. "If they want to kill me," said he, "there is nothing to prevent." He complained to Mr. Gillespie of the small body-guard which his counsellors had forced upon him, insisting that they were a needless encumbrance. When Mr. Gillespie urged the ease and impunity with which he might be killed, and the value of his life to the country, he said, "What is the use of putting up the gap when the fence is down all around?"
After the election, he thought he wouldn’t "make it" through his term in office, but he had finally come to the point where the sacrifice would happen. He believed that all precautions against assassination were more of a hindrance than anything else. "If they want to kill me," he said, "there’s nothing that can stop them." He complained to Mr. Gillespie about the small bodyguard his advisors had forced on him, insisting that they were unnecessary. When Mr. Gillespie pointed out how easily and without consequence he could be killed, and how valuable his life was to the country, he replied, "What’s the point of fixing the gap when the fence is down all around?"
"It was just after my election in 1860," said Mr. Lincoln to his secretary, John Hay, "when the news had been coming in thick and fast all day, and there had been a great 'hurrah boys!' so that I was well tired out, and went home to rest, throwing myself upon a lounge in my chamber.
"It was right after I was elected in 1860," Mr. Lincoln said to his secretary, John Hay, "when news had been pouring in all day, and there had been a lot of 'hurrah boys!' so I was pretty exhausted and went home to relax, flopping down on a couch in my room."
"Opposite to where I lay was a bureau with a swinging glass upon it; and, in looking in that glass, I saw myself reflected nearly at full length; but my face, I noticed, had two separate and distinct images, the tip of the nose of one being about three inches from the tip of the other. I was a little bothered, perhaps startled, and got up and looked in the glass; but the illusion vanished. On lying down again, I saw it a second time,—plainer, if possible, than before; and then I noticed that one of the faces was a little paler—say five shades—than the other. I got up, and the thing melted away; and I went off, and in the excitement of the hour forgot all about it,—nearly, but not quite, for the thing would once in a while come up, and give me a little pang, as though something uncomfortable had happened. When I went home, I told my wife about it: and a few days after I tried the experiment again, when, sure enough, the thing came back again; but I never succeeded in bringing the ghost back after that, though I once tried very industriously to show it to my wife, who was worried about it somewhat. She thought it was 'a sign' that I was to be elected to a second term of office, and that the paleness of one of the faces was an omen that I should not see life through the last term."
"Opposite where I was lying was a dresser with a mirror on it; and, when I looked into that mirror, I saw my reflection nearly full-length; but I noticed that my face had two separate and distinct images, with the tip of one nose about three inches away from the tip of the other. I was a bit confused, maybe even startled, and got up to look in the mirror; but the illusion disappeared. When I lay down again, I saw it a second time—clearer, if possible, than before; and then I noticed that one of the faces was a little paler—maybe five shades—than the other. I got up, and it faded away; then I went off, and in the excitement of the moment, I forgot all about it—almost, but not entirely, as it would occasionally pop back into my mind and give me a slight pang, like something uncomfortable had happened. When I got home, I told my wife about it; and a few days later I tried the experiment again, when, sure enough, the thing appeared again; but I never managed to bring the ghost back after that, even though I once tried really hard to show it to my wife, who was somewhat worried about it. She thought it was 'a sign' that I would be elected to a second term in office, and that the paleness of one of the faces was an omen that I wouldn’t complete the last term."
In this morbid and dreamy state of mind, Mr. Lincoln passed the greater part of his life. But his "sadness, despair, gloom," Mr. Herndon says, "were not of the kind that leads a badly-balanced mind into misanthropy and universal hate and scorn. His humor would assert itself from the hell of misanthropy: it would assert its independence every third hour or day or week. His abstractedness, his continuity of thought, his despair, made him, twice in his life, for two weeks at a time, walk that narrow line that divides sanity from insanity.... This peculiarity of his nature, his humor, his wit, kept him alive in his mind.... It was those good sides of his nature that made, to him, his life bearable. Mr. Lincoln was a weak man and a strong man by turns."
In this dark and dreamlike state of mind, Mr. Lincoln spent most of his life. But his "sadness, despair, gloom," as Mr. Herndon describes, "weren't the kind that turned a poorly-balanced mind into misanthropy and universal hate and contempt. His humor would break through the darkness of misanthropy: it would rise up every third hour or day or week. His tendency to get lost in thought, his continuous reflection, his despair, led him, twice in his life, to walk that fine line between sanity and insanity for two weeks at a time... This aspect of his personality, his humor, his wit, kept him mentally alive... It was those positive traits in him that made his life tolerable. Mr. Lincoln was both a weak man and a strong man at different times."
Some of Mr. Lincoln's literary tastes indicated strongly his prevailing gloominess of mind. He read Byron extensively, especially "Childe Harold," "The Dream," and "Don Juan." Burns was one of his earliest favorites, although there is no evidence that he appreciated highly the best efforts of Burns. On the contrary, "Holy Willie's Prayer" was the only one of his poems which Mr. Lincoln took the trouble to memorize. He was fond of Shakspeare, especially "King Lear," and "The Merry Wives of Windsor." But whatever was suggestive of death, the grave, the sorrows of man's days on earth, charmed his disconsolate spirit, and captivated his sympathetic heart. Solemn-sounding rhymes, with no merit but the sad music of their numbers, were more enchanting to him than the loftiest songs of the masters. Of these were, "Why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?" and a pretty commonplace little piece, entitled "The Inquiry." One verse of Holmes's "Last Leaf" he thought was "inexpressibly touching." This verse we give the reader:—
Some of Mr. Lincoln's literary preferences strongly reflected his overall gloominess. He read Byron a lot, particularly "Childe Harold," "The Dream," and "Don Juan." Burns was one of his early favorites, though there's no sign that he highly valued Burns's best work. In fact, "Holy Willie's Prayer" was the only poem he bothered to memorize. He enjoyed Shakespeare, especially "King Lear" and "The Merry Wives of Windsor." But anything that hinted at death, the grave, or the sorrows of human existence resonated deeply with his troubled spirit and appealed to his sympathetic heart. Somber rhymes, which had little merit other than their melancholic rhythm, fascinated him more than the greatest works of the masters. Among these were "Why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?" and a rather ordinary piece called "The Inquiry." He found one verse from Holmes's "Last Leaf" "inexpressibly touching." Here’s that verse for the reader:—
"The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb."
"The moss-covered marbles lie on the lips he kissed in their prime; And the names he cherished to hear have been etched for many years on the tomb."
Mr. Lincoln frequently said that he lived by his humor, and would have died without it. His manner of telling a story was irresistibly comical, the fun of it dancing in his eyes and playing over every feature. His face changed in an instant: the hard lines faded out of it, and the mirth seemed to diffuse itself all over him, like a spontaneous tickle. You could see it coming long before he opened his mouth, and he began to enjoy the "point" before his eager auditors could catch the faintest glimpse of it. Telling and hearing ridiculous stories was one of his ruling passions. He would go a long way out of his road to tell a grave, sedate fellow a broad story, or to propound to him a conundrum that was not particularly remarkable for its delicacy. If he happened to hear of a man who was known to have something fresh in this line, he would hunt him up, and "swap jokes" with him. Nobody remembers the time when his fund of anecdotes was not apparently inexhaustible. It was so in Indiana; it was so in New Salem, in the Black-Hawk War, in the Legislature, in Congress, on the circuit, on the stump,—everywhere. The most trifling incident "reminded" him of a story, and that story reminded him of another, until everybody marvelled "that one small head could carry all he knew." The "good things" he said were repeated at second-hand, all over the counties through which he chanced to travel; and many, of a questionable flavor, were attributed to him, not because they were his in fact, but because they were like his. Judges, lawyers, jurors, and suitors carried home with them select budgets of his stories, to be retailed to itching ears as "Old Abe's last." When the court adjourned from village to village, the taverns and the groceries left behind were filled with the sorry echoes of his "best." He generally located his little narratives with great precision,—in Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois; and if he was not personally "knowing" to the facts himself, he was intimately acquainted with a gentleman who was.
Mr. Lincoln often said that he lived off his sense of humor and would have struggled without it. The way he told a story was irresistibly funny, with a twinkle in his eyes that lit up his entire face. His expression could shift in an instant: the serious lines would fade, and the joy seemed to spread all over him, almost like a playful tickle. You could sense the fun coming long before he spoke, and he started enjoying the punchline before his eager audience even got a hint of it. Sharing and hearing silly stories was one of his biggest passions. He would go out of his way to share a ridiculous story with a serious person or to present them with a riddle that wasn't particularly subtle. If he caught wind of someone who had a fresh joke, he would track them down to share laughs. No one can recall a time when his collection of anecdotes wasn’t seemingly endless. It was the case in Indiana, New Salem, during the Black-Hawk War, in the Legislature, in Congress, on the circuit, and on the campaign trail—everywhere. Even the smallest incident would remind him of a story, which would then remind him of another, leading everyone to wonder how one person could hold so much knowledge. The clever things he said were repeated all over the counties he traveled through; many, with questionable taste, were mistakenly credited to him simply because they sounded like his style. Judges, lawyers, jurors, and plaintiffs took home collections of his stories, sharing them with eager listeners as "Old Abe's latest." When the court moved from town to town, the taverns and stores left behind buzzed with echoes of his "best" tales. He usually pinpointed where his little stories took place—Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois—and if he didn't know the facts personally, he was well acquainted with someone who did.
Mr. Lincoln used his stories variously,—to illustrate or convey an argument; to make his opinions clear to another, or conceal them altogether; to cut off a disagreeable conversation, or to end an unprofitable discussion; to cheer his own heart, or simply to amuse his friends. But most frequently he had a practical object in view, and employed them simply "as labor-saving contrivances."
Mr. Lincoln used his stories in different ways—to illustrate or make a point; to clarify his opinions to someone else or to hide them completely; to stop an uncomfortable conversation or to wrap up a pointless discussion; to lift his own spirits or just to entertain his friends. But most often, he had a practical goal in mind and used them simply "as time-saving tools."
It was Judge Davis's opinion, that Mr. Lincoln's hilarity was mainly simulated, and that "his stories and jokes were intended to whistle off sadness." "The groundwork of his social nature was sad," says Judge Scott; "but for the fact that he studiously cultivated the humorous, it would have been very sad indeed. His mirth to me always seemed to be put on, and did not properly belong there. Like a plant produced in the hot-bed, it had an unnatural and luxuriant growth."
It was Judge Davis's view that Mr. Lincoln's laughter was mostly pretend, and that "his stories and jokes were meant to laugh away sadness." "The core of his social nature was somber," says Judge Scott; "but if he hadn't actively nurtured the funny side, it would have been truly grim. His laughter always felt forced to me and didn't seem to fit. Like a plant grown in a hotbed, it had an unnatural and excessive growth."
Although Mr. Lincoln's walk among men was remarkably pure, the same cannot be said of his conversation. He was endowed by nature with a keen sense of humor, and he found great delight in indulging it. But his humor was not of a delicate quality; it was chiefly exercised in hearing and telling stories of the grosser sort. In this tendency he was restrained by no presence and no occasion. It was his opinion that the finest wit and humor, the best jokes and anecdotes, emanated from the lower orders of the country people. It was from this source that he had acquired his peculiar tastes and his store of materials. The associations which began with the early days of Dennis Hanks continued through his life at New Salem and his career at the Illinois Bar, and did not desert him when, later in life, he arrived at the highest dignities.
Although Mr. Lincoln's interactions with people were notably respectful, the same cannot be said for his conversations. He was naturally gifted with a sharp sense of humor, and he took great pleasure in expressing it. However, his humor was not particularly refined; he mainly enjoyed hearing and sharing less tasteful stories. In this regard, he wasn’t held back by anyone’s presence or the occasion. He believed that the best wit and humor, along with the finest jokes and anecdotes, came from the lower classes of rural folks. It was from this background that he developed his unique tastes and collection of stories. The connections that began in the early days with Dennis Hanks followed him throughout his time in New Salem and his career at the Illinois Bar, and they remained with him even when he reached the highest positions later in life.
Mr. Lincoln indulged in no sensual excesses: he ate moderately, and drank temperately when he drank at all. For many years he was an ardent agitator against the use of intoxicating beverages, and made speeches, far and near, in favor of total abstinence. Some of them were printed; and of one he was not a little proud. He abstained himself, not so much upon principle, as because of a total lack of appetite. He had no taste for spirituous liquors; and, when he took them, it was a punishment to him, not an indulgence. But he disliked sumptuary laws, and would not prescribe by statute what other men should eat or drink. When the temperance men ran to the Legislature to invoke the power of the State, his voice—the most eloquent among them—was silent. He did not oppose them, but quietly withdrew from the cause, and left others to manage it. In 1854 he was induced to join the order called Sons of Temperance, but never attended a single meeting after the one at which he was initiated.
Mr. Lincoln didn't indulge in any excessive pleasures: he ate moderately and drank in moderation when he drank at all. For many years, he actively campaigned against the use of alcoholic drinks and gave speeches, both far and near, advocating for total abstinence. Some of these speeches were published, and he was quite proud of one in particular. He abstained not so much out of principle, but rather because he simply had no appetite for it. He didn't enjoy alcoholic beverages, and when he did consume them, it felt more like punishment than a treat. However, he was against restrictive laws and wouldn’t dictate what others should eat or drink through legislation. When those advocating for temperance went to the Legislature to seek the power of the State, his voice—the most eloquent among them—was silent. He didn't oppose them but quietly stepped back from the movement, leaving others to take charge. In 1854, he was persuaded to join the organization called Sons of Temperance, but he never attended another meeting after the initiation one.
Morbid, moody, meditative, thinking much of himself and the things pertaining to himself, regarding other men as instruments furnished to his hand for the accomplishment of views which he knew were important to him, and, therefore, considered important to the public, Mr. Lincoln was a man apart from the rest of his kind, unsocial, cold, impassive,—neither a "good hater" nor a fond friend. He unbent in the society of those who gave him new ideas, who listened to and admired him, whose attachment might be useful, or whose conversation amused him. He seemed to make boon-companions of the coarsest men on the list of his acquaintances,—"low, vulgar, unfortunate creatures;" but, as Judge Davis has it, "he used such men as tools,—things to satisfy him, to feed his desires." He felt sorry for them, enjoyed them, extracted from them whatever service they were capable of rendering, discarded and forgot them. If one of them, presuming upon the past, followed him to Washington with a view to personal profit, Mr. Lincoln would probably take him to his private room, lock the doors, revel in reminiscences of Illinois, new stories and old, through an entire evening, and then dismiss his enchanted crony with nothing more substantial than his blessing. It was said that "he had no heart;" that is, no personal attachments warm and strong enough to govern his actions. It was seldom that he praised anybody; and, when he did, it was not a rival or an equal in the struggle for popularity and power. His encomiums were more likely to be satirical than sincere, and sometimes were artfully contrived as mere stratagems to catch the applause he pretended to bestow, or at least to share it in equal parts. No one knew better how to "damn with faint praise," or to divide the glory of another by being the first and frankest to acknowledge it. Fully alive to the fact that no qualities of a public man are so charming to the people as simplicity and candor, he made simplicity and candor the mask of deep feelings carefully concealed, and subtle plans studiously veiled from all eyes but one. He had no reverence for great men, followed no leader with blind devotion, and yielded no opinion to mere authority. He felt that he was as great as anybody, and could do what another did. It was, however, the supreme desire of his heart to be right, and to do justice in all the relations of life. Although some of his strongest passions conflicted more or less directly with this desire, he was conscious of them, and strove to regulate them by self-imposed restraints. He was not avaricious, never appropriated a cent wrongfully, and did not think money for its own sake a fit object of any man's ambition. But he knew its value, its power, and liked to keep it when he had it. He gave occasionally to individual mendicants, or relieved a case of great destitution at his very door; but his alms-giving was neither profuse nor systematic. He never made donations to be distributed to the poor who were not of his acquaintance and very near at hand. There were few entertainments at his house. People were seldom asked to dine with him. To many he seemed inhospitable; and there was something about his house, an indescribable air of exclusiveness, which forbade the entering guest. It is not meant to be said that this came from mere economy. It was not at home that he wished to see company. He preferred to meet his friends abroad,—on a street-corner, in an office, at the Court House, or sitting on nail-kegs in a country store.
Morbid, moody, and introspective, Mr. Lincoln thought highly of himself and his own concerns, viewing other people as tools to help achieve his important goals, which he believed were also significant to the public. He was quite different from those around him—unsocial, distant, and unemotional—neither a fierce adversary nor a close friend. He relaxed around those who challenged him intellectually, listened to him, admired him, or whose friendship could be advantageous, or whose company entertained him. He seemed to enjoy the roughest folks among his acquaintances—“low, vulgar, unfortunate people”—but, as Judge Davis put it, “he used such men as tools—mere means to satisfy him and fulfill his desires.” He felt compassion for them, enjoyed their company, drew out whatever help they could provide, and then moved on without a second thought. If one of them, taking liberties from their past interactions, followed him to Washington hoping for personal gain, Mr. Lincoln would likely invite him to his private office, shut the doors, indulge in nostalgic discussions about Illinois and share stories for an entire evening, only to send his delighted guest away with no more than his blessing. People claimed “he had no heart,” meaning he lacked warm personal attachments strong enough to influence his actions. He rarely praised anyone, and when he did, it wasn’t for a competitor or equal vying for attention and power. His compliments tended to be more sarcastic than genuine, sometimes carefully crafted to manipulate applause he pretended to give or at least to share it fairly. No one was better at “damning with faint praise” or at acknowledging another's achievements first and most openly. Fully aware that simplicity and honesty appealed to the public, he used them as a façade to hide deep emotions and intricate plans from everyone but himself. He had no admiration for powerful figures, followed no leader blindly, and didn’t easily yield his opinions to mere authority. He believed he was just as capable as anyone else. Yet, above all, he genuinely wanted to be right and deliver justice in all areas of life. Although some of his strongest feelings sometimes conflicted with this goal, he recognized them and aimed to control them with self-imposed limits. He wasn’t greedy, never took a cent unlawfully, and didn’t see money as a worthy ambition in and of itself. However, he understood its value, its power, and he liked to keep it when he had it. He occasionally helped individuals in dire need right at his doorstep, but his charitable giving was neither generous nor systematic. He never made donations for the less fortunate who were strangers and far away. There were few gatherings at his home. People rarely dined with him. To many, he appeared unfriendly, and there was an unexplainable air of exclusivity about his home that deterred guests. This was not merely due to frugality; he simply preferred connecting with friends outdoors—on street corners, in offices, at the courthouse, or even sitting on nail kegs in a country store.
Mr. Lincoln took no part in the promotion of local enterprises, railroads, schools, churches, asylums. The benefits he proposed for his fellow-men were to be accomplished by political means alone. Politics were his world,—a world filled with hopeful enchantments. Ordinarily he disliked to discuss any other subject. "In his office," says Mr. Herndon, "he sat down, or spilt himself, on his lounge, read aloud, told stories, talked politics,—never science, art, literature, railroad gatherings, colleges, asylums, hospitals, commerce, education, progress, nothing that interested the world generally," except politics. He seldom took an active part in local or minor elections, or wasted his power to advance a friend. He did nothing out of mere gratitude, and forgot the devotion of his warmest partisans as soon as the occasion for their services had passed. What they did for him was quietly appropriated as the reward of superior merit, calling for no return in kind. He was always ready to do battle for a principle, after a discreet fashion, but never permitted himself to be strongly influenced by the claims of individual men. When he was a candidate himself, he thought the whole canvass and all the preliminaries ought to be conducted with reference to his success. He would say to a man, "Your continuance in the field injures me" and be quite sure that he had given a perfect reason for his withdrawal. He would have no "obstacles" in his way; coveted honors, was eager for power, and impatient of any interference that delayed or obstructed his progress. He worked hard enough at general elections, when he could make speeches, have them printed, and "fill the speaking trump of fame" with his achievements; but in the little affairs about home, where it was all work and no glory, his zeal was much less conspicuous. Intensely secretive and cautious, he shared his secrets with no man, and revealed just enough of his plans to allure support, and not enough to expose their personal application. After Speed left, he had no intimates to whom he opened his whole mind. This is the unanimous testimony of all who knew him. Feeling himself perfectly competent to manage his own affairs, he listened with deceptive patience to the views of others, and then dismissed the advice with the adviser. Judge Davis was supposed to have great influence over him; but he declares that he had literally none. "Once or twice," says he, "he asked my advice about the almighty dollar, but never about any thing else."
Mr. Lincoln didn't get involved in promoting local businesses, railroads, schools, churches, or asylums. The benefits he wanted for his fellow men were to be achieved solely through politics. Politics was his world—a world filled with hopeful charms. He usually didn’t like to talk about anything else. “In his office,” says Mr. Herndon, “he would sit back or lounge around, read aloud, tell stories, talk politics—never science, art, literature, railway meetings, colleges, asylums, hospitals, commerce, education, progress, nothing that interested the world in general,” except politics. He rarely participated in local or minor elections or wasted his influence to help a friend. He never did anything just out of gratitude and forgot the loyalty of his closest supporters as soon as their services were no longer needed. What they did for him he quietly took as a reward for his superior merit, needing to give no return. He was always willing to fight for a principle, but he didn’t let himself be strongly swayed by the needs of individuals. When he was a candidate, he believed that the entire campaign and all its details should focus on his success. He would say to someone, “Your staying in the race is hurting me,” and be completely convinced that he had given a perfect reason for them to drop out. He wanted no “obstacles” in his way; he coveted honors, was eager for power, and was impatient with any interference that slowed or blocked his progress. He worked hard at general elections when he could give speeches, have them printed, and “fill the speaking trumpet of fame” with his achievements; but in local matters, where it was all work and no glory, his enthusiasm was much less visible. He was extremely secretive and cautious, sharing his secrets with no one and revealing just enough of his plans to attract support, but not enough to expose their personal relevance. After Speed left, he had no close friends to whom he opened up completely. This is the shared testimony of everyone who knew him. Feeling completely capable of managing his own affairs, he listened with fake patience to the opinions of others and then dismissed the advice along with the advisor. Judge Davis was thought to have significant influence over him; but he says that he had none at all. “Once or twice,” he says, “he asked my advice about money, but never about anything else.”
Notwithstanding his overweening ambition, and the breathless eagerness with which he pursued the objects of it, he had not a particle of sympathy with the great mass of his fellow-citizens who were engaged in similar scrambles for place. "If ever," said he, "American society and the United States Government are demoralized and overthrown, it will come from the voracious desire of office,—this wriggle to live without toil, work, and labor, from which I am not free myself." Mr. Lincoln was not a demagogue or a trimmer. He never deserted a party in disaster, or joined one in triumph. Nearly the whole of his public life was spent in the service of a party which struggled against hopeless odds, which met with many reverses and few victories. It is true, that about the time he began as a politician, the Whigs in his immediate locality, at first united with the moderate Democrats, and afterwards by themselves, were strong enough to help him to the Legislature as often as he chose to go. But, if the fact had been otherwise, it is not likely that he would have changed sides, or even altered his position in any essential particular, to catch the popular favor. Subsequently he suffered many defeats,—for Congress, for Commissioner of the Land Office, and twice for Senator; but on this account he never faltered in devotion to the general principles of the party, or sought to better his fortune by an alliance with the common enemy. It cannot be denied, that, when he was first a candidate for the Legislature, his views of public policy were a little cloudy, and that his addresses to the people were calculated to make fair weather with men of various opinions; nor that, when first a candidate for United States Senator, he was willing to make a secret bargain with the extreme Abolitionists, and, when last a candidate, to make some sacrifice of opinion to further his own aspirations for the Presidency. The pledge to Lovejoy and the "House-divided Speech" were made under the influence of personal considerations, without reference to the views or the success of those who had chosen and trusted him as a leader for a far different purpose. But this was merely steering between sections of his own party, where the differences were slight and easily reconciled,—manoeuvring for the strength of one faction today and another to-morrow, with intent to unite them and lead them to a victory, the benefits of which would inure to all. He was not one to be last in the fight and first at the feast, nor yet one to be first in the fight and last at the feast. He would do his whole duty in the field, but had not the slightest objection to sitting down at the head of the table,—an act which he would perform with a modest, homely air, that disarmed envy, and silenced the master when he would say, "Friend, go down lower." His "master" was the "plain people." To be popular was to him the greatest good in life. He had known what it was to be without popularity, and he had known what it was to enjoy it. To gain it or to keep it, he considered no labor too great, no artifice misused or misapplied. His ambition was strong; yet it existed in strict subordination to his sense of party fidelity, and could by no chance or possibility lure him into downright social or political treasons. His path may have been a little devious, winding hither and thither, in search of greater convenience of travel, or the security of a larger company; but it always went forward in the same general direction, and never ran off at right-angles toward a hostile camp. The great body of men who acted with him in the beginning acted with him at the last.
Despite his overwhelming ambition and the relentless enthusiasm with which he pursued his goals, he didn’t share any real sympathy with the majority of his fellow citizens who were engaged in similar struggles for position. "If ever," he said, "American society and the United States Government are corrupted and overturned, it will be because of the insatiable desire for office—this desperate attempt to live without hard work, something I am not free from myself." Mr. Lincoln wasn’t a demagogue or someone who played both sides. He never abandoned a party in tough times or joined one in success. Almost all of his public life was dedicated to a party that struggled against overwhelming odds, facing many defeats and few successes. It’s true that when he first got into politics, the Whigs in his area initially allied with moderate Democrats, and later on acted alone, proving strong enough to help him get elected to the Legislature as often as he wanted. However, had the circumstances been different, it’s unlikely he would have switched sides or changed his essential position just to win popular support. He faced many defeats later on—for Congress, for Commissioner of the Land Office, and twice for Senator; nevertheless, he never wavered in his commitment to the fundamental principles of his party or sought to improve his situation by making deals with the common enemy. It’s undeniable that when he first ran for the Legislature, his views on public policy were somewhat unclear, and his speeches aimed to please people of various opinions; nor can we overlook that when he first ran for U.S. Senator, he was open to a secret deal with extreme Abolitionists, and later, as he sought the Presidency, he made some compromises on his beliefs to advance his ambitions. The pledge to Lovejoy and the "House-divided Speech" were made because of personal motivations, without regard for the views or success of those who had chosen and trusted him as a leader for a very different cause. However, this was simply navigating between factions of his own party where the differences were minor and easily resolved—strategizing for the strength of one group one day and another the next, with the aim of uniting them to win a victory that would benefit everyone. He wasn’t someone who would hang back in the fight and rush to the feast nor one who would jump into battle first and then be last to eat. He would do his full duty on the battlefield but had no problem sitting at the head of the table—a position he would assume with a humble, down-to-earth manner that deflected envy and quieted the host when he would say, "Friend, take a seat lower." His "master" was the "ordinary people." To be popular was the greatest good for him. He had experienced life without popularity and also what it was like to enjoy it. To achieve or maintain it, he saw no effort as too great, no trick as misused or misapplied. His ambition was intense; yet it always stayed firmly in check behind his loyalty to his party and could never drag him into blatant social or political betrayals. His path might have been a bit winding, searching for easier routes or the comfort of more company, but it consistently moved forward in the same general direction and never strayed toward a hostile camp. The large group of men who walked alongside him in the beginning continued to do so until the end.
On the whole, he was an honest, although a shrewd, and by no means an unselfish politician. He
On the whole, he was an honest, though shrewd, and definitely not an unselfish politician. He
................."Foresaw Which way the world began to draw,"
................."I noticed how the world began to change,"
and instinctively drew with it. He had convictions, but preferred to choose his time to speak. He was not so much of a Whig that he could not receive the support of the "nominal" Jackson men, until party lines were drawn so tight that he was compelled to be one thing or the other. He was not so much of a Whig that he could not make a small diversion for White in 1836, nor so much of a White man that he could not lead Harrison's friends in the Legislature during the same winter. He was a firm believer in the good policy of high "protective tariffs;" but, when importuned to say so in a public letter, he declined on the ground that it would do him no good. He detested Know-Nothingism with all his heart; but, when Know-Nothingism swept the country, he was so far from being obtrusive with his views, that many believed he belonged to the order. He was an anti-slavery man from the beginning of his service in the Legislature; but he was so cautious and moderate in the expression of his sentiments, that, when the anti-Nebraska party disintegrated, the ultra-Republicans were any thing but sure of his adherence; and even after the Bloomington Convention he continued to pick his way to the front with wary steps, and did not take his place among the boldest of the agitators until 1858, when he uttered the "House-divided Speech," just in time to take Mr. Seward's place on the Presidential ticket of 1860.
and instinctively drew with it. He had strong beliefs but preferred to choose when to speak. He wasn't so much of a Whig that he couldn't receive support from the "nominal" Jackson supporters until party lines were drawn so tightly that he had to pick a side. He wasn’t so much of a Whig that he couldn’t make a small diversion for White in 1836, nor so much of a White man that he couldn't lead Harrison's supporters in the Legislature that same winter. He firmly believed in the benefits of high "protective tariffs," but when asked to express that in a public letter, he declined, arguing it wouldn't benefit him. He completely detested Know-Nothingism; however, when it took the nation by storm, he was so discreet about his views that many believed he was part of the movement. He was anti-slavery from the start of his time in the Legislature, but he was so cautious and moderate in expressing his opinions that when the anti-Nebraska party fell apart, the ultra-Republicans were far from certain of his loyalty; and even after the Bloomington Convention, he continued to navigate his way forward carefully, not taking his place among the most outspoken agitators until 1858, when he delivered the "House-divided Speech," just in time to take Mr. Seward's place on the Presidential ticket of 1860.
Any analysis of Mr. Lincoln's character would be defective that did not include his religious opinions. On such matters he thought deeply; and his opinions were positive. But perhaps no phase of his character has been more persistently misrepresented and variously misunderstood, than this of his religious belief. Not that the conclusive testimony of many of his intimate associates relative to his frequent expressions on such subjects has ever been wanting; but his great prominence in the world's history, and his identification with some of the great questions of our time, which, by their moral import, were held to be eminently religious in their character, have led many good people to trace in his motives and actions similar convictions to those held by themselves. His extremely general expressions of religious faith called forth by the grave exigencies of his public life, or indulged in on occasions of private condolence, have too often been distorted out of relation to their real significance or meaning to suit the opinions or tickle the fancies of individuals or parties.
Any analysis of Mr. Lincoln's character would be incomplete without considering his religious views. He thought deeply about these matters and had strong beliefs. However, perhaps no aspect of his character has been more consistently misrepresented and misunderstood than his faith. While many of his close associates provided clear accounts of his frequent remarks on these topics, his significant role in history and his connection to major issues of his time, which were seen as deeply moral and thus religious, have led many people to project their own beliefs onto him. His broad statements about faith, made during the serious moments of his public life or shared in private condolences, have often been taken out of context or misinterpreted to fit the agendas or sentiments of different individuals or groups.
Mr. Lincoln was never a member of any church, nor did he believe in the divinity of Christ, or the inspiration of the Scriptures in the sense understood by evangelical Christians. His theological opinions were substantially those expounded by Theodore Parker. Overwhelming testimony out of many mouths, and none stronger than that out of his own, place these facts beyond controversy.
Mr. Lincoln was never part of any church, nor did he believe in the divinity of Christ or in the inspiration of the Scriptures as understood by evangelical Christians. His theological views were largely aligned with those of Theodore Parker. Strong evidence from many sources, including his own statements, puts these facts beyond dispute.
When a boy, he showed no sign of that piety which his many biographers ascribe to his manhood. His stepmother—herself a Christian, and longing for the least sign of faith in him—could remember no circumstance that supported her hope. On the contrary, she recollected very well that he never went off into a corner, as has been said, to ponder the sacred writings, and to wet the page with his tears of penitence. He was fond of music; but Dennis Hanks is clear to the point that it was songs of a very questionable character that cheered his lonely pilgrimage through the woods of Indiana. When he went to church at all, he went to mock, and came away to mimic. Indeed, it is more than probable that the sort of "religion" which prevailed among the associates of his boyhood impressed him with a very poor opinion of the value of the article. On the whole, he thought, perhaps, a person had better be without it.
When he was a boy, he showed no signs of the piety that many of his biographers attribute to his adulthood. His stepmother—who was a Christian and desperate for even the slightest indication of faith from him—couldn't recall any moments that supported her hopes. On the contrary, she clearly remembered that he never went off by himself, as some have claimed, to reflect on holy texts or to soak the pages with tears of remorse. He enjoyed music, but Dennis Hanks is adamant that it was songs of very questionable nature that accompanied his lonely journeys through the woods of Indiana. When he did attend church, he went to laugh at it and left to make fun of it. In fact, it’s more than likely that the kind of "religion" that surrounded him during his childhood gave him a very low opinion of its worth. Overall, he likely thought a person would be better off without it.
When he came to New Salem, he consorted with freethinkers, joined with them in deriding the gospel history of Jesus, read Volney and Paine, and then wrote a deliberate and labored essay, wherein he reached conclusions similar to theirs. The essay was burnt, but he never denied or regretted its composition. On the contrary, he made it the subject of free and frequent conversations with his friends at Springfield, and stated, with much particularity and precision, the origin, arguments, and objects of the work.
When he arrived in New Salem, he hung out with free thinkers, joined them in mocking the gospel accounts of Jesus, read Volney and Paine, and then wrote a thoughtful and carefully crafted essay that reached conclusions like theirs. The essay was burned, but he never denied or regretted writing it. Instead, he often brought it up in open and frequent conversations with his friends in Springfield, explaining in detail the origins, arguments, and purposes of the work.
It was not until after Mr. Lincoln's death, that his alleged orthodoxy became the principal topic of his eulogists; but since then the effort on the part of some political writers and speakers to impress the public mind erroneously seems to have been general and systematic. It is important that the question should be finally determined; and, in order to do so, the names of some of his nearest friends are given below, followed by clear and decisive statements, for which they are separately responsible. Some of them are gentlemen of distinction, and all of them men of high character, who enjoyed the best opportunities to form correct opinions.
It wasn't until after Mr. Lincoln's death that his supposed beliefs became the main focus of those giving him tribute. Since then, some political writers and speakers have made a concerted effort to mislead the public. It's crucial that this issue is settled once and for all; to achieve that, the names of some of his closest friends are listed below, along with clear and definitive statements that they individually stand by. Some of these individuals are notable figures, and all are men of integrity who had ample opportunity to form accurate opinions.
James H. Matheny says in a letter to Mr. Herndon:—
James H. Matheny writes in a letter to Mr. Herndon:—
"I knew Mr. Lincoln as early as 1834-7; know he was an infidel. He and W. D. Herndon used to talk infidelity in the clerk's office in this city, about the years 1837-40. Lincoln attacked the Bible and the New Testament on two grounds: first, from the inherent or apparent contradictions under its lids; second, from the grounds of reason. Sometimes he ridiculed the Bible and New Testament, sometimes seemed to scoff it, though I shall not use that word in its full and literal sense. I never heard that Lincoln changed his views, though his personal and political friend from 1834 to 1860. Sometimes Lincoln bordered on atheism. He went far that way, and often shocked me. I was then a young man, and believed what my good mother told me. Stuart & Lincoln's office was in what was called Hoffman's Row, on North Fifth Street, near the public square. It was in the same building as the clerk's office, and on the same floor. Lincoln would come into the clerk's office, where I and some young men—Evan Butler, Newton Francis, and others—were writing or staying, and would bring the Bible with him; would read a chapter; argue against it. Lincoln then had a smattering of geology, if I recollect it. Lincoln often, if not wholly, was an atheist; at least, bordered on it. Lincoln was enthusiastic in his infidelity. As he grew older, he grew more discreet, didn't talk much before strangers about his religion; but to friends, close and bosom ones, he was always open and avowed, fair and honest; but to strangers, he held them off from policy. Lincoln used to quote Burns. Burns helped Lincoln to be an infidel, as I think; at least, he found in Burns a like thinker and feeler. Lincoln quoted 'Tam O'Skanter.' 'What! send one to heaven, and ten to hell!' &c.
"I met Mr. Lincoln around 1834-37; I know he was an infidel. He and W. D. Herndon would discuss infidelity in the clerk's office in this city from about 1837 to 1840. Lincoln criticized the Bible and the New Testament for two reasons: first, due to the apparent contradictions within it; and second, from a logical standpoint. Sometimes he would mock the Bible and the New Testament, and while he seemed to scoff at it, I wouldn't use that term in its strictest sense. I never heard that Lincoln changed his views, even though he was my personal and political friend from 1834 to 1860. Occasionally, Lincoln leaned toward atheism. He went pretty far in that direction and often shocked me. I was a young man then and took to heart what my good mother taught me. Stuart & Lincoln's office was located in what was called Hoffman's Row, on North Fifth Street, close to the public square. It was in the same building and on the same floor as the clerk's office. Lincoln would come into the clerk's office where I and some other young men—Evan Butler, Newton Francis, and others—were writing or hanging out, and he would bring the Bible with him; he would read a chapter and argue against it. If I remember correctly, Lincoln had some basic knowledge of geology. Lincoln was often, if not completely, an atheist; at least, he was very close to it. He was enthusiastic about his infidelity. As he got older, he became more discreet and didn't discuss his beliefs much in front of strangers; but with friends—those he was close to—he was always open and honest. However, with strangers, he would keep them at arm's length for strategic reasons. Lincoln used to quote Burns. I believe Burns influenced Lincoln's infidelity; at the very least, he found someone in Burns who shared his thoughts and feelings. Lincoln quoted 'Tam O' Shanter': 'What! send one to heaven, and ten to hell!' etc."
"From what I know of Mr. Lincoln and his views of Christianity, and from what I know as honest and well-founded rumor; from what I have heard his best friends say and regret for years; from what he never denied when accused, and from what Lincoln has hinted and intimated, to say no more,—he did write a little book on infidelity at or near New Salem, in Menard County, about the year 1834 or 1835. I have, stated these things to you often. Judge Logan, John T. Stuart, yourself, know what I know, and some of you more.
"From what I know about Mr. Lincoln and his beliefs about Christianity, along with what I've heard from reliable sources; from what I've heard his closest friends say and regret over the years; from what he never denied when confronted, and from what Lincoln has suggested and hinted at, to say no more—he did write a small book on infidelity around New Salem, in Menard County, around 1834 or 1835. I've shared these things with you often. Judge Logan, John T. Stuart, you, and some of you know more than I do."
"Mr. Herndon, you insist on knowing something which you know I possess, and got as a secret, and that is, about Lincoln's little book on infidelity. Mr. Lincoln did tell me that he did write a little book on infidelity. This statement I have avoided heretofore; but, as you strongly insist upon it,—probably to defend yourself against charges of misrepresentations,—I give it you as I got it from Lincoln's mouth."
"Mr. Herndon, you keep insisting on knowing something that I have and know is a secret, which is about Lincoln's little book on infidelity. Mr. Lincoln did tell me that he wrote a little book on infidelity. I've avoided sharing this before, but since you’re so determined to know—likely to protect yourself against accusations of misrepresentation—I’ll share it as I heard it directly from Lincoln."
From Hon. John T. Stuart:—
From Hon. John T. Stuart:—
"I knew Mr. Lincoln when he first came here, and for years afterwards. He was an avowed and open infidel, sometimes bordered on atheism. I have often and often heard Lincoln and one W. D. Herndon, who was a freethinker, talk over this subject. Lincoln went further against Christian beliefs and doctrines and principles than any man I ever heard: he shocked me. I don't remember the exact line of his argument: suppose it was against the inherent defects, so called, of the Bible, and on grounds of reason. Lincoln always denied that Jesus was the Christ of God,—denied that Jesus was the Son of God, as understood and maintained by the Christian Church. The Rev. Dr. Smith, who wrote a letter, tried to convert Lincoln from infidelity so late as 1858, and couldn't do it."
"I knew Mr. Lincoln when he first came here, and for years after that. He was a clearly outspoken skeptic, occasionally bordering on atheism. I often heard Lincoln and W. D. Herndon, who was also a freethinker, discussing this topic. Lincoln challenged Christian beliefs, doctrines, and principles more than anyone I've ever heard; he really surprised me. I don’t remember the exact line of his argument, but it was probably about the so-called inherent flaws of the Bible, based on reason. Lincoln consistently denied that Jesus was the Christ of God and rejected the idea that Jesus was the Son of God as interpreted by the Christian Church. The Rev. Dr. Smith, who wrote a letter, tried to persuade Lincoln to turn away from skepticism as late as 1858, but he didn’t succeed."
William H. Herndon, Esq.:—
William H. Herndon, Esq.:—
"As to Mr. Lincoln's religious views, he was, in short, an infidel,... a theist. He did not believe that Jesus was God, nor the Son of God,—was a fatalist, denied the freedom of the will. Mr. Lincoln told me a thousand times, that he did not believe the Bible was the revelation of God, as the Christian world contends. The points that Mr. Lincoln tried to demonstrate (in his book) were: First, That the Bible was not God's revelation; and, Second, That Jesus was not the Son of God. I assert this on my own knowledge, and on my veracity. Judge Logan, John T. Stuart, James H. Matheny, and others, will tell you the truth. I say they will confirm what I say, with this exception,—they all make it blacker than I remember it. Joshua F. Speed of Louisville, I think, will tell you the same thing."
"As for Mr. Lincoln's religious beliefs, he was, simply put, an infidel... a theist. He didn't believe that Jesus was God, nor the Son of God—he was a fatalist and denied free will. Mr. Lincoln told me countless times that he didn't believe the Bible was the revelation of God, as the Christian community argues. The points Mr. Lincoln tried to prove (in his book) were: First, that the Bible was not God's revelation; and, Second, that Jesus was not the Son of God. I assert this based on my own knowledge and honesty. Judge Logan, John T. Stuart, James H. Matheny, and others will tell you the truth. I believe they will confirm what I’m saying, with one exception—they all make it sound worse than I remember it. Joshua F. Speed of Louisville, I think, will tell you the same thing."
Hon. David Davis:—
Hon. David Davis:—
"I do not know any thing about Lincoln's religion, and do not think anybody knew. The idea that Lincoln talked to a stranger about his religion or religious views, or made such speeches, remarks, &c., about it as are published, is to me absurd. I knew the man so well: he was the most reticent, secretive man I ever saw, or expect to see. He had no faith, in the Christian sense of the term,—had faith in laws, principles, causes, and effects—philosophically: you [Herndon] know more about his religion than any man. You ought to know it, of course."
"I don’t know anything about Lincoln's religion, and I don't think anyone else did either. The idea that Lincoln discussed his religion or beliefs with a stranger, or gave speeches or remarks about it, like the ones that are published, seems ridiculous to me. I knew him very well—he was the most reserved and secretive person I’ve ever met or will meet. He didn’t have faith in the Christian sense; he believed in laws, principles, causes, and effects—philosophically. You [Herndon] know more about his religion than anyone else. You should know it, of course."
William H. Hannah, Esq.:—
William H. Hannah, Esq.:—
"Since 1856 Mr. Lincoln told me that he was a kind of immortalist; that he never could bring himself to believe in eternal punishment; that man lived but a little while here; and that, if eternal punishment were man's doom, he should spend that little life in vigilant and ceaseless preparation by never-ending prayer."
"Since 1856, Mr. Lincoln told me he was somewhat of an immortalist; he could never believe in eternal punishment. He believed that people only lived a short time here, and that if eternal punishment was humanity's fate, we should spend that brief life in constant and relentless preparation through endless prayer."
Mrs. Lincoln:—
Mrs. Lincoln:—
"Mr. Lincoln had no hope and no faith in the usual acceptance of those words."
"Mr. Lincoln had no hope and no faith in the typical understanding of those words."
Dr. C. H. Ray:—
Dr. C. H. Ray:—
"I do not know how I can aid you. You [Herndon] knew Mr. Lincoln far better than I did, though I knew him well; and you have served up his leading characteristics in a way that I should despair of doing, if I should try. I have only one thing to ask: that you do not give Calvinistic theology a chance to claim him as one of its saints and martyrs. He went to the Old-School Church; but, in spite of that outward assent to the horrible dogmas of the sect, I have reason from, himself to know that his 'vital purity' if that means belief in the impossible, was of a negative sort."
"I’m not sure how I can help you. You [Herndon] knew Mr. Lincoln way more than I did, even though I knew him pretty well; and you’ve captured his main traits in a way that I would struggle to match if I tried. I only have one request: please don’t let Calvinistic theology claim him as one of its saints and martyrs. He attended the Old-School Church, but despite that outward agreement with the awful beliefs of the sect, I have reason from himself to know that his 'vital purity'—if that means believing in the impossible—was of a negative kind."
I. W. Keys, Esq.:—
I. W. Keys, Esq.:—
"In my intercourse with Mr. Lincoln, I learned that he believed in a Creator of all things, who had neither beginning nor end, and possessing all power and wisdom, established a principle, in obedience to which worlds move, and are upheld, and animal and vegetable life come into existence. A reason he gave for his belief was, that, in view of the order and harmony of all nature which we behold, it would have been more miraculous to have come about by chance than to have been created and arranged by some great thinking power. As to the Christian theory, that Christ is God, or equal to the Creator, he said that it had better be taken for granted; for, by the test of reason, we might become infidels on that subject, for evidence of Christ's divinity came to us in a somewhat doubtful shape; but that the system of Christianity was an ingenious one at least, and perhaps was calculated to do good."
"In my conversations with Mr. Lincoln, I discovered that he believed in a Creator of everything, who has no beginning or end and possesses all power and wisdom. He established a principle that governs how worlds move and exist, and how animal and plant life comes into being. One reason he gave for his belief was that, considering the order and harmony we see in nature, it would be more miraculous for everything to have come about by chance than to have been created and organized by a great intelligence. Regarding the Christian belief that Christ is God or equal to the Creator, he suggested that it's best to accept it as a given; because if we rely solely on reason, we might become skeptics about that idea, since the evidence of Christ's divinity is somewhat uncertain. However, he acknowledged that the structure of Christianity is at least clever and might be beneficial."
Mr. Jesse W. Fell of Illinois, who had the best opportunities of knowing Mr. Lincoln intimately, makes the following statement of his religious opinions, derived from repeated conversations with him on the subject:—
Mr. Jesse W. Fell of Illinois, who had the best opportunities to know Mr. Lincoln personally, makes the following statement about his religious views, based on multiple conversations with him on the topic:—
"Though every thing relating to the character and history of this extraordinary personage is of interest, and should be fairly stated to the world, I enter upon the performance of this duty—for so I regard it—with some reluctance, arising from the fact, that, in stating my convictions on the subject, I must necessarily place myself in opposition to quite a number who have written on this topic before me, and whose views largely pre-occupy the public mind. This latter fact, whilst contributing to my embarrassment on this subject, is, perhaps, the strongest reason, however, why the truth in this matter should be fully disclosed; and I therefore yield to your request. If there were any traits of character that stood out in bold relief in the person of Mr. Lincoln, they were those of truth and candor. He was utterly incapable of insincerity, or professing views on this or any other subject he did not entertain. Knowing such to be his true character, that insincerity, much more duplicity, were traits wholly foreign to his nature, many of his old friends were not a little surprised at finding, in some of the biographies of this great man, statements concerning his religious opinions so utterly at variance with his known sentiments. True, he may have changed or modified those sentiments after his removal from among us, though this is hardly reconcilable with the history of the man, and his entire devotion to public matters during his four years' residence at the national capital. It is possible, however, that this may be the proper solution of this conflict of opinions; or, it may be, that, with no intention on the part of any one to mislead the public mind, those who have represented him as believing in the popular theological views of the times may have misapprehended him, as experience shows to be quite common where no special effort has been made to attain critical accuracy on a subject of this nature. This is the more probable from the well-known fact, that Mr. Lincoln seldom communicated to any one his views on this subject. But, be this as it may, I have no hesitation whatever in saying, that, whilst he held many opinions in common with the great mass of Christian believers, he did not believe in what are regarded as the orthodox or evangelical views of Christianity.
"Though everything about this extraordinary person's character and history is interesting and should be shared with the world, I approach this task—with some hesitation—because stating my beliefs on the topic will inevitably put me at odds with many who have written about it before me and whose views widely shape public opinion. This situation, while making me uncomfortable, is perhaps the strongest reason why the truth should be fully revealed, so I’m compliant with your request. If there were any standout traits in Mr. Lincoln’s character, they were his truthfulness and openness. He was completely incapable of being insincere or pretending to hold views on this or any other subject that he did not genuinely have. Knowing this about his true character, it surprised many of his old friends to find such conflicting statements about his religious beliefs in some biographies of this great man. True, he may have changed or adjusted those beliefs after he passed, although this hardly aligns with his history and his full dedication to public affairs during his four years in the national capital. It’s also possible that this could be the right explanation for the differing opinions. Or, it could be that, without any intent to mislead the public, those who portrayed him as believing in the popular theological views of the time may have misunderstood him, as experience shows this often happens when no special effort has been made to achieve accuracy on such topics. This is even more likely given the well-known fact that Mr. Lincoln rarely shared his views on this matter. However, regardless of the reasons, I confidently state that while he shared many beliefs with the vast majority of Christian believers, he did not believe in what are considered the orthodox or evangelical views of Christianity."
"On the innate depravity of man, the character and office of the great Head of the Church, the atonement, the infallibility of the written revelation, the performance of miracles, the nature and design of present and future rewards and punishments (as they are popularly called), and many other subjects, he held opinions utterly at variance with what are usually taught in the Church. I should say that his expressed views on these and kindred topics were such as, in the estimation of most believers, would place him entirely outside the Christian pale. Yet, to my mind, such was not the true position, since his principles and practices and the spirit of his whole life were of the very kind we universally agree to call Christian; and I think this conclusion is in no wise affected by the circumstance that he never attached himself to any religious society whatever.
"On the inherent wrongdoing of humanity, the role and responsibilities of the great Head of the Church, the concept of atonement, the infallibility of the Scriptures, the occurrence of miracles, and the nature and purpose of current and future rewards and punishments (as they are commonly referred to), along with many other topics, he had views that were completely at odds with what is typically taught in the Church. I would say that his opinions on these and related matters would lead most believers to consider him entirely outside the Christian community. However, in my view, that was not the case, as his principles, actions, and the overall spirit of his life were fundamentally what we all agree to call Christian; and I believe this conclusion is not at all influenced by the fact that he never affiliated himself with any religious organization."
"His religious views were eminently practical, and are summed up, as I think, in these two propositions: 'the Fatherhood of God, and the brotherhood of man.' He fully believed in a superintending and overruling Providence, that guides and controls the operations of the world, but maintained that law and order, and not their violation or suspension, are the appointed means by which this providence is exercised.
"His religious beliefs were very practical and can be summed up, I believe, in these two ideas: 'the Fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man.' He strongly believed in a guiding and controlling Providence that directs the workings of the world but insisted that law and order, rather than their breach or suspension, are the designated ways this Providence operates."
"I will not attempt any specification of either his belief or disbelief on various religious topics, as derived from conversations with him at different times during a considerable period; but, as conveying a general view of his religious or theological opinions, will state the following facts. Some eight or ten years prior to his death, in conversing with him upon this subject, the writer took occasion to refer, in terms of approbation, to the sermons and writings generally of Dr. W. E. Channing; and, finding he was considerably interested in the statement I made of the opinions held by that author, I proposed to present him (Lincoln) a copy of Channing's entire works, which I soon after did. Subsequently, the contents of these volumes, together with the writings of Theodore Parker, furnished him, as he informed me, by his friend and law-partner, Mr. Herndon, became naturally the topics of conversation with us; and though far from believing there was an entire harmony of views on his part with either of those authors, yet they were generally much admired and approved by him.
"I won’t try to specify his beliefs or disbeliefs on various religious topics based on our conversations over the years. However, to give a general idea of his religious or theological views, I’ll share these facts. About eight or ten years before his death, during a discussion on this topic, I mentioned, with approval, the sermons and writings of Dr. W. E. Channing. I noticed he was quite interested in what I said about Channing's opinions, so I offered to give him a copy of Channing's complete works, which I did shortly after. Later, we discussed the contents of those volumes and the writings of Theodore Parker, which his friend and law partner, Mr. Herndon, had provided him. While I didn’t think his views completely aligned with either of those authors, he generally admired and approved of their work."
"No religious views with him seemed to find any favor, except of the practical and rationalistic order; and if, from my recollections on this subject, I was called upon to designate an author whose views most nearly represented Mr. Lincoln's on this subject, I would say that author was Theodore Parker.
"No religious beliefs seemed to appeal to him, except for those that were practical and rational. Based on my memories regarding this topic, if I had to name an author whose views closely matched Mr. Lincoln's, I would say that author was Theodore Parker."
"As you have asked from me a candid statement of my recollections on this topic, I have thus briefly given them, with the hope that they may be of some service in rightly settling a question about which—as I have good reason to believe—the public mind has been greatly misled.
"As you requested a straightforward account of my memories on this topic, I have provided them briefly, hoping they will help clarify a question that I believe the public has been greatly misled about."
"Not doubting that they will accord, substantially, with your own recollections, and that of his other intimate and confidential friends, and with the popular verdict after this matter shall have been properly canvassed, I submit them."
"Without a doubt, they will largely match your own memories and those of his other close and trusted friends, as well as the general opinion after this situation has been thoroughly discussed, I present them."
John G. Nicolay, his private secretary at the White House:—
John G. Nicolay, his personal assistant at the White House:—
"Mr. Lincoln did not, to my knowledge, in any way change his religious views, opinions, or beliefs, from the time he left Springfield to the day of his death. I do not know just what they were, never having heard him explain them in detail; but I am very sure he gave no outward indication of his mind having undergone any change in that regard while here."
"Mr. Lincoln did not, as far as I know, change his religious views, opinions, or beliefs in any way from the time he left Springfield until the day he died. I don't know exactly what they were, since I never heard him explain them in detail; but I'm quite sure he showed no outward signs that his thoughts had changed in that respect while he was here."
The following letter from Mr. Herndon was, about the time of its date, extensively published throughout the United States, and met with no contradiction from any responsible source.
The following letter from Mr. Herndon was widely published across the United States around the time it was written and received no objections from any credible source.
Springfield, Feb. 18, 1870.
Springfield, Feb 18, 1870.
Mr. Abbott,—-Some time since I promised you that I would send a letter in relation to Mr. Lincoln's religion. I do so now. Before entering on that question, one or two preliminary remarks will help us to understand why he disagreed with the Christian world in its principles, as well as in its theology. In the first place, Mr. Lincoln's mind was a purely logical mind; secondly, Mr. Lincoln was purely a practical man. He had no fancy or imagination, and not much emotion. He was a realist as opposed to an idealist. As a general rule, it is true that a purely logical mind has not much hope, if it ever has faith in the unseen and unknown. Mr. Lincoln had not much hope and no faith in things that lie outside of the domain of demonstration: he was so constituted, so organized, that he could believe nothing unless his senses or logic could reach it. I have often read to him a law point, a decision, or something I fancied: he could not understand it until he took the book out of my hand, and read the thing for himself. He was terribly, vexatiously sceptical. He could scarcely understand any thing, unless he had time and place fixed in his mind.
Mr. Abbott, — A while ago, I promised to send you a letter about Mr. Lincoln's religion. I'm doing that now. Before diving into the topic, a couple of preliminary comments will help clarify why he disagreed with the Christian world in its beliefs and theology. First, Mr. Lincoln had a purely logical mind; second, he was a very practical person. He didn’t have much imagination or emotion. He was a realist rather than an idealist. Generally, a purely logical mind tends to lack hope and rarely has faith in the unseen and unknown. Mr. Lincoln had little hope and no faith in things outside what could be demonstrated: he was built in such a way that he could believe only what his senses or logic could grasp. I often read him legal points, decisions, or ideas that I found interesting; he couldn't fully understand them until he had the book in his hands and read it for himself. He was intensely, frustratingly sceptical. He could hardly grasp anything unless he had a clear time and place in his mind.
I became acquainted with Mr. Lincoln in 1834, and I think I knew him well to the day of his death. His mind, when a boy in Kentucky, showed a certain gloom, an unsocial nature, a peculiar abstractedness, a bold and daring scepticism. In Indiana, from 1817 to 1830, it manifested the same qualities or attributes as in Kentucky: it only intensified, developed itself, along those lines, in Indiana. He came to Illinois in 1830, and, after some little roving, settled in New Salem, now in Menard County and State of Illinois. This village lies about twenty miles north-west of this city. It was here that Mr. Lincoln became acquainted with a class of men the world never saw the like of before or since. They were large men,—large in body and large in mind; hard to whip, and never to be fooled. They were a bold, daring, and reckless sort of men; they were men of their own minds,—believed what was demonstrable; were men of great common sense. With these men Mr. Lincoln was thrown; with them he lived, and with them he moved, and almost had his being. They were sceptics all,—scoffers some. These scoffers were good men, and their scoffs were protests against theology,—loud protests against the follies of Christianity: they had never heard of theism and the newer and better religious thoughts of this age. Hence, being natural sceptics, and being bold, brave men, they uttered their thoughts freely: they declared that Jesus was an illegitimate child.... They were on all occasions, when opportunity offered, debating the various questions of Christianity among themselves: they took their stand on common sense and on their own souls; and, though their arguments were rude and rough, no man could overthrow their homely logic. They riddled all divines, and not unfrequently made them sceptics,—disbelievers as bad as themselves. They were a jovial, healthful, generous, social, true, and manly set of people.
I met Mr. Lincoln in 1834, and I believe I knew him well up until his death. As a young boy in Kentucky, he displayed a certain gloominess, an unsociable nature, a unique sense of being lost in thought, and a bold, daring skepticism. In Indiana, from 1817 to 1830, he exhibited the same traits as in Kentucky, but they became more intense and developed further there. He moved to Illinois in 1830, and after some wandering, settled in New Salem, which is now in Menard County, Illinois. This village is about twenty miles northwest of this city. It was here that Mr. Lincoln met a group of men the world has never seen before or since. They were big men—physically and intellectually; tough to beat and impossible to deceive. They were bold, daring, and somewhat reckless; they thought for themselves, believed in what could be proven, and had a lot of common sense. Mr. Lincoln was surrounded by these men; he lived among them and was deeply influenced by them. They were all skeptics, some were scoffers. These scoffers were good people, and their mockery was a protest against traditional theology—strong protests against the absurdities they saw in Christianity. They had never heard of theism or the newer, improved religious ideas of this age. So, being natural skeptics and brave men, they expressed their thoughts openly: they even claimed that Jesus was an illegitimate child... Whenever they had a chance, they debated various questions about Christianity among themselves. They relied on common sense and their own beliefs; even though their arguments were rough and unpolished, no one could dismantle their straightforward logic. They challenged all religious leaders and often turned them into skeptics—disbelievers just like themselves. They were a lively, healthy, generous, sociable, genuine, and manly group of people.
It was here, and among these people, that Mr. Lincoln was thrown. About the year 1834, he chanced to come across Volney's "Ruins," and some of Paine's theological works. He at once seized hold of them, and assimilated them into his own being. Volney and Paine became a part of Mr. Lincoln from 1834 to the end of his life. In 1835 he wrote out a small work on "Infidelity," and intended to have it published. The book was an attack upon the whole grounds of Christianity, and especially was it an attack upon the idea that Jesus was the Christ, the true and only-begotten Son of God, as the Christian world contends. Mr. Lincoln was at that time in New Salem, keeping store for Mr. Samuel Hill, a merchant and postmaster of that place. Lincoln and Hill were very friendly. Hill, I think, was a sceptic at that time. Lincoln, one day after the book was finished, read it to Mr. Hill, his good friend. Hill tried to persuade him not to make it public, not to publish it. Hill at that time saw in Mr. Lincoln a rising man, and wished him success. Lincoln refused to destroy it, said it should be published. Hill swore it should never see light of day. He had an eye, to Lincoln's popularity,—his present and future success; and believing, that if the book were published, it would kill Lincoln forever, he snatched it from Lincoln's hand, when Lincoln was not expecting it, and ran it into an old-fashioned tin-plate stove, heated as hot as a furnace; and so Lincoln's book went up to the clouds in smoke. It is confessed by all who heard parts of it, that it was at once able and eloquent; and, if I may judge of it from Mr. Lincoln's subsequent ideas and opinions, often expressed to me and to others in my presence, it was able, strong, plain, and fair. His argument was grounded on the internal mistakes of the Old and New Testaments, and on reason, and on the experiences and observations of men. The criticisms from internal defects were sharp, strong, and manly.
It was here, among these people, that Mr. Lincoln found himself. Around 1834, he came across Volney's "Ruins" and some of Paine's theological works. He immediately connected with them and integrated their ideas into his own beliefs. For Mr. Lincoln, Volney and Paine became central to his thinking from 1834 until the end of his life. In 1835, he wrote a small piece on "Infidelity," planning to publish it. The book challenged the foundations of Christianity, particularly the belief that Jesus was the Christ, the true and only Son of God, as held by Christians. At that time, Mr. Lincoln was in New Salem, working at a store for Mr. Samuel Hill, who was a merchant and postmaster there. Lincoln and Hill were quite friendly; Hill was a skeptic at that point. One day, after finishing the book, Lincoln read it to his good friend Hill. Hill tried to convince him not to publish it, believing it could damage Lincoln's future prospects since he saw Lincoln as a promising individual. Lincoln refused to destroy it, insisting it should be published. Hill was determined that it would never be seen. He was concerned about Lincoln's popularity and success, and fearing that the publication would ruin Lincoln's future, he unexpectedly snatched the manuscript from Lincoln's hands and threw it into an old-fashioned tin stove, which was heated to the point of being red hot; thus, Lincoln's book went up in smoke. Everyone who heard parts of it acknowledged that it was both able and eloquent. From what I can gather from Mr. Lincoln's later thoughts and opinions, often shared with me and others, it was skillful, straightforward, and honest. His arguments were based on the inconsistencies found in the Old and New Testaments, as well as on reason and the experiences of individuals. His critiques of these internal flaws were sharp, powerful, and straightforward.
Mr. Lincoln moved to this city in 1837, and here became acquainted with various men of his own way of thinking. At that time they called themselves free-thinkers, or free-thinking men. I remember all these things distinctly; for I was with them, heard them, and was one of them. Mr. Lincoln here found other works,—Hume, Gibbon, and others,—and drank them in: he made no secret of his views, no concealment of his religion. He boldly avowed himself an infidel. When Mr. Lincoln was a candidate for our Legislature, he was accused of being an infidel, and of having said that Jesus Christ was an illegitimate child: he never denied his opinions, nor flinched from his religious views; he was a true man, and yet it may be truthfully said, that in 1837 his religion was low indeed. In his moments of gloom he would doubt, if he did not sometimes deny, God. He made me once erase the name of God from a speech which I was about to make in 1854; and he did this in the city of Washington to one of his friends. I cannot now name the man, nor the place he occupied in Washington: it will be known sometime. I have the evidence, and intend to keep it.
Mr. Lincoln moved to this city in 1837 and got to know various people who shared his views. Back then, they called themselves free-thinkers, or free-thinking men. I remember all of this clearly because I was with them, heard them, and was one of them. Mr. Lincoln discovered other works here—Hume, Gibbon, and others—and absorbed them eagerly: he was open about his views and didn’t hide his beliefs. He openly declared himself an infidel. When Mr. Lincoln ran for our Legislature, he was accused of being an infidel and of claiming that Jesus Christ was an illegitimate child: he never denied his views or backed down from his beliefs; he was a genuine man, and yet it can honestly be said that in 1837 his faith was quite low. During his darker moments, he would doubt, if he did not sometimes deny, God. He once made me remove the name of God from a speech I was about to give in 1854; he did this in Washington with one of his friends. I can’t remember the man’s name or his position in Washington right now, but it will be known eventually. I have the proof and plan to keep it.
Mr. Lincoln ran for Congress, against the Rev. Peter Cartwright, in the year 1847 or 1848. In that contest he was accused of being an infidel, if not an atheist; he never denied the charge; would not; "would die first:" in the first place, because he knew it could and would be proved on him; and in the second place he was too true to his own convictions, to his own soul, to deny it. From what I know of Mr. Lincoln, and from what I have heard and verily believe, I can say, First, That he did not believe in a special creation, his idea being that all creation was an evolution under law; Secondly, That he did not believe that the Bible was a special revelation from God, as the Christian world contends; Thirdly, He did not believe in miracles, as understood by the Christian world; Fourthly, He believed in universal inspiration and miracles under law; Fifthly, He did not believe that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God, as the Christian world contends; Sixthly, He believed that all things, both matter and mind, were governed by laws, universal, absolute, and eternal. All his speeches and remarks in Washington conclusively prove this. Law was to Lincoln every thing, and special interferences shams and delusions. I know whereof I speak. I used to loan him Theodore Parker's works: I loaned him Emerson sometimes, and other writers; and he would sometimes read, and sometimes would not, as I suppose,—nay, know.
Mr. Lincoln ran for Congress against Rev. Peter Cartwright in 1847 or 1848. During that race, he was accused of being an infidel, if not an atheist; he never denied the accusation and wouldn't—“would die first”—because he knew it could and would be proven true, and he was too committed to his own beliefs and to his own conscience to deny it. From what I know about Mr. Lincoln, and from what I have heard and truly believe, I can say, First, that he did not believe in special creation; his idea was that all creation was an evolution under law; Second, that he did not believe the Bible was a special revelation from God, as the Christian world claims; Third, he did not believe in miracles as understood by the Christian world; Fourth, he believed in universal inspiration and miracles under law; Fifth, he did not believe that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God, as the Christian world contends; Sixth, he believed that all things, both matter and mind, were governed by universal, absolute, and eternal laws. All his speeches and comments in Washington clearly prove this. To Lincoln, law was everything, and special interventions were merely shams and delusions. I know what I'm talking about. I used to lend him Theodore Parker's works; I lent him Emerson sometimes and other writers; and he would sometimes read, and sometimes wouldn’t, as I suppose—nay, know.
When Mr. Lincoln left this city for Washington, I know he had undergone no change in his religious opinions or views. He held many of the Christian ideas in abhorrence, and among them there was this one; namely, that God would forgive the sinner for a violation of his laws. Lincoln maintained that God could not forgive; that punishment has to follow the sin; that Christianity was wrong in teaching forgiveness; that it tended to make man sin in the hope that God would excuse, and so forth. Lincoln contended that the minister should teach that God has affixed punishment to sin, and that no repentance could bribe him to remit it. In one sense of the word, Mr. Lincoln was a Universalist, and in another sense he was a Unitarian; but he was a theist, as we now understand that word: he was so fully, freely, unequivocally, boldly, and openly, when asked for his views. Mr. Lincoln was supposed, by many people in this city, to be an atheist; and some still believe it. I can put that supposition at rest forever. I hold a letter of Mr. Lincoln in my hand, addressed to his step-brother, John D. Johnston, and dated the twelfth day of January, 1851. He had heard from Johnston that his father, Thomas Lincoln, was sick, and that no hopes of his recovery were entertained. Mr. Lincoln wrote back to Mr. Johnston these words:—
When Mr. Lincoln left this city for Washington, I know he hadn’t changed his religious beliefs or views. He rejected many Christian ideas, including the belief that God would forgive sinners for breaking His laws. Lincoln believed that God couldn’t forgive; that punishment must follow sin; that Christianity was wrong in promoting forgiveness; he thought it encouraged people to sin with the hope that God would overlook it, and so on. Lincoln argued that ministers should teach that God has attached punishment to sin and that no amount of repentance could convince Him to take it away. In one way, Mr. Lincoln could be seen as a Universalist, and in another, as a Unitarian; but he was a theist, as we understand that term today: he was fully, openly, and unequivocally clear about his views when asked. Many people in this city thought Mr. Lincoln was an atheist, and some still believe it. I can put that misconception to rest forever. I hold a letter from Mr. Lincoln addressed to his step-brother, John D. Johnston, dated January 12, 1851. He had heard from Johnston that their father, Thomas Lincoln, was sick, and that there was no hope for his recovery. Mr. Lincoln wrote back to Mr. Johnston these words:—
"I sincerely hope that father may yet recover his health; but, at all events, tell him to remember to call upon and confide in One great and good and merciful Maker, who will not turn away from him in any extremity. He notes the fall of a sparrow, and numbers the hairs of our heads; and he will not forget the dying man who puts his trust in him. Say to him, that, if we could meet now, it is doubtful whether it would not be more painful than pleasant; but that, if it be his lot to go now, he will soon have a joyous meeting with many loved ones gone before, and where the rest of us, through the help of God, hope ere long to join them.
"I truly hope that Dad can still get better; but, no matter what, tell him to remember to reach out to and trust in one great, good, and merciful Creator, who won’t abandon him in any crisis. He sees the fall of a sparrow and counts the hairs on our heads; and he won't forget the dying person who puts their faith in him. Tell him that, if we could meet now, it might be more painful than pleasant; but if it's his time to go, he’ll soon have a joyful reunion with many loved ones who have passed on, and where the rest of us, with God's help, hope to join them before long."
"A. Lincoln."
"Abraham Lincoln."
So it seems that Mr. Lincoln believed in God and immortality as well as heaven,—a place. He believed in no hell and no punishment in the future world. It has been said to me that Mr. Lincoln wrote the above letter to an old man simply to cheer him up in his last moments, and that the writer did not believe what he said. The question is, Was Mr. Lincoln an honest and truthful man? If he was, he wrote that letter honestly, believing it. It has to me the sound, the ring, of an honest utterance. I admit that Mr. Lincoln, in his moments of melancholy and terrible gloom, was living on the borderland between theism and atheism,—sometimes quite wholly dwelling in atheism. In his happier moments he would swing back to theism, and dwell lovingly there. It is possible that Mr. Lincoln was not always responsible for what he said or thought, so deep, so intense, so terrible, was his melancholy. I send you a lecture of mine which will help you to see what I mean. I maintain that Mr. Lincoln was a deeply-religious man at all times and places, in spite of his transient doubts.
So it seems that Mr. Lincoln believed in God, immortality, and heaven—a real place. He didn’t believe in hell or punishment in the afterlife. I’ve heard it said that Mr. Lincoln wrote that letter to an elderly man just to comfort him in his final moments, and that he didn’t actually believe what he wrote. The question is, was Mr. Lincoln an honest and truthful man? If he was, then he wrote that letter sincerely, believing in it. To me, it sounds and feels like an honest statement. I admit that during his times of deep sadness and despair, Mr. Lincoln was on the edge of theism and atheism—sometimes fully immersed in atheism. In happier moments, he would return to theism and stay there lovingly. It’s possible that Mr. Lincoln wasn’t always in control of what he said or thought due to the depth and intensity of his sadness. I’m sending you a lecture of mine that will help you understand what I mean. I believe that Mr. Lincoln was a deeply religious man at all times and in all places, despite his temporary doubts.
Soon after Mr. Lincoln was assassinated, Mr. Holland came into my office, and made some inquiries about him, stating to me his purpose of writing his life. I freely told him what he asked, and much more. He then asked me what I thought about Mr. Lincoln's religion, meaning his views of Christianity. I replied, "The less said, the better." Mr. Holland has recorded my expression to him (see Holland's "Life of Lincoln," p. 241). I cannot say what Mr. Holland said to me, as that was private. It appears that he went and saw Mr. Newton Bateman, Superintendent of Public Instruction in this State. It appears that Mr. Bateman told Mr. Holland many things, if he is correctly represented in Holland's "Life of Lincoln" (pp. 236-241, inclusive). I doubt whether Mr. Bateman said in full what is recorded there: I doubt a great deal of it. I know the whole story is untrue,—untrue in substance, untrue in fact and spirit. As soon as the "Life of Lincoln" was out, on reading that part here referred to, I instantly sought Mr. Bateman, and found him in his office. I spoke to him politely and kindly, and he spoke to me in the same manner. I said substantially to him that Mr. Holland, in order to make Mr. Lincoln a technical Christian, made him a hypocrite; and so his "Life of Lincoln" quite plainly says. I loved Mr. Lincoln, and was mortified, if not angry, to see him made a hypocrite. I cannot now detail what Mr. Bateman said, as it was a private conversation, and I am forbidden to make use of it in public. If some good gentleman can only get the seal of secrecy removed, I can show what was said and done. On my word, the world may take it for granted that Holland is wrong, that he does not state Mr. Lincoln's views correctly. Mr. Bateman, if correctly represented in Holland's "Life of Lincoln," is the only man, the sole and only man, who dare say that Mr. Lincoln believed in Jesus as the Christ of God, as the Christian world represents. This is not a pleasant situation for Mr. Bateman. I have notes and dates of our conversation; and the world will sometime know who is truthful, and who is otherwise. I doubt whether Bateman is correctly represented by Holland. My notes bear date Dec. 3, 12, and 28, 1866. Some of our conversations were in the spring of 1866 and the fall of 1865.
Soon after Mr. Lincoln was assassinated, Mr. Holland came into my office and asked me questions about him, mentioning that he intended to write his biography. I shared everything he wanted to know and even more. He then asked me what I thought about Mr. Lincoln's religion, referring to his views on Christianity. I replied, "The less said, the better." Mr. Holland recorded my response (see Holland's "Life of Lincoln," p. 241). I can't disclose what Mr. Holland said to me because that was private. It seems he went to see Mr. Newton Bateman, the Superintendent of Public Instruction in this state. Apparently, Mr. Bateman told Mr. Holland many things, if his account in Holland's "Life of Lincoln" (pp. 236-241, inclusive) is accurate. I doubt Mr. Bateman fully expressed what is recorded there: I have serious doubts about much of it. I know the entire narrative is untrue—untrue in essence, untrue in fact and spirit. Once "Life of Lincoln" was published, after reading the relevant section, I immediately sought out Mr. Bateman and found him in his office. I spoke to him politely and kindly, and he responded in kind. I told him that Mr. Holland, in trying to portray Mr. Lincoln as a devout Christian, was actually making him out to be a hypocrite, which is exactly what his biography suggests. I loved Mr. Lincoln, and it pained me, if not enraged me, to see him depicted as a hypocrite. I can’t detail what Mr. Bateman said, as it was a private conversation, and I'm not allowed to disclose it publicly. If only some honorable person could lift the confidentiality, I could reveal what transpired. On my word, the world can be assured that Holland is wrong and that he misrepresents Mr. Lincoln's views. Mr. Bateman, if accurately portrayed in Holland's "Life of Lincoln," is the only person who dares to claim that Mr. Lincoln believed in Jesus as the Christ of God, as the Christian community describes. This puts Mr. Bateman in an uncomfortable position. I have notes and dates from our conversation, and someday the truth about who is honest and who isn't will come to light. I have doubts about whether Bateman is accurately represented by Holland. My notes are dated December 3, 12, and 28, 1866. Some of our conversations took place in the spring of 1866 and the fall of 1865.
I do not remember ever seeing the words Jesus or Christ in print, as uttered by Mr. Lincoln. If he has used these words, they can be found. He uses the word God but seldom. I never heard him use the name of Christ or Jesus but to confute the idea that he was the Christ, the only and truly begotten Son of God, as the Christian world understands it. The idea that Mr. Lincoln carried the New Testament or Bible in his bosom or boots, to draw on his opponent in debate, is ridiculous.
I don't remember ever seeing the words Jesus or Christ in writing as spoken by Mr. Lincoln. If he did use these words, they can be found. He mentions God but not very often. I never heard him use the name of Christ or Jesus except to refute the idea that he was the Christ, the only and truly begotten Son of God, as the Christian world sees it. The notion that Mr. Lincoln carried the New Testament or Bible in his pocket or boots to quote during debates is absurd.
My dear sir, I now have given you my knowledge, speaking from my own experience, of Mr. Lincoln's religious views. I speak likewise from the evidences, carefully gathered, of his religious opinions. I likewise speak from the ears and mouths of many in this city; and, after all careful examination, I declare to your numerous readers, that Mr. Lincoln is correctly represented here, so far as I know what truth is, and how it should be investigated.
My dear sir, I have now shared my insights, based on my own experience, about Mr. Lincoln’s religious views. I also draw from the evidence I’ve gathered carefully regarding his beliefs. Additionally, I’m speaking on behalf of many people in this city; and after thorough examination, I can confidently tell your many readers that Mr. Lincoln is accurately represented here, as far as I understand what truth is and how it should be examined.
If ever there was a moment when Mr. Lincoln might have been expected to express his faith in the atonement, his trust in the merits of a living Redeemer, it was when he undertook to send a composing and comforting message to a dying man. He knew, moreover, that his father had been "converted" time and again, and that no exhortation would so effectually console his weak spirit in the hour of dismay and dissolution as one which depicted, in the strongest terms, the perfect sufficiency of Jesus to save the perishing soul. But he omitted it wholly: he did not even mention the name of Jesus, or intimate the most distant suspicion of the existence of a Christ. On the contrary, he is singularly careful to employ the word "One" to qualify the word "Maker." It is the Maker, and not the Saviour, to whom he directs the attention of a sinner in the agony of death.
If there was ever a time when Mr. Lincoln might have shown his belief in atonement and faith in a living Redeemer, it was when he set out to send a comforting message to a dying man. He was aware that his father had been "converted" multiple times, and he knew that no encouragement would truly ease his father's troubled spirit during this time of fear and passing like a message that vividly conveyed Jesus' complete ability to save a lost soul. However, he completely left it out: he didn’t even mention the name of Jesus, nor did he hint at any belief in a Christ. Instead, he was very careful to use the word "One" alongside "Maker." He focused on the Maker, not the Savior, when speaking to a sinner facing death.
While it is very clear that Mr. Lincoln was at all times an infidel in the orthodox meaning of the term, it is also very clear that he was not at all times equally willing that everybody should know it. He never offered to purge or recant; but he was a wily politician, and did not disdain to regulate his religious manifestations with some reference to his political interests. As he grew older, he grew more cautious; and as his New Salem associates, and the aggressive deists with whom he originally united at Springfield, gradually dispersed, or fell away from his side, he appreciated more and more keenly the violence and extent of the religious prejudices which freedom in discussion from his standpoint would be sure to arouse against him. He saw the immense and augmenting power of the churches, and in times past had practically felt it. The imputation of infidelity had seriously injured him in several of his earlier political contests; and, sobered by age and experience, he was resolved that that same imputation should injure him no more. Aspiring to lead religious communities, he foresaw that he must not appear as an enemy within their gates; aspiring to public honors under the auspices of a political party which persistently summoned religious people to assist in the extirpation of that which is denounced as the "nation's sin," he foresaw that he could not ask their suffrages whilst aspersing their faith. He perceived no reason for changing his convictions, but he did perceive many good and cogent reasons for not making them public.
While it's clear that Mr. Lincoln was always an unbeliever in the traditional sense, it's also clear that he wasn't always keen on everyone knowing that. He never attempted to deny or renounce his beliefs; however, he was a shrewd politician and didn't hesitate to adjust his public expressions of faith according to his political ambitions. As he got older, he became more cautious. His associates in New Salem and the outspoken deists he initially allied with in Springfield gradually drifted away, which made him more aware of the intense and widespread religious biases that openly discussing his views could provoke against him. He recognized the tremendous and growing influence of churches, having experienced it firsthand in the past. The accusation of being an unbeliever had seriously harmed him in several of his earlier political campaigns; now, wiser with age and experience, he was determined that this accusation would not hurt him again. Wanting to lead religious groups, he realized he couldn't seem like a foe from within their ranks; aspiring for political accolades from a party that consistently called on religious individuals to help eradicate what they labeled as the "nation's sin," he understood he couldn't seek their support while criticizing their beliefs. He saw no reason to change his convictions, but he recognized many solid and compelling reasons to keep them to himself.
Col. Matheny alleges, that, from 1854 to 1860, Mr. Lincoln "played a sharp game" upon the Christians of Springfield, "treading their toes," and saying, "Come and convert me." Mr. Herndon is inclined to coincide with Matheny; and both give the obvious explanation of such conduct; that is to say, his morbid ambition; coupled with a mortal fear that his popularity would suffer by an open avowal of his deistic convictions. At any rate, Mr. Lincoln permitted himself to be misunderstood and misrepresented by some enthusiastic ministers and exhorters with whom he came in contact. Among these was the Rev. Mr. Smith, then pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Springfield, and afterwards Consul at Dundee, in Scotland, under Mr. Lincoln's appointment. The abilities of this gentleman to discuss such a topic to the edification of a man like Mr. Lincoln seem to have been rather slender; but the chance of converting so distinguished a person inspired him with a zeal which he might not have felt for the salvation of an obscurer soul. Mr. Lincoln listened to his exhortations in silence, apparently respectful, and occasionally sat out his sermons in church with as much patience as other people. Finding these oral appeals unavailing, Mr. Smith composed a heavy tract out of his own head to suit the particular case. "The preparation of that work," says he, "cost me long and arduous labor;" but it does not appear to have been read. Mr. Lincoln took the "work" to his office, laid it down without writing his name on it, and never took it up again to the knowledge of a man who inhabited that office with him, and who saw it lying on the same spot every day for months. Subsequently Mr. Smith drew from Mr. Lincoln an acknowledgment that his argument was unanswerable,—not a very high compliment under the circumstances, but one to which Mr. Smith often referred afterwards with great delight. He never asserted, as some have supposed, that Mr. Lincoln was converted from the error of his ways; that he abandoned his infidel opinions, or that he united himself with any Christian church. On the contrary, when specially interrogated on these points by Mr. Herndon, he refused to answer, on the ground that Mr. Herndon was not a proper person to receive such a communication from Mr. Newton Bateman is reported to have said that a few days before the Presidential election of 1860, Mr. Lincoln came into his office, closed the door against intrusion, and proposed to examine a book which had been furnished him, at his own request, "containing a careful canvass of the city of Springfield, showing the candidate for whom each citizen had declared his intention to vote at the approaching election. He ascertained that only three ministers of the gospel, out of twenty-three, would vote for him, and that, of the prominent church-members, a very large majority were against him." Mr. Bateman does not say so directly, but the inference is plain that Mr. Lincoln had not previously known what were the sentiments of the Christian people who lived with him in Springfield: he had never before taken the trouble to inquire whether they were for him or against him. At all events, when he made the discovery out of the book, he wept, and declared that he "did not understand it at all." He drew from his bosom a pocket New Testament, and, "with a trembling voice and his cheeks wet with tears," quoted it against his political opponents generally, and especially against Douglas. He professed to believe that the opinions adopted by him and his party were derived from the teachings of Christ; averred that Christ was God; and, speaking of the Testament which he carried in his bosom, called it "this rock, on which him I stand." When Mr. Bateman expressed surprise, and told him that his friends generally were ignorant that he entertained such sentiments, he gave this answer quickly: "I know they are: I am obliged to appear different to them." Mr. Bateman is a respectable citizen, whose general reputation for truth and veracity is not to be impeached; but his story, as reported in Holland's Life, is so inconsistent with Mr. Lincoln's whole character, that it must be rejected as altogether incredible. From the time of the Democratic split in the Baltimore Convention, Mr. Lincoln, as well as every other politician of the smallest sagacity, knew that his success was as certain as any future event could be. At the end of October, most of the States had clearly voted in a way which left no lingering doubts of the final result of November. If there ever was a time in his life when ambition charmed his whole heart,—if it could ever be said of him that "hope elevated and joy brightened his crest," it was on the eve of that election which he saw was to lift him at last to the high place for which he had sighed and struggled so long. It was not then that he would mourn and weep because he was in danger of not getting the votes of the ministers and members of the churches he had known during many years for his steadfast opponents: he did not need them, and had not expected them. Those who understood him best are very sure that he never, under any circumstances, could have fallen into such weakness—not even when his fortunes were at the lowest point of depression—as to play the part of a hypocrite for their support. Neither is it possible that he was at any loss about the reasons which religious men had for refusing him their support; and, if he said that he could not understand it at all, he must have spoken falsely. But the worst part of the tale is Mr. Lincoln's acknowledgment that his "friends generally were deceived concerning his religious sentiments, and that he was obliged to appear different to them."
Col. Matheny claims that from 1854 to 1860, Mr. Lincoln "played a sharp game" with the Christians in Springfield, "treading on their toes" and saying, "Come and convert me." Mr. Herndon seems to agree with Matheny, and both suggest that the clear reason for his behavior was his unhealthy ambition, combined with a deep fear that admitting his deistic beliefs would hurt his popularity. Regardless, Mr. Lincoln allowed himself to be misunderstood and misrepresented by some enthusiastic ministers and preachers he interacted with. One of them was Rev. Mr. Smith, then pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Springfield, and later appointed consul in Dundee, Scotland, by Mr. Lincoln. This gentleman’s ability to discuss such topics to the benefit of someone like Mr. Lincoln seems to have been quite limited, but the chance to convert a person of such distinction energized him in a way he might not have felt for a less notable character. Mr. Lincoln listened to his preaching quietly, seemingly respectful, and sometimes endured his sermons in church just like everyone else. After finding the verbal appeals ineffective, Mr. Smith wrote a heavy pamphlet himself for the specific situation. "The work took me long and hard labor," he said, but it doesn't seem to have been read. Mr. Lincoln brought the "work" to his office, set it down without signing it, and never picked it up again to the knowledge of a man who worked in that office with him and saw it sitting in the same place every day for months. Later, Mr. Smith got Mr. Lincoln to acknowledge that his argument was unanswerable—not a very high compliment under the circumstances, but one Mr. Smith often referred to happily afterwards. He never claimed, as some assumed, that Mr. Lincoln was turned from his wrong ways, gave up his unorthodox beliefs, or joined any Christian church. On the contrary, when Mr. Herndon specifically asked him about these matters, he declined to answer, saying that Mr. Herndon was not the right person to receive such information from. Mr. Newton Bateman reportedly said that just days before the Presidential election of 1860, Mr. Lincoln entered his office, shut the door to keep others out, and expressed a desire to examine a book that had been given to him at his own request, "containing a careful survey of the city of Springfield, showing which candidate each citizen had pledged to vote for in the upcoming election." He discovered that only three out of twenty-three ministers would support him, and that a large majority of prominent church members were against him. Mr. Bateman doesn't directly state it, but it’s clear that Mr. Lincoln was previously unaware of the views of the local Christian community in Springfield; he had never bothered to check if they were supportive or against him. In any case, when he learned this from the book, he cried and stated that he "did not understand it at all." He took out a pocket New Testament, and "with a trembling voice and tears on his cheeks," used it in arguments against his political opponents, especially Douglas. He claimed to believe that the views held by him and his party came from Christ’s teachings; asserted that Christ was divine; and, referring to the Testament he carried, called it "this rock, on which I stand." When Mr. Bateman expressed surprise and mentioned that his friends generally had no idea he held such views, Mr. Lincoln quickly replied, "I know they don’t: I have to appear different to them." Mr. Bateman is a respected citizen, known for his truthfulness, but his account, as reported in Holland's Life, is so inconsistent with Mr. Lincoln's entire character that it must be regarded as unbelievable. Since the Democratic split at the Baltimore Convention, Mr. Lincoln, along with every other politically astute individual, knew that his success was as certain as any future event could be. By the end of October, most states had voted clearly enough that there were no lingering doubts about the outcome in November. If there was ever a time in his life when ambition completely captivated him—if it could ever be said that "hope elevated and joy brightened his spirit," it was on the eve of that election, which he saw would finally elevate him to the high position he had long desired and fought for. It was not at that moment that he would grieve and weep over the potential loss of votes from the ministers and church members he had known for years, who were his staunch opponents; he did not need them and had not expected their support. Those who knew him best strongly believe that he would never, under any circumstances—even when his fortunes were at their lowest—have stooped to act as a hypocrite for their favor. Neither was he likely confused about the reasons religious individuals had for withholding their support; if he claimed he could not understand it at all, he must have been speaking untruthfully. But the most troubling part of the story is Mr. Lincoln's admission that his "friends generally were deceived about his religious beliefs, and he had to appear different to them."
According to this version, which has had considerable currency, he carried a Testament in his bosom, carefully hidden from his intimate associates: he believed that Christ was God; yet his friends understood him to deny the verity of the gospel: he based his political doctrines on the teachings of the Bible; yet before all men, except Mr. Bateman, he habitually acted the part of an unbeliever and reprobate, because he was "obliged to appear different to them." How obliged? What compulsion required him to deny that Christ was God if he really believed him to be divine? Or did he put his political necessities above the obligations of truth, and oppose Christianity against his convictions, that he might win the favor of its enemies? It may be that his mere silence was sometimes misunderstood; but he never made an express avowal of any religious opinion which he did not entertain. He did not "appear different" at one time from what he was at another, and certainly he never put on infidelity as a mere mask to conceal his Christian character from the world. There is no dealing with Mr. Bateman, except by a flat contradiction. Perhaps his memory was treacherous, or his imagination led him astray, or, peradventure, he thought a fraud no harm if it gratified the strong desire of the public for proofs of Mr. Lincoln's orthodoxy. It is nothing to the purpose that Mr. Lincoln said once or twice that he thought this or that portion of the Scripture was the product of divine inspiration; for he was one of the class who hold that all truth is inspired, and that every human being with a mind and a conscience is a prophet. He would have agreed much more readily with one who taught that Newton's discoveries, or Bacon's philosophy, or one of his own speeches, were the works of men divinely inspired above their fellows.1
According to this widely accepted version, he carried a Bible in his pocket, carefully hidden from his close friends: he believed that Christ was God; yet his friends thought he denied the truth of the gospel: he based his political beliefs on the teachings of the Bible; yet in front of everyone, except Mr. Bateman, he often acted like an unbeliever and a sinner because he felt he "had to appear different" to them. Why did he feel this way? What pressure made him deny that Christ was God if he really believed in His divinity? Did he prioritize his political needs over the obligation to speak the truth, opposing Christianity even against his beliefs to gain favor with its critics? It’s possible that his silence was sometimes misinterpreted; however, he never explicitly expressed any religious belief that he did not truly hold. He did not "appear different" at one time compared to another, and he certainly never feigned disbelief just to hide his Christian beliefs from the world. There’s no communicating with Mr. Bateman without outright contradiction. Perhaps his memory was faulty, or his imagination misled him, or maybe he thought there was no harm in a deception if it satisfied the public’s strong desire for evidence of Mr. Lincoln's religious views. It doesn't matter that Mr. Lincoln mentioned a couple of times that he thought certain parts of Scripture were divinely inspired; he was one of those who believed all truth is inspired and that every person with a mind and conscience is a prophet. He would have agreed much more readily with someone who claimed that Newton's discoveries, Bacon's philosophy, or even one of his own speeches were the works of individuals divinely inspired above their peers.
1 "As we have bodily senses to lay hold on matter, and supply bodily wants, through which we obtain, naturally, all needed material things; so we have spiritual faculties to lay hold on God and supply spiritual wants: through them we obtain all needed spiritual things. As we observe the conditions of the body, we have nature on our side: as we observe the law of the soul, we have God on our side. He imparts truth to all men who observe these conditions: we have direct access to him through reason, conscience, and the religious faculty, just as we have direct access to nature through the eye, the ear, or the hand. Through these channels, and by means of a law, certain, regular, and universal as gravitation, God inspires men, makes revelation of truth; for is not truth as much a phenomenon of God as motion of matter? Therefore, if God be omnipresent and omniactive, this inspiration is no miracle, but a regular mode of God's action on conscious spirit, as gravitation on unconscious matter. It is not a rare condescension of God, but a universal uplifting of man. To obtain a knowledge of duty, a man is not sent away, outside of himself, to ancient documents: for the only rule of faith and practice, the Word, is very nigh him, even in his heart, and by this Word he is to try all documents whatsoever. Inspiration, like God's omnipresence, is not limited to the few writers claimed by the Jews, Christians, or Mohammedans, but is co- extensive with the race. As God fills all space, so all spirit; as he influences and constrains unconscious and necessitated matter, so he inspires and helps free, unconscious man. "This theory does not make God limited, partial, or capricious: it exalts man. While it honors the excellence of a religious genius of a Moses or a Jesus, it does not pronounce their character monstrous, as the supernatural, nor fanatical, as the rationalistic theory; but natural, human, and beautiful, revealing the possibility of mankind. Prayer—whether voluntative or spontaneous, a word or a feeling, felt in gratitude, or penitence, or joy, or resignation—is not a soliloquy of the man, not a physiological function, nor an address to a deceased man, but a sally into the infinite spiritual world, whence we bring back light and truth. There are windows towards God, as towards the world. There is no intercessor, angel, mediator, between man and God; for man can speak, and God hear, each for himself. He requires no advocate to plead for men, who need not pray by attorney. Each man stands close to the omnipresent God; may feel his beautiful presence, and have familiar access to the All-Father; get truth at first hand from its Author. Wisdom, righteousness, and love are the Spirit of God in the soul of man: wherever these are, and just in proportion to their power, there is inspiration from God. Thus God is not the author of confusion, but concord. Faith and knowledge and revelation and reason tell the same tale, and so legitimate and confirm each one another. "God's action on matter and on man is, perhaps, the same thing to him, though it appear differently modified to us. But it is plain, from the nature of things, that there can be but one kind of inspiration, as of truth, faith, or love: it is the direct and intuitive perception of some truth, either of thought or of sentiment. There can be but one mode of inspiration: it is the action of the Highest within the soul, the divine presence imparting light; this presence, as truth, justice, holiness, love, infusing itself into the soul, giving it new life; the breathing-in of the Deity; the in-come of God to the soul, in the form of truth through the reason, of right through the conscience, of love and faith through the affections and religious element. Is inspiration confined to theological matter alone? Most certainly not."— —Parker's Discourse pertaining to Religion.
1 "Just as we have physical senses to perceive the material world and meet our physical needs, allowing us to naturally acquire everything we require, we also have spiritual faculties to connect with God and fulfill our spiritual needs: through them we gain everything we need spiritually. When we pay attention to our body's condition, nature supports us; when we follow the laws of the soul, God supports us. He shares truth with everyone who observes these conditions: we have direct access to Him through reason, conscience, and our spiritual nature, just as we have direct access to nature through our eyes, ears, or hands. Through these channels, and by a law that is as certain, consistent, and universal as gravity, God inspires people and reveals truth; after all, isn’t truth just as much a result of God as the movement of matter? Therefore, if God is everywhere and always active, this inspiration isn't miraculous but a consistent way that God interacts with our conscious spirit, just as gravity affects unconscious matter. It’s not about a rare act of kindness from God, but a universal upliftment of humanity. To understand duty, a person doesn't have to turn to ancient texts: the only rule of faith and practice, the Word, is very close, even in their heart, and by this Word they should evaluate all texts. Inspiration, like God’s omnipresence, isn’t limited to the few authors recognized by Jews, Christians, or Muslims; it extends to all humanity. Just as God fills all space, so does spirit; as He influences and shapes unconscious, necessary matter, He inspires and aids free, conscious human beings. "This theory doesn’t limit God or make Him partial or unpredictable; it elevates humanity. While it honors the greatness of religious figures like Moses or Jesus, it doesn’t label their character as unnatural or fanatical, but rather as natural, human, and beautiful, showcasing what humanity is capable of. Prayer—whether intentional or spontaneous, a word or a feeling expressed in gratitude, sorrow, joy, or acceptance—is not just a monologue for the individual, nor a physiological process, nor merely talking to a deceased person, but a journey into the infinite spiritual realm, from which we return with light and truth. There are pathways to God, just like there are to the world. There’s no intermediary, angel, or mediator between humanity and God; a person can communicate, and God can listen, each on their own. No one needs someone to speak for them, nor do they need to pray through another person. Each individual is close to the ever-present God; they can feel His beautiful presence and have direct access to the All-Father, receiving truth firsthand from its source. Wisdom, righteousness, and love are the Spirit of God within people: wherever these qualities exist, and in proportion to their strength, there is inspiration from God. Thus, God is not the source of confusion, but of harmony. Faith, knowledge, revelation, and reason all tell the same story, supporting and confirming one another. "God’s influence on matter and on people may be the same to Him, though it appears differently to us. However, it is clear, based on the nature of things, that there can only be one type of inspiration, just as there is only one kind of truth, faith, or love: it is the immediate and intuitive understanding of some truth, whether in thought or feeling. There can be only one mode of inspiration: it is the action of the Highest within the soul, the divine presence bringing light; this presence, in forms like truth, justice, holiness, and love, infuses itself into the soul, giving it new life; it is the divine breath, the arrival of God into the soul, manifesting as truth through reason, right through conscience, and love and faith through emotions and spirituality. Is inspiration limited to theological topics alone? Most certainly not."—Parker's Discourse pertaining to Religion.
But he never told any one that he accepted Jesus as the Christ, or performed a single one of the acts which necessarily follow upon such a conviction. At Springfield and at Washington he was beset on the one hand by political priests, and on the other by honest and prayerful Christians. He despised the former, respected the latter, and had use for both. He said with characteristic irreverence, that he would not undertake to "run the churches by military authority;" but he was, nevertheless, alive to the importance of letting the churches "run" themselves in the interest of his party. Indefinite expressions about "Divine Providence," the "justice of God," "the favor of the Most High," were easy, and not inconsistent with his religious notions. In this, accordingly, he indulged freely; but never in all that time did he let fall from his lips or his pen an expression which remotely implied the slightest faith in Jesus as the Son of God and the Saviour of men.
But he never told anyone that he accepted Jesus as the Christ or did any of the things that typically come with such a belief. In Springfield and Washington, he was pressured on one side by political leaders and on the other by sincere, prayerful Christians. He looked down on the former, respected the latter, and found value in both. He irreverently remarked that he wouldn't try to "run the churches by military authority," but he was still aware of the importance of letting the churches "run" themselves to benefit his party. Vague references to "Divine Providence," "the justice of God," and "the favor of the Most High" were easy to make and didn’t contradict his religious views. He often indulged in this language; however, throughout that time, he never uttered or wrote anything that even hinted at a belief in Jesus as the Son of God and the Savior of mankind.
The effect of Mr. Lincoln's unbelief did not affect his constitutional love of justice. Though he rejected the New Testament as a book of divine authority, he accepted the practical part of its precepts as binding upon him by virtue of the natural law. The benevolence of his impulses served to keep him, for the most part, within the limits to which a Christian is confined by the fear of God. It is also true beyond doubt that he was greatly influenced by the reflected force of Christianity. If he did not believe it, the masses of the "plain people" did; and no one ever was more anxious to do "whatsoever was of good report among men." To qualify himself as a witness or an officer it was frequently necessary that he should take oaths; and he always appealed to the Christian's God either by laying his hand upon the Gospels, or by some other form of invocation common among believers. Of course the ceremony was superfluous, for it imposed no religious obligation upon him; but his strong innate sense of right was sufficient to make him truthful without that high and awful sanction which faith in divine revelation would have carried with it.
The impact of Mr. Lincoln's skepticism didn't change his deep commitment to justice. Although he dismissed the New Testament as a book with divine authority, he embraced the practical aspects of its teachings as binding due to natural law. His natural kindness mostly kept him within the moral boundaries a Christian observes out of reverence for God. It's also true that he was significantly influenced by the indirect power of Christianity. Even if he didn't believe it, the majority of "plain people" did, and no one was more eager to do "whatever was regarded well by others." To serve as a witness or an officer, he often had to take oaths; he would consistently invoke the Christian God, either by placing his hand on the Gospels or through other forms of invocation common among believers. Certainly, the ritual was unnecessary, as it didn’t impose any religious obligation on him; but his strong, innate sense of right was enough to ensure his honesty without the weighty endorsement that faith in divine revelation would have provided.
Mr. Lincoln was by no means free from a kind of belief in the supernatural. While he rejected the great facts of Christianity, as wanting the support of authentic evidence, his mind was readily impressed with the most absurd superstitions.1 He lived constantly in the serious conviction that he was himself the subject of a special decree, made by some unknown and mysterious power, for which he had no name. The birth and death of Christ, his wonderful works, and his resurrection as "the first-fruits of them that slept," Mr. Lincoln denied, because they seemed naturally improbable, or inconsistent with his "philosophy so called;" but his perverted credulity terrified him when he saw two images of himself in a mirror.
Mr. Lincoln definitely held some beliefs in the supernatural. While he dismissed the key aspects of Christianity for lacking authentic evidence, he was easily influenced by the most ridiculous superstitions. He lived with a deep belief that he was the subject of a special decree from some unknown and mysterious power, which he couldn't name. He denied the birth and death of Christ, along with his miracles and resurrection as "the first-fruits of those who have died," because they seemed unlikely or didn't fit with his so-called philosophy. However, his twisted beliefs frightened him when he saw two reflections of himself in a mirror.
1 "He had great faith in the strong sense of country people; and he gave them credit for greater intelligence than most men do. If he found an idea prevailing generally amongst them, he believed there was something in it, although it might not harmonize with science. "He had great faith in the virtues of the 'mad-stone' although he could give no reason for it, and confessed that it looked like superstition. But, he said, he found the people in the neighborhood of these stones fully impressed with a belief in their virtues from actual experiment; and that was about as much as we could ever know of the properties of medicines."—Gillespie. "When his son 'Bob' was supposed to have been bitten by a rabid dog, Mr. Lincoln took him to Terre Haute, La., where there was a mad-stone, with the intention of having it applied, and, it is presumed, did so."—Mrs. Wallace.
1 "He had a lot of faith in the common sense of rural people and believed they were smarter than most people gave them credit for. If he noticed that a certain idea was widely accepted among them, he thought there had to be some truth to it, even if it didn't match up with science. 'He really believed in the benefits of the 'mad-stone,' even though he couldn't explain why and admitted it seemed superstitious. But he said he saw that the locals around these stones were completely convinced of their healing power based on real experiences, and that was about as close as we could get to understanding how medicines work.' —Gillespie. 'When his son 'Bob' was thought to have been bitten by a rabid dog, Mr. Lincoln took him to Terre Haute, La., where there was a mad-stone, intending to have it used, and it's assumed that he did.' —Mrs. Wallace.
It is very probable that much of Mr. Lincoln's unhappiness, the melancholy that "dripped from him as he walked," was due to his want of religious faith. When the black fit was on him, he suffered as much mental misery as Bunyan or Cowper in the deepest anguish of their conflicts with the evil one. But the unfortunate conviction fastened upon him by his early associations, that there was no truth in the Bible, made all consolation impossible, and penitence useless. To a man of his temperament, predisposed as it was to depression of spirits, there could be no chance of happiness, if doomed to live without hope and without God in the world. He might force himself to be merry with his chosen comrades; he might "banish sadness" in mirthful conversation, or find relief in a jest; gratified ambition might elevate his feelings, and give him ease for a time: but solid comfort and permanent peace could come to him only through "a correspondence fixed with heaven." The fatal misfortune of his life, looking at it only as it affected him in this world, was the influence at New Salem and Springfield which enlisted him on the side of unbelief. He paid the bitter penalty in a life of misery.
It’s highly likely that a lot of Mr. Lincoln's unhappiness, the sadness that "dripped from him as he walked," was because he lacked religious faith. When he was feeling particularly down, he experienced as much mental pain as Bunyan or Cowper did during their toughest struggles with evil. However, the unfortunate belief ingrained in him by his early experiences—that there was no truth in the Bible—made any solace impossible and remorse pointless. For a man like him, whose temperament was already inclined to depression, there was no chance of happiness if he was forced to live without hope and without God in this world. He could try to be cheerful with his close friends; he could "banish sadness" through playful conversation or find relief in a joke; satisfied ambitions might lift his spirits and bring him brief comfort. But real comfort and lasting peace could only come from "a connection established with heaven." The tragic misfortune of his life, when viewed through this lens, was the influence in New Salem and Springfield that pulled him toward disbelief. He paid the heavy price for that choice with a life of suffering.
"It was a grievous sin in Cæsar; And grievously hath Cæsar answered it."
"That was a big mistake for Caesar, and he has had to deal with the fallout."
Very truly,
Sincerely,
W. H. Herndon.
W. H. Herndon.
CHAPTER XX
ON the 11th of February, 1861, the arrangements for Mr. Lincoln's departure from Springfield were completed. It was intended to occupy the time remaining between that date and the 4th of March with a grand tour from State to State and city to city. One Mr. Wood, "recommended by Senator Seward," was the chief manager. He provided special trains to be preceded by pilot engines all the way through.
ON the 11th of February, 1861, the plans for Mr. Lincoln's departure from Springfield were finalized. The goal was to fill the time between this date and the 4th of March with a grand tour from state to state and city to city. A Mr. Wood, who was "recommended by Senator Seward," was the main organizer. He arranged for special trains to be escorted by pilot engines the entire route.
It was a gloomy day: heavy clouds floated overhead, and a cold rain was falling. Long before eight o'clock, a great mass of people had collected at the station of the Great Western Railway to witness the event of the day. At precisely five minutes before eight, Mr. Lincoln, preceded by Mr. Wood, emerged from a private room in the dépôt building, and passed slowly to the car, the people falling back respectfully on either side, and as many as possible shaking his hands. Having finally reached the train, he ascended the rear platform, and, facing about to the throng which had closed around him, drew himself up to his full height, removed his hat, and stood for several seconds in profound silence. His eye roved sadly over that sea of upturned faces; and he thought he read in them again the sympathy and friendship which he had often tried, and which he never needed more than he did then. There was an unusual quiver in his lip, and a still more unusual tear on his shrivelled cheek. His solemn manner, his long silence, were as full of melancholy eloquence as any words he could have uttered. What did he think of? Of the mighty changes which had lifted him from the lowest to the highest estate on earth? Of the weary road which had brought him to this lofty summit? Of his poor mother lying beneath the tangled underbrush in a distant forest? Of that other grave in the quiet Concord cemetery? Whatever the particular character of his thoughts, it is evident that they were retrospective and painful. To those who were anxiously waiting to catch words upon which the fate of the nation might hang, it seemed long until he had mastered his feelings sufficiently to speak. At length he began in a husky tone of voice, and slowly and impressively delivered his farewell to his neighbors. Imitating his example, every man in the crowd stood with his head uncovered in the fast-falling rain.
It was a gloomy day: heavy clouds hung overhead, and a cold rain was falling. Long before eight o'clock, a huge crowd had gathered at the Great Western Railway station to see the day's event. At exactly five minutes before eight, Mr. Lincoln, followed by Mr. Wood, came out of a private room in the depot building and slowly made his way to the train, with people stepping back respectfully on either side, and as many as possible shaking his hands. Once he reached the train, he climbed up onto the rear platform, turned to face the crowd that had gathered around him, stood tall, took off his hat, and remained silent for several seconds. His gaze swept sadly over that sea of upturned faces; he thought he saw the sympathy and friendship he had often sought, and which he needed more than ever at that moment. There was an unusual quiver in his lip, and an even more unusual tear on his wrinkled cheek. His serious demeanor and long silence were filled with melancholy meaning, more than any words he could have said. What was he thinking about? About the huge changes that had raised him from the lowest to the highest position on earth? About the long journey that had brought him to this high point? About his poor mother, resting beneath the tangled brush in a distant forest? About that other grave in the quiet Concord cemetery? Whatever his thoughts were, it was clear they were painful and reflective. To those anxiously waiting to hear words that could decide the fate of the nation, it felt like a long time before he gathered his emotions enough to speak. Finally, he began in a hoarse voice and slowly and meaningfully delivered his farewell to his neighbors. Following his lead, every man in the crowd stood with his head uncovered in the steadily falling rain.
"Friends,—No one who has never been placed in a like position can understand my feelings at this hour, nor the oppressive sadness I feel at this parting. For more than a quarter of a century I have lived among you, and during all that time I have received nothing but kindness at your hands. Here I have lived from my youth, until now I am an old man. Here the most sacred ties of earth were assumed. Here all my children were born; and here one of them lies buried. To you, dear friends, I owe all that I have, all that I am. All the strange, checkered past seems to crowd now upon my mind. To-day I leave you. I go to assume a task more difficult than that which devolved upon Washington. Unless the great God, who assisted him, shall be with and aid me, I must fail; but if the same omniscient mind and almighty arm that directed and protected him shall guide and support me, I shall not fail,—I shall succeed. Let us all pray that the God of our fathers may not forsake us now. To him I commend you all. Permit me to ask, that, with equal security and faith, you will invoke his wisdom and guidance for me. With these few words I must leave you: for how long I know not. Friends, one and all, I must now bid you an affectionate farewell."
"Friends, no one who hasn't been in a similar situation can understand what I'm feeling right now, nor the heavy sadness I have about this goodbye. I've lived among you for more than twenty-five years, and during that time, I've only received kindness from you. I've spent my youth here, and now I'm an old man. Here, I formed the most sacred bonds on earth. All my children were born here, and one of them is buried here. To you, dear friends, I owe everything I have and all that I am. My strange, varied past is rushing back to me now. Today, I leave you. I am taking on a task more challenging than the one Washington faced. Unless the great God who helped him is with me, I will fail; but if the same all-knowing mind and powerful hand that guided and protected him supports me, I will succeed. Let’s all pray that the God of our fathers won’t abandon us now. I commend you all to Him. Please, I ask that you also pray for His wisdom and guidance for me. With these few words, I must say goodbye: for how long, I do not know. Friends, one and all, I now bid you a warm farewell."
"It was a most impressive scene," said the editor of "The Journal." "We have known Mr. Lincoln for many years; we have heard him speak upon a hundred different occasions; but we never saw him so profoundly affected, nor did he ever utter an address which seemed to us so full of simple and touching eloquence, so exactly adapted to the occasion, so worthy of the man and the hour."
"It was an incredibly impressive scene," said the editor of "The Journal." "We've known Mr. Lincoln for many years; we've heard him speak on countless occasions, but we’ve never seen him so deeply moved, nor has he ever delivered a speech that struck us as so full of heartfelt and poignant expression, so perfectly suited to the moment, so deserving of the man and the hour."
At eight o'clock the train rolled out of Springfield amid the cheers of the populace. Four years later a funeral train, covered with the emblems of splendid mourning, rolled into the same city, bearing a discolored corpse, whose obsequies were being celebrated in every part of the civilized world.
At eight o'clock, the train left Springfield to the cheers of the crowd. Four years later, a funeral train, draped in symbols of deep mourning, arrived in the same city, carrying a faded corpse, with memorials being held all over the civilized world.
Along with Mr. Lincoln's family in the special car were Gov. Yates, Ex-Gov. Moore, Dr. Wallace (Mr. Lincoln's brother-in-law), Mr. Judd, Mr. Browning, Judge Davis, Col. Ellsworth, Col. Lamon, and private secretaries Nicolay and Hay.
Along with Mr. Lincoln's family in the special car were Gov. Yates, Ex-Gov. Moore, Dr. Wallace (Mr. Lincoln's brother-in-law), Mr. Judd, Mr. Browning, Judge Davis, Col. Ellsworth, Col. Lamon, and private secretaries Nicolay and Hay.
It has been asserted that an attempt was made to throw the train off the track between Springfield and Indianapolis, and also that a hand-grenade was found on board at Cincinnati, but no evidence of the fact is given in either case, and none of the Presidential party ever heard of these murderous doings until they read of them in some of the more imaginative reports of their trip.
It has been claimed that there was an attempt to derail the train between Springfield and Indianapolis, and that a hand grenade was found on board in Cincinnati. However, no evidence has been provided for either claim, and none of the Presidential party ever heard about these violent incidents until they read about them in some of the more fanciful reports of their trip.
Full accounts of this journey were spread broadcast over the country at the time, and have been collected and printed in various books. But, except for the speeches of the President elect, those accounts possess no particular interest at this day; and of the speeches we shall present here only such extracts as express his thoughts and feelings about the impending civil war.
Full stories about this journey were shared all over the country at the time and have been compiled and published in various books. However, aside from the speeches of the President elect, those accounts aren't particularly interesting today; and from the speeches, we will only include excerpts that convey his thoughts and feelings about the upcoming civil war.
In the heat of the late canvass, he had written the following private letter:—
In the heat of the late campaign, he wrote the following private letter:—
Springfield, Ill., Aug. 15, 1860.
Springfield, IL, Aug. 15, 1860.
John B. Fry, Esq.
John B. Fry, Attorney
My dear Sir,—Yours of the 9th, enclosing the letter of Hon. John M. Botts, was duly received. The latter is herewith returned, according to your request. It contains one of the many assurances I receive from the South, that in no probable event will there be any very formidable effort to break up the Union. The people of the South have too much of good sense and good temper to attempt the ruin of the government, rather than see it administered as it was administered by the men who made it. At least, so I hope and believe.
My dear Sir,—I received your letter dated the 9th, along with the note from Hon. John M. Botts. I'm returning it as you requested. It includes one of the many assurances I've received from the South that, under any likely circumstances, there won’t be a significant effort to dissolve the Union. The people in the South have too much common sense and good nature to try to destroy the government rather than see it run by the men who created it. At least, that’s what I hope and believe.
I thank you both for your own letter and a sight of that of Mr. Botts.
I thank both of you for your letter and for letting me see Mr. Botts' letter.
Yours very truly,
Sincerely,
A. Lincoln.
Lincoln.
The opinion expressed in the letter as to the probability of war does not appear to have undergone any material change or modification during the eventful months which had intervened; for he expressed it in much stronger terms at almost every stage of his progress to Washington.
The view stated in the letter about the likelihood of war doesn't seem to have changed much during the significant months that passed; he expressed it in much stronger terms at nearly every point on his way to Washington.
At Toledo he said,—
At Toledo, he said,—
"I am leaving you on an errand of national importance, attended, as you are aware, with considerable difficulties. Let us believe, as some poet has expressed it, 'Behind the cloud the sun is shining still.'"
"I’m sending you on a mission of national importance, which, as you know, comes with a lot of challenges. Let’s hold on to the belief, as some poet put it, 'Behind the cloud the sun is still shining.'"
At Indianapolis:—
At Indianapolis:—
"I am here to thank you for this magnificent welcome, and still more for the very generous support given by your State to that political cause, which, I think, is the true and just cause of the whole country, and the whole world. Solomon says, 'There is a time to keep silence;' and when men wrangle by the mouth, with no certainty that they mean the same thing while using the same words, it perhaps were as well if they would keep silence.
"I’m here to thank you for this amazing welcome, and even more for the very generous support your State has given to that political cause, which I believe is the right and just cause for our entire country and the whole world. Solomon says, 'There is a time to keep silence;' and when people argue with each other, not even sure they mean the same thing while using the same words, it might be better if they just stayed quiet."
"The words 'coercion' and 'invasion' are much used in these days, and often with some temper and hot blood. Let us make sure, if we can, that we do not misunderstand the meaning of those who use them. Let us get the exact definitions of these words, not from dictionaries, but from the men themselves, who certainly deprecate the things they would represent by the use of the words.
"The terms 'coercion' and 'invasion' are often thrown around these days, usually with some anger and passion. Let's ensure, if we can, that we don't misinterpret what those using these terms mean. We should get the precise definitions of these words, not from dictionaries, but from the people themselves, who clearly disapprove of the things they are referring to by using these terms."
"What, then, is coercion? What is invasion? Would the marching of an army into South Carolina, without the consent of her people, and with hostile intent toward them, be invasion? I certainly think it would; and it would be coercion also, if the South Carolinians were forced to submit. But if the United States should merely hold and retake its own forts and other property, and collect the duties on foreign importations, or even withhold the mails from places where they were' habitually violated, would any or all of these things be invasion or coercion? Do our professed lovers of the Union, who spitefully resolve that they will resist coercion and invasion, understand that such things as these, on the part of the United States, would be coercion or invasion of a State? If so, their idea of means to preserve the object of their great affection would seem to be exceedingly thin and airy. If sick, the little pills of the homoeopathist would be much too large for them to swallow. In their view, the Union, as a family relation, would seem to be no regular marriage, but rather a sort of 'free-love' arrangement, to be maintained on passional attraction."
"What is coercion? What is invasion? Would the presence of an army marching into South Carolina without the people's consent and with hostile intent be considered invasion? I definitely think it would; it would also be coercion if the South Carolinians were forced to comply. But if the United States were simply to hold and reclaim its own forts and property, and collect duties on foreign imports, or even prevent the mails from being delivered to places where they are regularly violated, would any of these actions be seen as invasion or coercion? Do those who claim to love the Union and resolutely state that they will resist coercion and invasion understand that actions like these from the United States could be seen as coercion or invasion against a state? If they do, their approach to preserving something they hold dear seems very weak and insubstantial. If they were sick, those tiny homeopathic pills would be far too big for them to handle. To them, the Union, as a familial relationship, seems less like a formal marriage and more like a 'free-love' arrangement, based solely on fleeting attraction."
At Columbus:—
At Columbus:—
"Allusion has been made to the interest felt in relation to the policy of the new administration. In this, I have received from some a degree of credit for having kept silence, from others some depreciation. I still think I was right. In the varying and repeatedly-shifting scenes of the present, without a precedent which could enable me to judge for the past, it has seemed fitting, that, before speaking upon the difficulties of the country, I should have gained a view of the whole field. To be sure, after all, I would be at liberty to modify and change the course of policy as future events might make a change necessary.
"People have mentioned the interest in the new administration's policies. Because of this, I've gotten some credit for staying silent from some people, while others have criticized me. I still believe I made the right choice. Given the constantly changing circumstances today, without any history to guide my judgment, it seemed appropriate to understand the entire situation before discussing the country’s challenges. However, I know that I can adjust and change our policy as future events require."
"I have not maintained silence from any want of real anxiety. It is a good thing that there is no more than anxiety, for there is nothing going wrong. It is a consoling circumstance, that when we look out there is nothing that really hurts anybody. We entertain different views upon political questions; but nobody is suffering any thing. This is a most consoling circumstance, and from it I judge that all we want is time and patience, and a reliance on that God who has never forsaken this people."
"I haven’t stayed quiet because of a lack of real concern. It’s a good thing that it’s just concern, as nothing is actually going wrong. It’s reassuring that when we look around, there’s nothing that truly harms anyone. We have different opinions on political issues, but no one is suffering. This is a very comforting fact, and from this, I conclude that all we need is time and patience, and faith in that God who has never abandoned this people."
At Pittsburg:—
At Pittsburgh:—
"Notwithstanding the troubles across the river, there is really no crisis springing from any thing in the Government itself. In plain words, there is really no crisis, except an artificial one. What is there now to warrant the condition of affairs presented by our friends 'over the river'? Take even their own view of the questions involved, and there is nothing to justify the course which they are pursuing. I repeat it, then, there is no crisis, except such a one as may be gotten up at any time by turbulent men, aided by designing politicians. My advice, then, under such circumstances, is to keep cool. If the great American people will only keep their temper on both sides of the line, the trouble will come to an end, and the question which now distracts the country will be settled just as surely as all other difficulties of like character which have originated in this Government have been adjusted. Let the people on both sides keep their self-possession, and, just as other clouds have cleared away in due time, so will this; and this great nation shall continue to prosper as heretofore."
"Despite the issues across the river, there really isn't a crisis stemming from anything within the Government itself. To put it simply, there is no crisis, except for a manufactured one. What justifies the situation our friends 'over the river' are describing? Even from their perspective on the issues at hand, there’s nothing to support the actions they’re taking. I’ll say it again, there is no crisis, except one that can easily be stirred up by angry individuals, with the help of manipulative politicians. My advice, under these circumstances, is to stay calm. If the American people can keep their cool on both sides of the line, the trouble will fade, and the issue currently upsetting the country will be resolved just like all the other similar challenges that this Government has managed to address. If the people on both sides maintain their composure, just as past storms have eventually cleared, this one will too; and this great nation will continue to thrive as before."
At Cleveland:—
At Cleveland:—
"Frequent allusion is made to the excitement at present existing in our national politics, and it is as well that I should also allude to it here. I think that there is no occasion for any excitement. The crisis, as it is called, is altogether an artificial crisis.... As I said before, this crisis is all artificial! It has no foundation in fact. It was not 'argued up,' as the saying is, and cannot be argued down. Let it alone, and it will go down itself."
"There's a lot of talk about the excitement in our national politics right now, and I should mention it here too. I believe there's no reason for any excitement. The so-called crisis is completely made up.... As I said before, this crisis is all fabricated! It has no basis in reality. It wasn't 'argued up,' as people say, and it can't be argued down. Just leave it alone, and it'll fade away on its own."
Before the Legislature of New York:—
Before the New York Legislature:—
"When the time comes, according to the custom of the Government, I shall speak, and speak as well as I am able for the good of the present and of the future of this country,—for the good of the North and of the South, for the good of one and of the other, and of all sections of it. In the mean time, if we have patience, if we maintain our equanimity, though some may allow themselves to run off in a burst of passion, I still have confidence that the Almighty Ruler of the Universe, through the instrumentality of this great and intelligent people, can and will bring us through this difficulty, as he has heretofore brought us through all preceding difficulties of the country. Relying upon this, and again thanking you, as I forever shall, in my heart, for this generous reception you have given me, I bid you farewell."
"When the time comes, following the government's tradition, I will speak, and I will do my best for the good of this country’s present and future— for the good of the North and the South, for everyone involved, and for all regions. In the meantime, if we remain patient, if we keep our cool, even if some people allow themselves to get caught up in their emotions, I still believe that the Almighty Ruler of the Universe, through the incredible and intelligent people of this nation, can and will help us get through this challenge, just as He has guided us through all past difficulties. Holding onto this faith, and once again expressing my heartfelt gratitude for the warm welcome you have shown me, I bid you farewell."
In response to the Mayor of New York City, who had said, "To you, therefore, chosen under the forms of the Constitution, as the head of the Confederacy, we look for a restoration of fraternal relations between the States,—only to be accomplished by peaceful and conciliatory means, aided by the wisdom of Almighty God," Mr. Lincoln said,—
In response to the Mayor of New York City, who said, "So, to you, chosen according to the Constitution as the leader of the Confederacy, we look for a restoration of friendly relations between the States—only achievable through peaceful and conciliatory means, supported by the wisdom of Almighty God," Mr. Lincoln said,—
"In regard to the difficulties that confront us at this time, and of which you have seen fit to speak so becomingly and so justly, I can only say that I agree with the sentiments expressed."
"In light of the challenges we're facing right now, which you've addressed so appropriately and fairly, I can only say that I share your sentiments."
At Trenton:—
At Trenton:—
"I shall endeavor to take the ground I deem most just to the North, the East, the West, the South, and the whole country. I take it, I hope, in good temper,—certainly with no malice towards any section. I shall do all that may be in my power to promote a peaceful settlement of all our difficulties. The man does not live who is more devoted to peace than I am,—none who would do more to preserve it. But it maybe necessary to put the foot down firmly. And if I do my duty, and do right, you will sustain me: will you not? Received, as I am, by the members of a legislature, the majority of whom do not agree with me in political sentiments, I trust that I may have their assistance in piloting the Ship of State through this voyage, surrounded by perils as it is; for, if it should suffer shipwreck now, there will be no pilot ever needed for another voyage."
"I will try to take the position I believe is most fair to the North, the East, the West, the South, and the entire country. I approach this, I hope, with a good attitude—certainly with no ill will towards any region. I will do everything I can to promote a peaceful resolution to all our challenges. No one values peace more than I do—no one would do more to maintain it. But it may be necessary to stand firm. And if I fulfill my duty and do what’s right, you will support me, won’t you? Although I am received by members of a legislature, the majority of whom don’t share my political views, I hope I can count on their help in navigating the Ship of State through this perilous journey; because, if it should suffer a shipwreck now, there will never be a need for a pilot for another voyage."
At Philadelphia:—
In Philadelphia:—
"It is true, as your worthy mayor has said, that there is anxiety among the citizens of the United States at this time. I deem it a happy circumstance that this dissatisfied portion of our fellow-citizens do not point us to any thing in which they are being injured, or are about to be injured; for which reason I have felt all the while justified in concluding that the crisis, the panic, the anxiety, of the country at this time is artificial. If there be those who differ with me upon this subject, they have not pointed out the substantial difficulty that exists. I do not mean to say that an artificial panic may not do considerable harm: that it has done such I do not deny. The hope that has been expressed by your mayor, that I may be able to restore peace, harmony, and prosperity to the country, is most worthy of him; and happy indeed will I be if I shall be able to verify and fulfil that hope. I promise you, in all sincerity, that I bring to the work a sincere heart. Whether I will bring a head equal to that heart, will be for future times to determine. It were useless for me to speak of details or plans now: I shall speak officially next Monday week, if ever. If I should not speak then, it were useless for me to do so now."
"It’s true, as your respected mayor mentioned, that there’s a lot of anxiety among the citizens of the United States right now. I consider it a positive thing that those who are dissatisfied haven’t pointed to anything specific that’s causing them harm or could harm them; which is why I’ve felt justified in concluding that the current crisis, panic, and anxiety in the country are artificial. If there are people who disagree with me on this, they haven’t identified any real issues. I’m not saying that an artificial panic can’t cause serious damage; I acknowledge that it has. The hope expressed by your mayor that I can help restore peace, harmony, and prosperity to the country is truly admirable; and I would be very happy if I can make that hope a reality. I promise you, I come to this work with a genuine heart. Whether I'll also bring the intellect to match that heart will be revealed in time. It would be pointless for me to talk about details or plans right now; I will speak officially next Monday, if that ever happens. If I don’t speak then, it’s pointless for me to do so now."
At Philadelphia again:—
Back in Philadelphia:—
"Now, in my view of the present aspect of affairs, there need be no bloodshed or war. There is no necessity for it. I am not in favor of such a course: and I may say, in advance, that there will be no blood shed unless it be forced upon the Government; and then it will be compelled to act in self-defence."
"Now, in my assessment of the current situation, there doesn't need to be any bloodshed or war. It's unnecessary. I'm not in support of such an action: and I can say upfront that there will be no bloodshed unless it's forced upon the Government; and then it will have to act in self-defense."
At Harrisburg:—
At Harrisburg:—
"I recur for a moment but to repeat some words uttered at the hotel in regard to what has been said about the military support which the General Government may expect from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania in a proper emergency. To guard against any possible mistake, do I recur to this. It is not with any pleasure that I contemplate the possibility that a necessity may arise in this country for the use of the military arm. While I am exceedingly gratified to see the manifestation upon your streets of your military force here, and exceedingly gratified at your promise here to use that force upon a proper emergency; while I make these acknowledgments, I desire to repeat, in order to preclude any possible misconstruction, that I do most sincerely hope that we shall have no use for them; that it will never become their duty to shed Hood, and most especially never to shed fraternal blood. I promise that, so far as I have wisdom to direct, if so painful a result shall in any wise be brought about, it shall be through no fault of mine."
"I want to take a moment to repeat some words I shared at the hotel about what has been said regarding the military support that the General Government can expect from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania in a real emergency. I'm mentioning this again to avoid any misunderstandings. It's not something I'm happy to think about, but there may be a situation in this country where military action is needed. While I’m very pleased to see your military presence on the streets and appreciate your promise to use that force in a genuine emergency, I want to emphasize again, just to prevent any possible misinterpretation, that I truly hope we will not need them; that it will never be their responsibility to shed blood, especially not to shed fraternal blood. I assure you, as far as my understanding allows, if such a painful outcome ever occurs, it will not be due to my actions."
Whilst Mr. Lincoln, in the midst of his suite and attendants, was being borne in triumph through the streets of Philadelphia, and a countless multitude of people were shouting themselves hoarse, and jostling and crushing each other around his carriage-wheels, Mr. Felton, the President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railway, was engaged with a private detective discussing the details of an alleged conspiracy to murder him at Baltimore. Some months before, Mr. Felton, apprehending danger to the bridges along his line, had taken this man into his pay, and sent him to Baltimore to spy out and report any plot that might be found for their destruction. Taking with him a couple of other men and a woman, the detective went about his business with the zeal which necessarily marks his peculiar profession. He set up as a stock-broker, under an assumed name, opened an office, and became a vehement Secessionist. His agents were instructed to act with the duplicity which such men generally use, to be rabid on the subject of "Southern rights," to suggest all manner of crimes in vindication of them; and if, by these arts, corresponding sentiments should be elicited from their victims, the "job" might be considered as prospering. Of course they readily found out what everybody else knew,—that Maryland was in a state of great alarm; that her people were forming military associations, and that Gov. Hicks was doing his utmost to furnish them with arms, on condition that the arms, in case of need, should be turned against the Federal Government. Whether they detected any plan to burn bridges or not, the chief detective does not relate; but it appears that he soon deserted that inquiry, and got, or pretended to get, upon a scent that promised a heavier reward. Being intensely ambitious to shine in the professional way, and something of a politician besides, it struck him that it would be a particularly fine thing to discover a dreadful plot to assassinate the President elect; and he discovered it accordingly. It was easy to get that far: to furnish tangible proofs of an imaginary conspiracy was a more difficult matter. But Baltimore was seething with political excitement; numerous strangers from the far South crowded its hotels and boarding-houses; great numbers of mechanics and laborers out of employment encumbered its streets; and everywhere politicians, merchants, mechanics, laborers, and loafers were engaged in heated discussions about the anticipated war, and the probability of Northern troops being marched through Maryland to slaughter and pillage beyond the Potomac. It would seem like an easy thing to beguile a few individuals of this angry and excited multitude into the expression of some criminal desire; and the opportunity was not wholly lost, although the limited success of the detective under such favorable circumstances is absolutely wonderful. He put his "shadows" upon several persons, whom it suited his pleasure to suspect; and the "shadows" pursued their work with the keen zest and the cool treachery of their kind. They reported daily to their chief in writing, as he reported in turn to his employer. These documents are neither edifying nor useful: they prove nothing but the baseness of the vocation which gave them existence. They were furnished to Mr. Herndon in full, under the impression that partisan feeling had extinguished in him the love of truth, and the obligations of candor, as it had in many writers who preceded him on the same subject-matter. They have been carefully and thoroughly read, analyzed, examined, and Compared, with an earnest and conscientious desire to discover the truth, if, perchance, any trace of truth might be in them. The process of investigation began with a strong bias in favor of the conclusion at which the detective had arrived. For ten years the author implicitly believed in the reality of the atrocious plot which these spies were supposed to have detected and thwarted; and for ten years he had pleased himself with the reflection that he also had done something to defeat the bloody purpose of the assassins. It was a conviction which could scarcely have been overthrown by evidence less powerful than the detective's weak and contradictory account of his own case. In that account there is literally nothing to sustain the accusation, and much to rebut it. It is perfectly manifest that there was no conspiracy,—no conspiracy of a hundred, of fifty, of twenty, of three; no definite purpose in the heart of even one man to murder Mr. Lincoln at Baltimore.
While Mr. Lincoln, surrounded by his entourage, was being triumphantly carried through the streets of Philadelphia, with countless people cheering loudly and jostling each other around his carriage, Mr. Felton, the President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railway, was occupied with a private detective discussing an alleged conspiracy to kill him in Baltimore. A few months earlier, fearing for the safety of the bridges along his route, Mr. Felton had hired this man and sent him to Baltimore to look into and report any plot aimed at their destruction. The detective, along with a couple of other men and a woman, approached his task with the enthusiasm characteristic of his unique profession. He posed as a stockbroker under a fake name, opened an office, and became a passionate supporter of Secession. His agents were instructed to act with the deceit typical of such operatives, to vehemently advocate for “Southern rights,” to suggest all sorts of crimes to justify them; if they could provoke similar sentiments from their targets, they would consider the mission a success. Naturally, they quickly discovered what everyone else already knew—that Maryland was in a state of great unrest; people were forming military groups, and Governor Hicks was doing everything he could to supply them with weapons, on the condition that they would be used against the Federal Government if needed. Whether they uncovered any plan to burn bridges is not specified by the chief detective, but it seems he soon abandoned that investigation in favor of one that promised a bigger payoff. Driven by intense ambition and somewhat of a political bent, he figured it would be a significant achievement to uncover a terrible plot to assassinate the President-elect; and so he claimed to have done just that. It was easy to make such a claim; providing concrete evidence of a fictional conspiracy was far more challenging. However, Baltimore was buzzing with political tension; many strangers from the far South filled its hotels and boarding houses; a large number of unemployed workers crowded its streets; and everywhere, politicians, merchants, workers, and idlers were in fervent debates about the impending war and the likelihood of Northern troops marching through Maryland to cause destruction across the Potomac. It seemed like it would be relatively straightforward to entice some individuals from this angry and agitated crowd into expressing some criminal intent; and while the opportunity wasn't entirely wasted, the detective’s limited success in such favorable conditions is truly remarkable. He placed his “shadows” on several individuals whom he suspected; these shadows proceeded with the eagerness and cold cunning typical of their kind. They reported daily to their boss in writing, as he in turn reported to his employer. These documents are neither enlightening nor useful: they prove nothing except the ethical shortcomings of the profession that produced them. They were provided to Mr. Herndon in full, under the assumption that partisan bias had extinguished his commitment to truth and honesty, as it had for many writers before him on the same subject. They have been thoroughly read, analyzed, and compared, with a genuine and earnest desire to uncover the truth, if there might be any trace of it within them. The investigative process began with a strong inclination to support the conclusion the detective had reached. For ten years, the author believed wholeheartedly in the existence of the terrible plot that these spies were said to have discovered and thwarted; for a decade, he took satisfaction in thinking he too had played a part in foiling the assassins’ murderous intent. This belief could hardly be shaken by evidence less compelling than the detective’s weak and contradictory narrative of his own case. In that account, there is effectively nothing to support the accusation, and much to counter it. It is abundantly clear that there was no conspiracy—neither a hundred, nor fifty, nor twenty, nor even three; no clear intention in the heart of even a single person to kill Mr. Lincoln in Baltimore.
The reports are all in the form of personal narratives, and for the most relate when the spies went to bed, when they rose, where they ate, what saloons and brothels they visited, and what blackguards they met and "drinked" with. One of them "shadowed" a loud-mouthed, drinking fellow, named Luckett, and another, a poor scapegrace and braggart, named Hilliard. These wretches "drinked" and talked a great deal, hung about bars, haunted disreputable houses, were constantly half-drunk, and easily excited to use big and threatening words by the faithless protestations and cunning management of the spies. Thus Hilliard was made to say that he thought a man who should act the part of Brutus in these times would deserve well of his country; and Luckett was induced to declare that he knew a man who would kill Lincoln. At length the great arch-conspirator—the Brutus, the Orsini, of the New World, to whom Luckett and Hilliard, the "national volunteers," and all such, were as mere puppets—condescended to reveal himself in the most obliging and confiding manner. He made no mystery of his cruel and desperate scheme. He did not guard it as a dangerous secret, or choose his confidants with the circumspection which political criminals, and especially assassins, have generally thought proper to observe. Very many persons knew what he was about, and levied on their friends for small sums—five, ten, and twenty dollars—to further the "captain's" plan. Even Luckett was deep enough in the awful plot to raise money for it; and when he took one of the spies to a public bar-room, and introduced him to the "captain," the latter sat down and talked it all over without the slightest reserve. When was there ever before such a loud-mouthed conspirator, such a trustful and innocent assassin! His name was Ferrandina, his occupation that of a barber, his place of business beneath Barnum's Hotel, where the sign of the bloodthirsty villain still invites the unsuspecting public to come in for a shave.
The reports are all personal stories, mostly detailing when the spies went to bed, when they woke up, where they ate, which bars and brothels they checked out, and the shady characters they met and "drank" with. One of them followed a loud, drinking guy named Luckett, while another kept an eye on a poor troublemaker and braggart named Hilliard. These losers drank and talked a lot, hung out in bars, frequented sketchy places, were usually half-drunk, and were easily provoked into saying bold and threatening things by the deceptive flattery and clever manipulation of the spies. This led Hilliard to claim that a man who acted like Brutus in these times would do well for his country, and Luckett was prompted to say he knew someone who would kill Lincoln. Eventually, the main conspirator—the Brutus, the Orsini of the New World, who saw Luckett and Hilliard, the "national volunteers," as mere puppets—casually revealed himself in a very accommodating and trusting way. He didn't hide his cruel and desperate plan at all. He didn't treat it as a dangerous secret or choose his confidants with the caution that political criminals, especially assassins, typically use. Many people knew what he was up to and borrowed small amounts from their friends—five, ten, or twenty dollars—to support the "captain's" scheme. Even Luckett was involved enough in the terrible plot to raise funds for it; when he took one of the spies to a public bar and introduced him to the "captain," the latter sat down and discussed everything openly. When has there ever been such a loudmouth conspirator, such a trusting and clueless assassin? His name was Ferrandina, he worked as a barber, and his shop was under Barnum's Hotel, where the sign of the bloodthirsty villain still invites unsuspecting customers in for a shave.
"Mr. Luckett," so the spy relates, "said that he was not going home this evening; and if I would meet him at Barr's saloon, on South Street, he would introduce me to Ferrandina.
"Mr. Luckett," the spy said, "stated that he wasn't going home tonight; and if I could meet him at Barr's saloon on South Street, he would introduce me to Ferrandina.
"This was unexpected to me; but I determined to take the chances, and agreed to meet Mr. Luckett at the place named at 7, p.m. Mr. Luckett left about 2.30, p.m.; and I went to dinner.
"This was a surprise to me, but I decided to take the chance and agreed to meet Mr. Luckett at the place he mentioned at 7 p.m. Mr. Luckett left around 2:30 p.m., and I went to have dinner."
"I was at the office in the afternoon in hopes that Mr. Felton might call, but he did not; and at 6.15, p.m., I went to supper. After supper, I went to Barr's saloon, and found Mr. Luckett and several other gentlemen there. He asked me to drink, and introduced me to Capt. Ferrandina and Capt. Turner. He eulogized me very highly as a neighbor of his, and told Ferrandina that I was the gentleman who had given the twenty-five dollars he (Luckett) had given to Ferrandina.
"I was at the office in the afternoon hoping that Mr. Felton might call, but he didn’t; and at 6:15 p.m., I went to dinner. After dinner, I went to Barr's bar and found Mr. Luckett and a few other guys there. He invited me to have a drink and introduced me to Capt. Ferrandina and Capt. Turner. He spoke very highly of me as his neighbor and told Ferrandina that I was the guy who had given the twenty-five dollars that he (Luckett) had given to Ferrandina."
"The conversation at once got into politics; and Ferrandina, who is a fine-looking, intelligent-appearing person, became very excited. He shows the Italian in, I think, a very marked degree; and, although excited, yet was cooler than what I had believed was the general characteristic of Italians. He has lived South for many years, and is thoroughly imbued with the idea that the South must rule; that they (Southerners) have been outraged in their rights by the election of Lincoln, and freely justified resorting to any means to prevent Lincoln from taking his seat; and, as he spoke, his eyes fairly glared and glistened, and his whole frame quivered, but he was fully conscious of all he was doing. He is a man well calculated for controlling and directing the ardent-minded: he is an enthusiast, and believes, that, to use his own words, 'murder of any kind is justifiable and right to save the rights of the Southern people.' In all his views he was ably seconded by Capt. Turner.
"The conversation quickly turned to politics, and Ferrandina, who is a striking and intelligent-looking guy, became very animated. He shows a strong Italian influence, and despite his excitement, he was calmer than I expected Italians to be. He has lived in the South for many years and is deeply convinced that the South should be in charge; that they (Southerners) have been wronged by Lincoln's election, and he openly justified using any means necessary to stop Lincoln from taking office. As he spoke, his eyes shone intensely, and his whole body shook, but he was fully aware of everything he was doing. He is a person well-suited to lead and inspire those with passionate minds: he is an enthusiast and believes, to use his own words, that 'any kind of murder is justifiable and right to protect the rights of the Southern people.' Capt. Turner strongly supported all of his views."
"Capt. Turner is an American; but although very much of a gentleman, and possessing warm Southern feelings, he is not by any means so dangerous a man as Ferrandina, as his ability for exciting others is less powerful; but that he is a bold and proud man there is no doubt, as also that he is entirely under the control of Ferrandina. In fact, it could not be otherwise: for even I myself felt the influence of this man's strange power; and, wrong though I knew him to be, I felt strangely unable to keep my mind balanced against him.
"Capt. Turner is American; however, even though he is quite a gentleman with strong Southern sentiments, he isn't nearly as dangerous as Ferrandina, since he has a much weaker ability to incite others. That said, there's no doubt he's a bold and proud man, and he's completely under Ferrandina's control. It couldn't be any other way: even I felt the strange power this man had; and although I knew he was in the wrong, I strangely found it hard to keep my thoughts steady against him."
"Ferrandina said, 'Never, never, shall Lincoln be President. His life (Ferrandina's) was of no consequence: he was willing to give it up for Lincoln's; he would sell it for that Abolitionist's; and as Orsini had given his life for Italy, so was he (Ferrandina) ready to die for his country, and the rights of the South; and, said Ferrandina, turning to Capt. Turner, 'We shall all die together: we shall show the North that we fear them not. Every man, captain,' said he, 'will on that day prove himself a hero. The first shot fired, the main traitor (Lincoln) dead, and all Maryland will be with us, and the South shall be free; and the North must then be ours.'—'Mr. Hutchins,' said Ferrandina, 'if I alone must do it, I shall: Lincoln shall die in this city.'
"Ferrandina said, 'Never, never will Lincoln be President. My life doesn’t matter; I’d give it up for Lincoln's. I’d trade it for that Abolitionist’s life. Just as Orsini gave his life for Italy, I'm ready to die for my country and the rights of the South. And, turning to Capt. Turner, he said, 'We will all die together: we will show the North that we don’t fear them. Every man, captain,' he declared, 'will prove himself a hero that day. The first shot fired, Lincoln the main traitor dead, and all of Maryland will join us, and the South will be free; then the North will have to bow to us.'—'Mr. Hutchins,' Ferrandina stated, 'if I have to do it alone, I will: Lincoln will die in this city.'
"Whilst we were thus talking, we (Mr. Luckett, Turner, Ferrandina, and myself) were alone in one corner of the barroom; and, while talking, two strangers had got pretty near us. Mr. Luckett called Ferrandina's attention to this, and intimated that they were listening; and we went up to the bar, drinked again at my expense, and again retired to another part of the room, at Ferrandina's request, to see if the strangers would again follow us: whether by accident or design, they again got near us; but of course we were not talking of any matter of consequence. Ferrandina said he suspected they were spies, and suggested that he had to attend a secret meeting, and was apprehensive that the two strangers might follow him; and, at Mr. Luckett's request, I remained with him (Luckett) to watch the movements of the strangers. I assured Ferrandina, that, if they would attempt to follow him, that we would whip them.
"While we were talking, the four of us (Mr. Luckett, Turner, Ferrandina, and I) were alone in one corner of the barroom. As we chatted, two strangers got pretty close to us. Mr. Luckett pointed this out to Ferrandina, suggesting that they were listening in. We moved up to the bar and had another drink on my tab, then we shifted to another part of the room at Ferrandina's request to see if the strangers would follow us again. Whether it was by chance or on purpose, they came near us once more, but we weren’t discussing anything important. Ferrandina mentioned that he suspected they were spies and said he needed to attend a secret meeting, worrying that the two strangers might follow him. At Mr. Luckett's suggestion, I stayed with him to keep an eye on the strangers. I assured Ferrandina that if they tried to follow him, we'd take care of them."
"Ferrandina and Turner left to attend the meeting; and, anxious as I was to follow them myself, I was obliged to remain with Mr. Luckett to watch the strangers, which we did for about fifteen minutes, when Mr. Luckett said that he should go to a friend's to stay over night, and I left for my hotel, arriving there at about 9, p.m., and soon retired."
"Ferrandina and Turner went to the meeting, and even though I really wanted to follow them, I had to stay with Mr. Luckett to keep an eye on the newcomers. We watched them for about fifteen minutes, and then Mr. Luckett said he was going to a friend's place to stay overnight. So, I headed to my hotel, got there around 9 p.m., and went to bed soon after."
It is in a secret communication between hireling spies and paid informers that these ferocious sentiments are attributed to the poor knight of the soap-pot. No disinterested person would believe the story upon such evidence; and it will appear hereafter, that even the detective felt that it was too weak to mention among his strong points at that decisive moment, when he revealed all he knew to the President and his friends. It is probably a mere fiction. If it had had any foundation in fact, we are inclined to believe that the sprightly and eloquent barber would have dangled at a rope's end long since. He would hardly have been left to shave and plot in peace, while the members of the Legislature, the police-marshal, and numerous private gentlemen, were locked up in Federal prisons. When Mr. Lincoln was actually slain, four years later, and the cupidity of the detectives was excited by enormous rewards, Ferrandina was totally unmolested. But even if Ferrandina really said all that is here imputed to him, he did no more than many others around him were doing at the same time. He drank and talked, and made swelling speeches; but he never took, nor seriously thought of taking, the first step toward the frightful tragedy he is said to have contemplated.
It’s through secret exchanges between hired spies and paid informants that these harsh feelings are linked to the poor knight of the soap-pot. No unbiased person would trust the story based on such evidence; it will later be shown that even the detective thought it was too flimsy to include among his strong arguments when he disclosed everything he knew to the President and his associates. It’s likely just a fabrication. If it had any basis in reality, we believe the lively and articulate barber would have been dangling at the end of a rope long ago. He wouldn’t have been allowed to shave and conspire in peace while members of the Legislature, the police chief, and various private citizens were imprisoned in Federal jails. When Mr. Lincoln was actually murdered four years later, and the detectives were eager for huge rewards, Ferrandina was completely untouched. But even if Ferrandina did say everything that’s attributed to him, he was doing nothing different from many others around him at the same time. He drank, talked, and made grand speeches; but he never took, nor seriously considered taking, the first step toward the horrifying act he’s accused of planning.
The detectives are cautious not to include in the supposed plot to murder any person of eminence, power, or influence. Their game is all of the smaller sort, and, as they conceived, easily taken,—witless vagabonds like Hilliard and Luckett, and a barber, whose calling indicates his character and associations. They had no fault to find with the governor of the State: he was rather a lively trimmer, to be sure, and very anxious to turn up at last on the winning side; but it was manifestly impossible that one in such exalted station could meditate murder. Yet, if they had pushed their inquiries with an honest desire to get at the truth, they might have found much stronger evidence against the governor than that which they pretend to have found against the barber. In the governor's case the evidence is documentary, written, authentic,—over his own hand, clear and conclusive as pen and ink could make it. As early as the previous November, Gov. Hicks had written the following letter; and, notwithstanding its treasonable and murderous import, the writer became conspicuously loyal before spring, and lived to reap splendid rewards and high honors under the auspices of the Federal Government, as the most patriotic and devoted Union man in Maryland. The person to whom the letter was addressed was equally fortunate; and, instead of drawing out his comrades in the field to "kill Lincoln and his men," he was sent to Congress by power exerted from Washington at a time when the administration selected the representatives of Maryland, and performed all his duties right loyally and acceptably. Shall one be taken, and another left? Shall Hicks go to the Senate, and Webster to Congress, while the poor barber is held to the silly words which he is alleged to have sputtered out between drinks in a low groggery, under the blandishments and encouragements of an eager spy, itching for his reward?
The detectives are careful not to involve any prominent, powerful, or influential individuals in the alleged murder plot. Their focus is on lesser figures, whom they think are an easy target—mindless drifters like Hilliard and Luckett, and a barber, whose profession reflects his character and connections. They had no complaints about the governor of the State: he was certainly a shrewd opportunist, eager to be on the winning side; but it was clearly absurd to think that someone in such a high position could be plotting murder. However, if they had pursued their investigation with genuine intent to uncover the truth, they might have uncovered far stronger evidence against the governor than what they claim to have found against the barber. In the case of the governor, the evidence is documented, written, and authentic—clearly and conclusively penned by him. As early as last November, Gov. Hicks wrote the following letter; and despite its treasonous and murderous implications, he became notably loyal by spring and went on to receive substantial rewards and high honors under the Federal Government, hailed as the most patriotic and devoted Union supporter in Maryland. The recipient of the letter also found fortune; instead of rallying his comrades in the field to "kill Lincoln and his men," he was sent to Congress through influence exerted from Washington when the administration was selecting Maryland's representatives, and he carried out all his duties loyally and acceptably. Should one be favored while another is discarded? Should Hicks go to the Senate and Webster to Congress while the unfortunate barber is stuck facing the foolish remarks he supposedly made between drinks in a shabby bar, influenced by a scheming informant eager for a reward?
State of Maryland, Executive Chamber, Annapolis, Nov. 9, 1860.
State of Maryland, Executive Chamber, Annapolis, Nov. 9, 1860.
Hon. E. H. Webster.
Hon. E.H. Webster.
My dear Sir,—I have pleasure in acknowledging receipt of your favor introducing a very clever gentleman to my acquaintance (though a Demo'). I regret to say that we have, at this time, no arms on hand to distribute, but assure you at the earliest possible moment your company shall have arms: they have complied with all required on their part. We have some delay, in consequence of contracts with Georgia and Alabama, ahead of us: we expect at an early day an additional supply, and of first received your people shall be furnished. Will they be good men to send out to kill Lincoln and his men? if not, suppose the arms would be better sent South.
My dear Sir, — I’m happy to confirm that I received your letter introducing a very skilled gentleman to me (even though he’s a Democrat). I regret to inform you that we currently don’t have any weapons available to distribute, but I assure you that your group will receive them as soon as possible: they have done everything required on their side. We are experiencing some delays due to contracts with Georgia and Alabama that we need to fulfill first. We expect an additional supply soon, and your people will be prioritized for that. Will they be capable individuals to send out to deal with Lincoln and his men? If not, it might be better to send the weapons South instead.
How does late election sit with you? 'Tis too bad. Harford, nothing to reproach herself for.
How do you feel about the late election? It's too bad. Harford has nothing to blame herself for.
Your obedient servant,
Best regards,
Thos. H. Hicks.
Thos. H. Hicks.
With the Presidential party was Hon. Norman B. Judd: he was supposed to exercise unbounded influence over the new President; and with him, therefore, the detective opened communications. At various places along the route, Mr. Judd was given vague hints of the impending danger, accompanied by the usual assurances of the skill and activity of the patriots who were perilling their lives in a rebel city to save that of the Chief Magistrate. When he reached New York, he was met by the woman who had originally gone with the other spies to Baltimore. She had urgent messages from her chief,—messages that disturbed Mr. Judd exceedingly. The detective was anxious to meet Mr. Judd and the President; and a meeting was accordingly arranged to take place at Philadelphia.
With the presidential party was Hon. Norman B. Judd; he was expected to have significant influence over the new president, so the detective initiated contact with him. At various points along the route, Mr. Judd was given vague warnings about the impending danger, along with the usual reassurances about the skills and efforts of the patriots risking their lives in a rebel city to protect the Chief Magistrate. When he arrived in New York, he was met by the woman who had originally gone with the other spies to Baltimore. She carried urgent messages from her leader—messages that deeply troubled Mr. Judd. The detective was eager to meet both Mr. Judd and the president, and a meeting was arranged to take place in Philadelphia.
Mr. Lincoln reached Philadelphia on the afternoon of the 21st. The detective had arrived in the morning, and improved the interval to impress and enlist Mr. Felton. In the evening he got Mr. Judd and Mr. Felton into his room at the St. Louis Hotel, and told them all he had learned. He dwelt at large on the fierce temper of the Baltimore Secessionists; on the loose talk he had heard about "fire-balls or hand-grenades;" on a "privateer" said to be moored somewhere in the bay; on the organization called National Volunteers; on the fact, that, eaves-dropping at Barnum's Hotel, he had overheard Marshal Kane intimate that he would not supply a police-force on some undefined occasion, but what the occasion was he did not know. He made much of his miserable victim, Hilliard, whom he held up as a perfect type of the class from which danger was to be apprehended; but, concerning "Captain" Ferrandina and his threats, he said, according to his own account, not a single word. He had opened his case, his whole case, and stated it as strongly as he could. Mr. Judd was very much startled, and was sure that it would be extremely imprudent for Mr. Lincoln to pass through Baltimore in open daylight, according to the published programme. But he thought the detective ought to see the President himself; and, as it was wearing toward nine o'clock, there was no time to lose. It was agreed that the part taken by the detective and Mr. Felton should be kept secret from every one but the President. Mr. Sanford, President of the American Telegraph Company, had also been co-operating in the business; and the same stipulation was made with regard to him.
Mr. Lincoln arrived in Philadelphia on the afternoon of the 21st. The detective had come in the morning and used the time to connect with Mr. Felton. In the evening, he brought Mr. Judd and Mr. Felton into his room at the St. Louis Hotel and shared everything he had discovered. He emphasized the intense anger of the Baltimore Secessionists; the reckless talk he had heard about "fire-balls or hand grenades"; a "privateer" said to be anchored somewhere in the bay; an organization called National Volunteers; and he mentioned that while eavesdropping at Barnum's Hotel, he had overheard Marshal Kane suggest he wouldn’t provide a police force for some unspecified event, although he didn’t know what that event was. He made a lot of his unfortunate informant, Hilliard, whom he presented as a perfect example of the kind of threat they should worry about; however, he did not say a word about "Captain" Ferrandina and his threats. He laid out his whole case as strongly as he could. Mr. Judd was quite shocked and believed it would be very unwise for Mr. Lincoln to travel through Baltimore in broad daylight, as planned. But he thought the detective should speak to the President directly, and since it was getting close to nine o'clock, they needed to act fast. They agreed that the roles of the detective and Mr. Felton should remain confidential, known only to the President. Mr. Sanford, President of the American Telegraph Company, had also been involved, and the same condition applied to him.
Mr. Judd went to his own room at the Continental, and the detective followed. The crowd in the hotel was very dense, and it took some time to get a message to Mr. Lincoln. But it finally reached him, and he responded in person. Mr. Judd introduced the detective; and the latter told his story over again, with a single variation: this time he mentioned the name of Ferrandina along with Hilliard's, but gave no more prominence to one than to the other.
Mr. Judd went to his room at the Continental, and the detective followed. The hotel was really crowded, and it took a while to get a message to Mr. Lincoln. But it eventually got to him, and he came in person. Mr. Judd introduced the detective; and he told his story again, with one change: this time he mentioned Ferrandina's name along with Hilliard's, but didn’t emphasize one more than the other.
Mr. Judd and the detective wanted Lincoln to leave for Washington that night. This he flatly refused to do. He had engagements with the people, he said,—to raise a flag over Independence Hall in the morning, and to exhibit himself at Harrisburg in the afternoon; and these engagements he would not break in any event. But he would raise the flag, go to Harrisburg, "get away quietly" in the evening, and permit himself to be carried to Washington in the way they thought best. Even this, however, he conceded with great reluctance. He condescended to cross-examine the detective on some parts of his narrative, but at no time did he seem in the least degree alarmed. He was earnestly requested not to communicate the change of plan to any member of his party, except Mr. Judd, nor permit even a suspicion of it to cross the mind of another. To this he replied, that he would be compelled to tell Mrs. Lincoln; "and he thought it likely that she would insist upon W. H. Lamon going with him; but, aside from that, no one should know."
Mr. Judd and the detective wanted Lincoln to leave for Washington that night. He refused flat out. He had commitments with the people, he said — to raise a flag over Independence Hall in the morning and to be at Harrisburg in the afternoon; he wouldn't break those commitments under any circumstances. But he would raise the flag, go to Harrisburg, "get away quietly" in the evening, and allow himself to be taken to Washington however they thought best. Even this, however, he agreed to with great reluctance. He did take the time to question the detective on some parts of his story, but he never seemed the slightest bit worried. They strongly requested that he not tell any members of his party about the change of plans, except for Mr. Judd, and that he not let even a hint of it cross anyone else's mind. He replied that he would have to tell Mrs. Lincoln; "and he thought it was likely that she would insist on W. H. Lamon going with him; but otherwise, no one should know."
In the mean time, Mr. Seward had also discovered the conspiracy. He despatched his son to Philadelphia to warn the President elect of the terrible plot into whose meshes he was about to run. Mr. Lincoln turned him over to Judd, and Judd told him they already knew all about it. He went away with just enough information to enable his father to anticipate the exact moment of Mr. Lincoln's surreptitious arrival in Washington.
In the meantime, Mr. Seward had also uncovered the conspiracy. He sent his son to Philadelphia to warn the President-elect about the terrible plot he was about to fall into. Mr. Lincoln handed him off to Judd, who informed him that they already knew all about it. He left with just enough information for his father to predict the exact moment of Mr. Lincoln's secret arrival in Washington.
Early on the morning of the 22d, Mr. Lincoln raised the flag over Independence Hall, and departed for Harrisburg. On the way, Mr. Judd "gave him a full and precise detail of the arrangements that had been made" the previous night. After the conference with the detective, Mr. Sanford, Col. Scott, Mr. Felton, railroad and telegraph officials, had been sent for, and came to Mr. Judd's room. They occupied nearly the whole of the night in perfecting the plan. It was finally understood that about six o'clock the next evening Mr. Lincoln should slip away from the Jones Hotel, at Harrisburg, in company with a single member of his party. A special car and engine would be provided for him on the track outside the dépôt. All other trains on the road would be "sidetracked" until this one had passed. Mr. Sanford would forward skilled "telegraph-climbers," and see that all the wires leading out of Harrisburg were cut at six o'clock, and kept down until it was known that Mr. Lincoln had reached Washington in safety. The detective would meet Mr. Lincoln at the West Philadelphia dépôt with a carriage, and conduct him by a circuitous route to the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore dépôt. Berths for four would be pre-engaged in the sleeping-car attached to the regular midnight train for Baltimore. This train Mr. Felton would cause to be detained until the conductor should receive a package, containing important "government despatches," addressed to "E. J. Allen, Willard's Hotel, Washington." This package was made up of old newspapers, carefully wrapped and sealed, and delivered to the detective to be used as soon as Mr. Lincoln was lodged in the car. Mr. Lincoln approved of the plan, and signified his readiness to acquiesce. Then Mr. Judd, forgetting the secrecy which the spy had so impressively enjoined, told Mr. Lincoln that the step he was about to take was one of such transcendent importance, that he thought "it should be communicated to the other gentlemen of the party." Mr. Lincoln said, "You can do as you like about that." Mr. Judd now changed his seat; and Mr. Nicolay, whose suspicions seem to have been aroused by this mysterious conference, sat down beside him, and said, "Judd, there is something up. What is it, if it is proper that I should know?"—"George," answered Judd, "there is no necessity for your knowing it. One man can keep a matter better than two."
Early on the morning of the 22nd, Mr. Lincoln raised the flag over Independence Hall and left for Harrisburg. On the way, Mr. Judd gave him a full and detailed update on the plans that had been made the night before. After meeting with the detective, Mr. Sanford, Col. Scott, and Mr. Felton, along with railroad and telegraph officials were called to Mr. Judd's room. They spent nearly the entire night finalizing the plan. It was ultimately agreed that around six o'clock the following evening, Mr. Lincoln would discreetly leave the Jones Hotel in Harrisburg with just one member of his party. A special car and engine would be waiting for him outside the depot. All other trains on the line would be diverted until his train passed. Mr. Sanford would send skilled "telegraph-climbers" to ensure that all the wires leaving Harrisburg were cut at six o'clock and kept down until it was confirmed that Mr. Lincoln had safely reached Washington. The detective would meet Mr. Lincoln at the West Philadelphia depot with a carriage and take him by a roundabout route to the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore depot. Accommodations for four would be pre-booked in the sleeping car attached to the regular midnight train to Baltimore. Mr. Felton would make sure that this train was delayed until the conductor received a package containing important "government dispatches" addressed to "E. J. Allen, Willard's Hotel, Washington." This package was made up of old newspapers, carefully wrapped and sealed, and given to the detective to use as soon as Mr. Lincoln was settled in the car. Mr. Lincoln agreed to the plan and indicated his willingness to go along with it. Then Mr. Judd, forgetting the secrecy that the spy had emphasized, told Mr. Lincoln that the step he was about to take was so crucial that he thought it should be shared with the other members of the party. Mr. Lincoln replied, "You can decide that for yourself." Mr. Judd then moved his seat, and Mr. Nicolay, whose curiosity seemed to be piqued by this mysterious meeting, sat down next to him and asked, "Judd, something's going on. What is it, if it’s appropriate for me to know?" — "George," Judd replied, "you don’t need to know. One person can keep a secret better than two."
Arrived at Harrisburg, and the public ceremonies and speech-making over, Mr. Lincoln retired to a private parlor in the Jones House; and Mr. Judd summoned to meet him Judge Davis, Col. Lamon, Col. Sumner, Major Hunter, and Capt. Pope. The three latter were officers of the regular army, and had joined the party after it had left Springfield. Judd began the conference by stating the alleged fact of the Baltimore conspiracy, how it was detected, and how it was proposed to thwart it by a midnight expedition to Washington by way of Philadelphia. It was a great surprise to most of those assembled. Col. Sumner was the first to break silence. "That proceeding," said he, "will be a damned piece of cowardice." Mr. Judd considered this a "pointed hit," but replied that "that view of the case had already been presented to Mr. Lincoln." Then there was a general interchange of opinions, which Sumner interrupted by saying, "I'll get a squad of cavalry, sir, and cut our way to Washington, sir!"—"Probably before that day comes," said Mr. Judd, "the inauguration day will have passed. It is important that Mr. Lincoln should be in Washington that day." Thus far Judge Davis had expressed no opinion, but "had put various questions to test the truthfulness of the story." He now turned to Mr. Lincoln, and said, "You personally heard the detective's story. You have heard this discussion. What is your judgment in the matter?"—"I have listened," answered Mr. Lincoln, "to this discussion with interest. I see no reason, no good reason, to change the programme; and I am for carrying it out as arranged by Judd." There was no longer any dissent as to the plan itself; but one question still remained to be disposed of. Who should accompany the President on his perilous ride? Mr. Judd again took the lead, declaring that he and Mr. Lincoln had previously determined that but one man ought to go, and that Col. Lamon had been selected as the proper person. To this Sumner violently demurred. "I have undertaken," he exclaimed, "to see Mr. Lincoln to Washington."
Arrived in Harrisburg, and after the public ceremonies and speeches were over, Mr. Lincoln went to a private room in the Jones House. Mr. Judd called together Judge Davis, Col. Lamon, Col. Sumner, Major Hunter, and Capt. Pope. The latter three were regular army officers who had joined the group after leaving Springfield. Judd started the meeting by explaining the alleged Baltimore conspiracy, how it was uncovered, and how they planned to prevent it with a midnight trip to Washington via Philadelphia. This came as a big surprise to most of those present. Col. Sumner was the first to speak up. "That plan," he said, "is a cowardly move." Mr. Judd thought this was a pointed remark but replied that "this perspective had already been shared with Mr. Lincoln." Then there was a general exchange of opinions, which Sumner interrupted by stating, "I'll get a squad of cavalry, sir, and cut our way to Washington, sir!"—"By that time," said Mr. Judd, "the inauguration day will have likely passed. It's crucial that Mr. Lincoln is in Washington that day." Up to this point, Judge Davis had not shared his thoughts, but he'd asked several questions to gauge the truth of the story. He then turned to Mr. Lincoln and said, "You personally heard the detective's story. You've heard this discussion. What do you think?"—"I've listened," Mr. Lincoln answered, "to this discussion with interest. I see no reason to change the plan; I support going ahead as Judd arranged." There was no longer any disagreement about the plan itself, but one question still needed to be settled: Who should join the President on his risky journey? Mr. Judd again took the lead, stating that he and Mr. Lincoln had previously agreed that only one person should go, and Col. Lamon was chosen for the job. Sumner strongly disagreed. "I have taken on the responsibility," he declared, "to see Mr. Lincoln to Washington."
Mr. Lincoln was hastily dining when a close carriage was brought to the side-door of the hotel. He was called, hurried to his room, changed his coat and hat, and passed rapidly through the hall and out of the door. As he was stepping into the carriage, it became manifest that Sumner was determined to get in also. "Hurry with him," whispered Judd to Lamon, and at the same time, placing his hand on Sumner's shoulder, said aloud, "One moment, colonel!" Sumner turned around; and, in that moment, the carriage drove rapidly away. "A madder man," says Mr. Judd, "you never saw."
Mr. Lincoln was eating quickly when a carriage pulled up to the side door of the hotel. He was called, rushed to his room, changed his coat and hat, and quickly made his way through the hall and out the door. As he was getting into the carriage, it became clear that Sumner was set on getting in too. "Get him moving," whispered Judd to Lamon, while placing his hand on Sumner's shoulder and saying out loud, "One moment, Colonel!" Sumner turned around, and in that moment, the carriage sped away. "You’ve never seen a madder man," said Mr. Judd.
Mr. Lincoln and Col. Lamon got on board the car without discovery or mishap. Besides themselves, there was no one in or about the car but Mr. Lewis, general superintendent of the Pennsylvania Central Railroad, and Mr. Franciscus, superintendent of the division over which they were about to pass. As Mr. Lincoln's dress on this occasion has been much discussed, it may be as well to state that he wore a soft, light felt hat, drawn down over his face when it seemed necessary or convenient, and a shawl thrown over his shoulders, and pulled up to assist in disguising his features when passing to and from the carriage. This was all there was of the "Scotch cap and cloak," so widely celebrated in the political literature of the day.
Mr. Lincoln and Col. Lamon boarded the train without being noticed or encountering any issues. Aside from them, the only other people in or around the train were Mr. Lewis, the general superintendent of the Pennsylvania Central Railroad, and Mr. Franciscus, the superintendent of the division they were about to travel through. Since Mr. Lincoln's outfit for this occasion has been widely discussed, it’s worth mentioning that he wore a soft, light felt hat pulled down over his face when it seemed necessary or convenient, and a shawl draped over his shoulders, pulled up to help disguise his features while moving to and from the carriage. This was the extent of the "Scotch cap and cloak" that was so famously referenced in the political discussions of the time.
At ten o'clock they reached Philadelphia, and were met by the detective, and one Mr. Kinney, an under-official of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad. Lewis and Franciscus bade Mr. Lincoln adieu. Mr. Lincoln, Col. Lamon, and the detective seated themselves in a carriage, which stood in waiting, and Mr. Kinney got upon the box with the driver. It was a full hour and a half before the Baltimore train was to start; and Mr. Kinney found it necessary "to consume the time by driving northward in search of some imaginary person."
At ten o'clock, they arrived in Philadelphia, where they were greeted by the detective and Mr. Kinney, an official of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad. Lewis and Franciscus said goodbye to Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Lincoln, Col. Lamon, and the detective got into a carriage that was waiting for them, while Mr. Kinney sat up front with the driver. There was still an hour and a half before the Baltimore train was scheduled to depart, and Mr. Kinney thought it would be a good idea to "pass the time by driving north in search of some fictitious person."
On the way through Philadelphia, Mr. Lincoln told his companions about the message he had received from Mr. Seward. This new discovery was infinitely more appalling than the other. Mr. Seward had been informed "that about fifteen thousand men were organized to prevent his (Lincoln's) passage through Baltimore, and that arrangements were made by these parties to blow up the railroad track, fire the train." &c. In view of these unpleasant circumstances, Mr. Seward recommended a change of route. Here was a plot big enough to swallow up the little one, which we are to regard as the peculiar property of Mr. Felton's detective. Hilliard, Ferrandina, and Luckett disappear among the "fifteen thousand;" and their maudlin and impotent twaddle about the "abolition tyrant" looks very insignificant beside the bloody massacre, conflagration, and explosion now foreshadowed.
On the way through Philadelphia, Mr. Lincoln shared with his companions the message he had received from Mr. Seward. This new revelation was far more terrifying than the previous one. Mr. Seward had been informed "that about fifteen thousand men were organized to block his (Lincoln's) passage through Baltimore, and that plans were made by these groups to blow up the railroad track, fire the train." & etc. Given these troubling circumstances, Mr. Seward suggested a change of route. This was a plot large enough to overshadow the smaller one, which we consider to be the exclusive concern of Mr. Felton's detective. Hilliard, Ferrandina, and Luckett blend into the "fifteen thousand," and their sentimental and powerless chatter about the "abolition tyrant" seems very trivial compared to the violent massacre, destruction, and explosion now looming ahead.
As the moment for the departure of the Baltimore train drew near, the carriage paused in the dark shadows of the dépôt building. It was not considered prudent to approach the entrance. The spy passed in first, and was followed by Mr. Lincoln and Col. Lamon. An agent of the former directed them to the sleeping-car, which they entered by the rear door. Mr. Kinney ran forward, and delivered to the conductor the "important package" prepared for the purpose; and in three minutes the train was in motion. The tickets for the whole party had been procured beforehand. Their berths were ready, but had only been preserved from invasion by the statement, that they were retained for a sick man and his attendants. The business had been managed very adroitly by the female spy, who had accompanied her employer from Baltimore to Philadelphia to assist him in this the most delicate and important affair of his life. Mr. Lincoln got into his bed immediately; and the curtains were drawn together. When the conductor came around, the detective handed him the "sick man's" ticket; and the rest of the party lay down also. None of "our party appeared to be sleepy," says the detective; "but we all lay quiet, and nothing of importance transpired." "Mr. Lincoln is very homely," said the woman in her "report," "and so very tall, that he could not lay straight in his berth." During the night Mr. Lincoln indulged in a joke or two, in an undertone; but, with that exception, the "two sections" occupied by them were perfectly silent. The detective said he had men stationed at various places along the road to let him know "if all was right;" and he rose and went to the platform occasionally to observe their signals, but returned each time with a favorable report.
As the time for the Baltimore train's departure approached, the carriage halted in the shadows of the depot building. It wasn’t wise to get too close to the entrance. The spy entered first, followed by Mr. Lincoln and Colonel Lamon. An agent of the former guided them to the sleeping car, which they accessed through the rear door. Mr. Kinney hurried ahead and handed the conductor the "important package" that had been prepared for this purpose; within three minutes, the train was on its way. The tickets for the entire group had been obtained in advance. Their berths were ready, preserved only because it was said they were reserved for a sick man and his attendants. The arrangement had been skillfully handled by the female spy, who had traveled with her employer from Baltimore to Philadelphia to assist him with this delicate and crucial matter. Mr. Lincoln climbed into his bed right away, and the curtains were drawn shut. When the conductor came around, the detective gave him the "sick man's" ticket, and the rest of the group lay down as well. None of "our party seemed sleepy," the detective noted, "but we all lay quietly, and nothing significant happened." "Mr. Lincoln is really plain-looking," the woman remarked in her "report," "and so very tall that he couldn’t lie flat in his berth." During the night, Mr. Lincoln shared a joke or two quietly, but other than that, the "two sections" they occupied were completely silent. The detective mentioned he had men stationed at various points along the route to keep him updated "if everything was alright," and he got up and went to the platform occasionally to check their signals, returning each time with good news.
At thirty minutes after three, the train reached Baltimore. One of the spy's assistants came on board, and informed him "in a whisper that all was right." The woman got out of the car. Mr. Lincoln lay close in his berth; and in a few moments the car was being slowly drawn through the quiet streets of the city toward the Washington dépôt. There again there was another pause, but no sound more alarming than the noise of shifting cars and engines. The passengers, tucked away on their narrow shelves, dozed on as peacefully as if Mr. Lincoln had never been born, until they were awakened by the loud strokes of a huge club against a night-watchman's box, which stood within the dépôt and close to the track. It was an Irishman, trying to arouse a sleepy ticket-agent, comfortably ensconced within. For twenty minutes the Irishman pounded the box with ever-increasing vigor, and, at each report of his blows, shouted at the top of his voice, "Captain! it's four o'clock! it's four o'clock!" The Irishman seemed to think that time had ceased to run at four o'clock, and, making no allowance for the period consumed by his futile exercises, repeated to the last his original statement that it was four o'clock. The passengers were intensely amused; and their jokes and laughter at the Irishman's expense were not lost upon the occupants of the "two sections" in the rear. "Mr. Lincoln," says the detective, appeared "to enjoy it very much, and made several witty remarks, showing that he was as full of fun as ever."
At 3:30, the train arrived in Baltimore. One of the spy's assistants boarded and whispered to him that everything was fine. The woman exited the car. Mr. Lincoln was lying quietly in his berth, and soon the car was being slowly pulled through the peaceful streets of the city toward the Washington depot. There was another pause, but the only sounds were the noise of shifting cars and engines. The passengers, curled up in their cramped seats, dozed on as if Mr. Lincoln had never existed, until they were startled awake by loud banging from a night-watchman's box near the depot and close to the tracks. An Irishman was trying to wake a sleepy ticket agent who was comfortably settled inside. For twenty minutes, the Irishman beat on the box with growing enthusiasm and, with each strike, shouted at the top of his lungs, "Captain! It's four o'clock! It's four o'clock!" He seemed to believe that time had stopped at four o'clock and, disregarding the time wasted on his pointless efforts, kept repeating that it was four o'clock. The passengers found it hilarious; their jokes and laughter at the Irishman's expense didn't go unnoticed by those in the "two sections" at the back. "Mr. Lincoln," the detective noted, appeared to be enjoying it a lot and made several clever comments, proving he was as lively as ever.
In due time the train sped out of the suburbs of Baltimore; and the apprehensions of the President and his friends diminished with each welcome revolution of the wheels. At six o'clock the dome of the Capitol came in sight; and a moment later they rolled into the long, unsightly building, which forms the Washington dépôt. They passed out of the car unobserved, and pushed along with the living stream of men and women toward the outer door. One man alone in the great crowd seemed to watch Mr. Lincoln with special attention. Standing a little on one side, he "looked very sharp at him," and, as he passed, seized hold of his hand, and said in a loud tone of voice, "Abe, you can't play that on me." The detective and Col. Lamon were instantly alarmed. One of them raised his fist to strike the stranger; but Mr. Lincoln caught his arm, and said, "Don't strike him! don't strike him! It is Washburne. Don't you know him?" Mr. Seward had given to Mr. Washburne a hint of the information received through his son; and Mr. Washburne knew its value as well as another. For the present, the detective admonished him to keep quiet; and they passed on together. Taking a hack, they drove towards Willard's Hotel. Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Washburne, and the detectives got out in the street, and approached the ladies' entrance; while Col. Lamon drove on to the main entrance, and sent the proprietor to meet his distinguished guest at the side door. A few minutes later Mr. Seward arrived, and was introduced to the company by Mr. Washburne. He spoke in very strong terms of the great danger which Mr. Lincoln had so narrowly escaped, and most heartily applauded the wisdom of the "secret passage." "I informed Gov. Seward of the nature of the information I had," says the detective, "and that I had no information of any large organization in Baltimore; but the Governor reiterated that he had conclusive evidence of this."
In due time, the train rushed out of the suburbs of Baltimore, and the worries of the President and his friends faded with each reassuring turn of the wheels. At six o'clock, the dome of the Capitol came into view, and moments later, they rolled into the long, unappealing building that serves as the Washington depot. They exited the car without drawing attention and moved along with the flow of men and women toward the exit. One person in the massive crowd seemed to pay special attention to Mr. Lincoln. Standing slightly off to the side, he “looked very sharp at him” and, as he passed, grabbed his hand and said loudly, “Abe, you can't play that on me.” The detective and Col. Lamon immediately became alarmed. One of them raised his fist to hit the stranger, but Mr. Lincoln stopped him and said, “Don’t hit him! Don’t hit him! It’s Washburne. Don’t you recognize him?” Mr. Seward had given Mr. Washburne a heads-up about the information received through his son, and Mr. Washburne understood its significance just as much as anyone else. For the moment, the detective advised him to stay quiet, and they continued on together. They took a cab and headed toward Willard's Hotel. Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Washburne, and the detectives got out on the street and approached the ladies' entrance, while Col. Lamon drove to the main entrance and sent the hotel owner to meet his distinguished guest at the side door. A few minutes later, Mr. Seward arrived and was introduced to the group by Mr. Washburne. He spoke very strongly about the serious danger Mr. Lincoln had barely avoided and praised the wisdom of the "secret passage." “I informed Gov. Seward of the kind of information I had,” the detective says, “and that I didn’t have any info about a large group in Baltimore; but the Governor insisted that he had solid evidence of this.”
It soon became apparent that Mr. Lincoln wished to be left alone. He said he was "rather tired;" and, upon this intimation, the party separated. The detective went to the telegraph-office, and loaded the wires with despatches, containing the pleasing intelligence that "Plums" had brought "Nuts" through in safety. In the spy's cipher the President elect was reduced to the undignified title of "Nuts."
It quickly became clear that Mr. Lincoln wanted some privacy. He mentioned he was "a bit tired;" and, after that hint, everyone broke apart. The detective headed to the telegraph office and flooded the wires with messages, sharing the good news that "Plums" had safely brought "Nuts" through. In the spy's code, the President-elect was given the less-than-respectful label of "Nuts."
That same day Mr. Lincoln's family and suite passed through Baltimore on the special train intended for him. They saw no sign of any disposition to burn them alive, or to blow them up with gunpowder, but went their way unmolested and very happy.
That same day, Mr. Lincoln’s family and group traveled through Baltimore on the special train meant for him. They saw no signs of any intent to harm them or blow them up with explosives, but continued on their way unharmed and very happy.
Mr. Lincoln soon learned to regret the midnight ride. His friends reproached him, his enemies taunted him. He was convinced that he had committed a grave mistake in yielding to the solicitations of a professional spy and of friends too easily alarmed. He saw that he had fled from a danger purely imaginary, and felt the shame and mortification natural to a brave man under such circumstances. But he was not disposed to take all the responsibility to himself, and frequently upbraided the writer for having aided and assisted him to demean himself at the very moment in all his life when his behavior should have exhibited the utmost dignity and composure.
Mr. Lincoln quickly came to regret his midnight ride. His friends criticized him, while his enemies mocked him. He felt sure he had made a serious mistake by giving in to the pressure from a professional spy and overly anxious friends. He realized he had run away from a danger that wasn't real, and he experienced the shame and embarrassment that anyone would feel in such a situation. However, he wasn't ready to take all the blame himself and often scolded the writer for helping him act in a way that was undignified at a time when he should have shown the highest level of dignity and calm.
The news of his surreptitious entry into Washington occasioned much and varied comment throughout the country; but important events followed it in such rapid succession, that its real significance was soon lost sight of. Enough that Mr. Lincoln was safely at the capital, and in a few days would in all probability assume the power confided to his hands.
The news of his secret arrival in Washington sparked a lot of discussion across the country, but important events unfolded so quickly that its true significance was soon overlooked. It was enough that Mr. Lincoln was safely at the capital, and in just a few days, he would likely take on the responsibilities entrusted to him.
If before leaving Springfield he had become weary of the pressure upon him for office, he found no respite on his arrival at the focus of political intrigue and corruption. The intervening days before his inauguration were principally occupied in arranging the construction of his Cabinet. He was pretty well determined on this subject before he reached Washington; but in the minds of the public, beyond the generally accepted fact, that Mr. Seward was to be the Premier of the new administration, all was speculation and conjecture. From the circumstances of the case, he was compelled to give patient ear to the representations which were made him in favor of or against various persons or parties, and to hold his final decisions till the last moment, in order that he might decide with a full view of the requirements of public policy and party fealty.
If he had grown tired of the pressure to take on an office before leaving Springfield, he found no break upon arriving at the center of political intrigue and corruption. The days leading up to his inauguration were mostly spent figuring out his Cabinet. He had a pretty clear idea about this before he got to Washington, but in the eyes of the public, aside from the widely accepted notion that Mr. Seward would be the head of the new administration, everything else was just speculation. Given the situation, he had to patiently listen to all the arguments made for or against various individuals or groups and hold off on his final decisions until the last minute, so he could make choices that took into account public policy needs and party loyalty.
The close of this volume is not the place to enter into a detailed history of the circumstances which attended the inauguration of Mr. Lincoln's administration, nor of the events which signalized the close of Mr. Buchanan's. The history of the former cannot be understood without tracing its relation to that of the latter, and both demand more impartial consideration than either has yet received.
The end of this volume isn't the right spot to go into a detailed account of what happened when Mr. Lincoln's administration began, nor the events that marked the end of Mr. Buchanan's. You can't fully understand the history of the former without looking at how it relates to the latter, and both deserve more unbiased examination than either has had so far.
The 4th of March, 1861, at last arrived; and at noon on that day the administration of James Buchanan was to come to a close, and that of Abraham Lincoln was to take its place. Mr. Lincoln's feelings, as the hour approached which was to invest him with greater responsibilities than had fallen upon any of his predecessors, may readily be imagined by the readers of the foregoing pages. If he saw in his elevation another step towards the fulfilment of that destiny which at times he believed awaited him, the thought served but to tinge with a peculiar, almost poetic sadness, the manner in which he addressed himself to the solemn duties of the hour.
The 4th of March, 1861, finally arrived; and at noon that day, James Buchanan's administration would end, making way for Abraham Lincoln's. As the moment approached that would give Mr. Lincoln greater responsibilities than any of his predecessors had faced, readers can easily imagine his feelings. If he viewed his rise as another step toward the destiny he sometimes believed was waiting for him, that thought added a unique, almost poetic sadness to how he approached the serious duties of the hour.
The morning opened pleasantly. At an early hour he gave his inaugural address its final revision. Extensive preparations had been made to render the occasion as impressive as possible. By nine o'clock the procession had begun to form, and at eleven o'clock it commenced to move toward Willard's Hotel. Mr. Buchanan was still at the Capitol, signing bills till the official term of his office expired. At half-past twelve he called for Mr. Lincoln; and, after a delay of a few moments, both descended, and entered the open barouche in waiting for them. Shortly after, the procession took up its line of march for the Capitol.
The morning started off nicely. He spent the early hours making final tweaks to his inaugural address. There had been a lot of planning to make the event as impressive as possible. By nine o'clock, the procession had begun to line up, and at eleven o'clock, it started moving toward Willard's Hotel. Mr. Buchanan was still at the Capitol, signing bills until his official term ended. At twelve-thirty, he called for Mr. Lincoln; after a brief wait, they both came down and got into the waiting open carriage. Shortly after, the procession began its march to the Capitol.
Apprehensions existed, that possibly some attempt might be made to assassinate Mr. Lincoln; and accordingly his carriage was carefully surrounded by the military and the Committee of Arrangements. By order of Gen. Scott, troops were placed at various points about the city, as well as on the tops of some of the houses along the route of the procession.
Apprehensions existed that there might be an attempt to assassinate Mr. Lincoln, so his carriage was carefully surrounded by the military and the Committee of Arrangements. By order of Gen. Scott, troops were positioned at various points around the city, as well as on the rooftops of some houses along the procession route.
The Senate remained in session till twelve o'clock, when Mr. Breckinridge, in a few well-chosen words, bade the senators farewell, and then conducted his successor, Mr. Hamlin, to the chair. At this moment, members and members elect of the House of Representatives, and the Diplomatic Corps, entered the chamber. At thirteen minutes to one, the Judges of the Supreme Court were announced; and on their entrance, headed by the venerable Chief-Justice Taney, all on the floor arose, while they moved slowly to the seats assigned them at the right of the Vice-President, bowing to that officer as they passed. At fifteen minutes past one, the Marshal-in-Chief entered the chamber ushering in the President and President elect. Mr. Lincoln looked pale, and wan, and anxious. In a few moments, the Marshal led the way to the platform at the eastern portico of the Capitol, where preparations had been made for the inauguration ceremony; and he was followed by the Judges of the Supreme Court, Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate, the Committee of Arrangements, the President and President elect, Vice-President, Secretary of the Senate, Senators, Diplomatic Corps, Heads of Departments, and others in the chamber.
The Senate stayed in session until midnight, when Mr. Breckinridge, in a few carefully chosen words, said goodbye to the senators and then led his successor, Mr. Hamlin, to the chair. At that moment, members and members-elect of the House of Representatives, along with the Diplomatic Corps, entered the chamber. At 12:47, the Judges of the Supreme Court were announced; and upon their entrance, led by the esteemed Chief Justice Taney, everyone on the floor stood as they slowly made their way to the seats assigned to them on the right of the Vice President, bowing to him as they passed. At 1:15, the Marshal-in-Chief entered the chamber, bringing in the President and President-elect. Mr. Lincoln looked pale, worn out, and anxious. A few moments later, the Marshal led the group to the platform at the eastern portico of the Capitol, where preparations had been made for the inauguration ceremony; he was followed by the Judges of the Supreme Court, the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate, the Committee of Arrangements, the President and President-elect, the Vice President, the Secretary of the Senate, Senators, the Diplomatic Corps, Heads of Departments, and others present in the chamber.
On arriving at the platform, Mr. Lincoln was introduced to the assembly, by the Hon. E. D. Baker, United States Senator from Oregon. Stepping forward, in a manner deliberate and impressive, he read in a clear, penetrating voice, the following
On arriving at the platform, Mr. Lincoln was introduced to the crowd by Hon. E. D. Baker, the United States Senator from Oregon. Stepping forward in a deliberate and impressive way, he read in a clear, resonant voice the following
INAUGURAL ADDRESS.
Opening Speech.
Fellow-Citizens of the United States:—
Fellow citizens of the U.S.:—
In compliance with a custom as old as the Government itself, I appear before you to address you briefly, and to take, in your presence, the oath prescribed by the Constitution of the United States to be taken by the President before he enters on the execution of his office.
In keeping with a tradition as old as the Government itself, I stand before you to speak briefly and to take, in your presence, the oath required by the Constitution of the United States to be taken by the President before starting the duties of the office.
I do not consider it necessary, at present, for me to discuss those matters of administration about which there is no special anxiety or excitement. Apprehension seems to exist among the people of the Southern States, that, by the accession of a Republican administration, their property and their peace and personal security are to be endangered. There has never been any reasonable cause for such apprehension. Indeed, the most ample evidence to the contrary has all the while existed, and been open to their inspection. It is found in nearly all the published speeches of him who now addresses you. I do but quote from one of those speeches, when I declare, that "I have no purpose, directly or indirectly, to interfere with the institution of slavery in the States where it exists." I believe I have no lawful right to do so; and I have no inclination to do so. Those who nominated and elected me did so with the full knowledge that I had made this and many similar declarations, and had never recanted them. And, more than this, they placed in the platform, for my acceptance, and as a law to themselves and to me, the clear and emphatic resolution which I now read:—
I don’t think it’s necessary right now for me to talk about administration issues that don’t cause any particular concern or excitement. There seems to be worry among the people in the Southern States that with a Republican administration, their property, peace, and personal safety will be at risk. There has never been any reasonable basis for such concern. In fact, there has always been plenty of evidence to the contrary that has been available for them to see. It’s present in nearly all the speeches made by me, the person speaking to you now. I’ll just quote one of those speeches to say, "I have no intention, directly or indirectly, to interfere with the institution of slavery in the States where it exists." I believe I have no legal right to do so, and I have no desire to do so. Those who nominated and elected me did so fully aware that I had made this and many similar statements, and I have never taken them back. Moreover, they included in the platform, for me to accept and as a guiding principle for both themselves and me, the clear and emphatic resolution that I am now reading:—
"Resolved, That the maintenance inviolate of the rights of the States, and especially the right of each State to order and control its own domestic institutions according to its own judgment exclusively, is essential to that balance of power on which the perfection and endurance of our political fabric depend; and we denounce the lawless invasion by armed force of the soil of any State or Territory, no matter under what pretext, as among the gravest of crimes."
"Resolved, That maintaining the rights of the States, especially each State's authority to manage its own domestic matters as it sees fit, is crucial to the balance of power that supports the integrity and longevity of our political system; and we condemn the unlawful invasion by armed forces into any State or Territory, regardless of the justification, as one of the most serious offenses."
I now reiterate these sentiments; and, in doing so, I only press upon the public attention the most conclusive evidence of which the case is susceptible, that the property, peace, and security of no section are to be in any wise endangered by the now incoming administration.
I want to emphasize these feelings again; and by doing this, I’m simply drawing the public's attention to the most convincing evidence in this case, which shows that the property, peace, and safety of any community will not be threatened at all by the incoming administration.
I add, too, that all the protection which, consistently with the Constitution and the laws, can be given, will be cheerfully given to all the States, when lawfully demanded, for whatever cause, as cheerfully to one section as to another.
I also want to say that all the protection allowed by the Constitution and the laws will be gladly provided to all the States whenever it's lawfully requested, for any reason, just as willingly to one section as to another.
There is much controversy about the delivering up of fugitives from service or labor. The clause I now read is as plainly written in the Constitution as any other of its provisions:—
There is a lot of debate about handing over escaped workers. The clause I'm about to read is clearly written in the Constitution, just like any of its other provisions:—
"No person held to service or labor in one State under the laws thereof, escaping into another, shall, in consequence of any law or regulation therein, be discharged from such service or labor, but shall be delivered up on claim of the party to whom such service or labor may be due."
"No one who is obligated to work or serve in one state, according to its laws, can escape their obligation by fleeing to another state. They cannot be freed from that obligation due to any law or regulation there; instead, they must be returned upon request of the person to whom they owe that work or service."
It is scarcely questioned that this provision was intended by those who made it for the reclaiming of what we call fugitive slaves; and the intention of the lawgiver is the law.
It’s hardly disputed that this rule was designed by its creators for the purpose of reclaiming what we refer to as fugitive slaves; and the intent of the lawmaker is the law.
All members of Congress swear their support to the whole Constitution,—to this provision as well as any other. To the proposition, then, that slaves whose cases come within the terms of this clause "shall be delivered up," their oaths are unanimous. Now, if they would make the effort in good temper, could they not, with nearly equal unanimity, frame and pass a law by means of which to keep good that unanimous oath?
All members of Congress pledge their support to the entire Constitution—this provision as much as any other. So, when it comes to the idea that slaves covered by this clause "shall be delivered up," their oaths are unanimous. Now, if they tried with a positive attitude, couldn't they, with almost the same level of agreement, create and pass a law to uphold that unanimous oath?
There is some difference of opinion whether this clause should be enforced by national or by State authority; but surely that difference is not a very material one. If the slave is to be surrendered, it can be of but little consequence to him or to others by which authority it is done; and should any one in any case be content that this oath shall go unkept on a merely unsubstantial controversy as to how it shall be kept?
There’s some debate about whether this clause should be enforced by national or state authority, but that difference isn’t very significant. If the slave is to be returned, it doesn’t really matter to him or anyone else which authority handles it; and should anyone actually be okay with this oath being ignored over a trivial dispute about how it should be upheld?
Again, in any law upon this subject, ought not all the safeguards of liberty known in civilized and humane jurisprudence to be introduced, so that a free man be not, in any case, surrendered as a slave? And might it not be well at the same time to provide by law for the enforcement of that clause in the Constitution which guarantees that "the citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States"?
Again, in any law regarding this matter, shouldn’t all the protections of freedom recognized in civilized and humane legal systems be included, so that a free person is never turned over as a slave? And wouldn’t it also be a good idea to establish by law the enforcement of that clause in the Constitution that guarantees that "the citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States"?
I take the official oath to-day with no mental reservations, and with no purpose to construe the Constitution or laws by any hypercritical rules; and, while I do not choose now to specify particular acts of Congress as proper to be enforced, I do suggest, that it will be much safer for all, both in official and private stations, to conform to and abide by all those acts which stand unrepealed, than to violate any of them, trusting to find impunity in having them held to be unconstitutional.
I’m taking the official oath today without any mental reservations and with no intention of interpreting the Constitution or laws through overly critical rules. While I won’t specify particular acts of Congress that should be enforced, I suggest that it’s much safer for everyone, both in official and personal roles, to follow and comply with all the acts that haven’t been repealed, rather than breaking any of them in the hope that they’ll be deemed unconstitutional.
It is seventy-two years since the first inauguration of a President under our national Constitution. During that period, fifteen different and very distinguished citizens have in succession administered the executive branch of the government. They have conducted it through many perils, and generally with great success. Yet, with all this scope for precedent, I now enter upon the same task, for the brief constitutional term of four years, under great and peculiar difficulties.
It has been seventy-two years since the first inauguration of a President under our national Constitution. In that time, fifteen different and highly distinguished individuals have successively led the executive branch of the government. They have navigated many challenges, usually with considerable success. Still, with all this history to guide me, I now take on the same responsibility for the short constitutional term of four years, during particularly difficult and unique circumstances.
A disruption of the Federal Union, heretofore only menaced, is now formidably attempted. I hold, that, in the contemplation of universal law and of the Constitution, the Union of these States is perpetual. Perpetuity is implied, if not expressed, in the fundamental law of all national governments. It is safe to assert that no government proper ever had a provision in its organic law for its own termination. Continue to execute all the express provisions of our national Constitution, and the Union will endure forever; it being impossible to destroy it, except by some action not provided for in the instrument itself.
A disruption of the Federal Union, which was previously only threatened, is now being seriously attempted. I believe that, when considering universal law and the Constitution, the Union of these States is meant to last forever. The idea of permanence is implied, if not stated outright, in the foundational laws of all national governments. It's safe to say that no proper government has ever included a clause in its fundamental law for its own termination. If we continue to uphold all the specific provisions of our national Constitution, the Union will last indefinitely; it cannot be destroyed except through actions not outlined in the document itself.
Again, if the United States be not a government proper, but an association of States in the nature of a contract merely, can it, as a contract, be peaceably unmade by less than all the parties who made it? One party to a contract may violate it,—break it, so to speak; but does it not require all to lawfully rescind it? Descending from these general principles, we find the proposition that in legal contemplation the Union is perpetual confirmed by the history of the Union itself.
Again, if the United States isn’t a proper government but more like an association of states based on a contract, can that contract be peacefully undone by fewer than all the parties involved? One party might break the contract, so to speak, but doesn’t it take everyone to legally cancel it? Looking at these general principles, we can see that the idea of the Union being perpetual is backed up by the history of the Union itself.
The Union is much older than the Constitution. It was formed, in fact, by the Articles of Association in 1774. It was matured and continued in the Declaration of Independence in 1776. It was further matured, and the faith of all the then thirteen States expressly plighted and engaged that it should be perpetual, by the Articles of Confederation, in 1778; and, finally, in 1787, one of the declared objects for ordaining and establishing the Constitution was to form a more perfect Union. But, if the destruction of the Union by one or by a part only of the States be lawfully possible, the Union is less than before, the Constitution having lost the vital element of perpetuity.
The Union is much older than the Constitution. It was actually formed by the Articles of Association in 1774. It was further developed and carried on in the Declaration of Independence in 1776. It was enhanced even more, and all thirteen States explicitly committed to its permanence through the Articles of Confederation in 1778; and finally, in 1787, one of the stated goals for creating and establishing the Constitution was to create a more perfect Union. However, if destroying the Union by one or just a part of the States is legally possible, the Union becomes diminished, with the Constitution losing the crucial element of perpetuity.
It follows from these views that no State, upon its own mere motion, can lawfully get out of the Union; that resolves and ordinances to that effect are legally void; and that acts of violence within any State or States against the authority of the United States, are insurrectionary or revolutionary according to circumstances.
It follows from these views that no state can lawfully leave the Union on its own; any resolutions or ordinances to do so are legally invalid; and acts of violence within any state against the authority of the United States are considered insurrectionary or revolutionary depending on the circumstances.
I therefore consider, that, in view of the Constitution and the laws, the Union is unbroken; and, to the extent of my ability, I shall take care, as the Constitution itself expressly enjoins upon me, that the laws of the Union shall be faithfully executed in all the States. Doing this, which I deem to be only a simple duty on my part, I shall perfectly perform it, so far as is practicable, unless my rightful masters, the American people, shall withhold the requisite power, or in some authoritative manner direct the contrary.
I believe that, according to the Constitution and the laws, the Union is still intact; and, to the best of my ability, I will ensure, as the Constitution clearly requires of me, that the laws of the Union are faithfully enforced in all the States. By doing this, which I see as just my duty, I will carry it out as thoroughly as possible, unless my rightful bosses, the American people, decide to take away the necessary power or instruct me otherwise in some official manner.
I trust this will not be regarded as a menace, but only as the declared purpose of the Union that it will constitutionally defend and maintain itself.
I hope this isn't seen as a threat, but rather as the stated goal of the Union to constitutionally defend and uphold itself.
In doing this, there need be no bloodshed or violence; and there shall be none unless it is forced upon the national authority.
In doing this, there shouldn't be any bloodshed or violence; and there won't be unless it's forced upon the national authority.
The power confided to me will be used to hold, occupy, and possess the property and places belonging to the government, and collect the duties and imposts; but, beyond what may be necessary for these objects, there will be no invasion, no using of force against or among the people anywhere.
The authority given to me will be used to hold, occupy, and possess the properties and places owned by the government, and to collect the taxes and duties; however, other than what’s needed for these purposes, there will be no invasion, no use of force against or among the people anywhere.
Where hostility to the United States shall be so great and so universal as to prevent competent resident citizens from holding the Federal offices, there will be no attempt to force obnoxious strangers among the people for that object. While the strict legal right may exist of the Government to enforce the exercise of these offices, the attempt to do so would be so irritating, and so nearly impracticable withal, that I deem it better to forego for the time the uses of such offices.
Where hostility toward the United States is so strong and widespread that it prevents qualified citizens from taking Federal positions, there won’t be any effort to impose unwanted outsiders on the people for that purpose. Even though the Government may have a strict legal right to enforce these positions, trying to do so would be incredibly frustrating and nearly impossible, so I believe it's better to temporarily forgo the functions of such offices.
The mails, unless repelled, will continue to be furnished in all parts of the Union.
The mail, unless stopped, will keep being delivered throughout the entire Union.
So far as possible, the people everywhere shall have that sense of perfect security which is most favorable to calm thought and reflection.
As much as possible, people everywhere should feel a sense of complete security that is best for clear thinking and reflection.
The course here indicated will be followed, unless current events and experience shall show a modification or change to be proper; and in every case and exigency my best discretion will be exercised according to the circumstances actually existing, and with a view and hope of a peaceful solution of the national troubles, and the restoration of fraternal sympathies and affections.
The course outlined here will be followed unless current events and experiences suggest that a modification or change is necessary; in every situation, I will use my best judgment based on the circumstances at hand, with the aim and hope of achieving a peaceful resolution to the national issues and restoring brotherly feelings and connections.
That there are persons, in one section or another, who seek to destroy the Union at all events, and are glad of any pretext to do it, I will neither affirm nor deny. But, if there be such, I need address no word to them.
That there are people, in one way or another, who want to tear down the Union no matter what, and are happy to use any excuse to do so, I will neither confirm nor deny. But if such people exist, I don’t need to say anything to them.
To those, however, who really love the Union, may I not speak? Before entering upon so grave a matter as the destruction of our national fabric, with all its benefits, its memories, and its hopes, would it not be well to ascertain why we do it? Will you hazard so desperate a step, while any portion of the ills you fly from have no real existence? Will you, while the certain ills you fly to are greater than all the real ones you fly from? Will you risk the commission of so fearful a mistake? All profess to be content in the Union if all constitutional rights can be maintained. Is it true, then, that any right, plainly written in the Constitution, has been denied? I think not. Happily the human mind is so constituted, that no party can reach to the audacity of doing this.
To those who truly love the Union, can I not speak? Before we dive into something as serious as tearing apart our national structure, with all its benefits, memories, and hopes, shouldn’t we figure out why we’re doing this? Are you really willing to take such a drastic step when some of the problems you’re trying to escape don’t even exist? Are you prepared to face the certain problems you’re heading toward that are worse than the real ones you’re trying to leave behind? Will you risk making such a huge mistake? Everyone claims to be happy in the Union if all constitutional rights are upheld. So, is it true that any right clearly stated in the Constitution has been denied? I don’t think so. Thankfully, the human mind is structured in such a way that no group can dare to do this.
Think, if you can, of a single instance in which a plainly written provision of the Constitution has ever been denied. If, by the mere force of numbers, a majority should deprive a minority of any clearly written constitutional right, it might, in a moral point of view, justify revolution: it certainly would, if such right were a vital one. But such is not our case.
Think, if you can, of a single instance in which a clearly written section of the Constitution has ever been denied. If, simply by the power of numbers, a majority were to take away a minority's clearly written constitutional right, it might, from a moral standpoint, justify a revolution: it definitely would, if that right were essential. But that is not our situation.
All the vital rights of minorities and of individuals are so plainly assured to them by affirmations and negations, guaranties and prohibitions, in the Constitution, that controversies never arise concerning them. But no organic law can ever be framed with a provision specifically applicable to every question which may occur in practical administration. No foresight can anticipate, nor any document of reasonable length contain, express provisions for all possible questions. Shall fugitives from labor be surrendered by National or by State authority? The Constitution does not expressly say. Must Congress protect slavery in the Territories? The Constitution does not expressly say. From questions of this class spring all our constitutional controversies, and we divide upon them into majorities and minorities.
All the essential rights of minorities and individuals are clearly guaranteed to them through affirmations and negations, guarantees and prohibitions, in the Constitution, so there are no disputes about them. However, no fundamental law can be created with a provision that specifically addresses every issue that may arise in practical governance. No amount of foresight can predict, nor can any reasonably sized document include, explicit provisions for every possible question. Should fugitives from labor be surrendered by national or state authorities? The Constitution doesn't explicitly state that. Does Congress need to protect slavery in the territories? The Constitution doesn't explicitly say that either. It’s these kinds of questions that lead to all of our constitutional disputes, and we split into majorities and minorities over them.
If the minority will not acquiesce, the majority must, or the government must cease. There is no alternative for continuing the government but acquiescence on the one side or the other. If a minority, in such a case, will secede rather than acquiesce, they make a precedent which in turn will ruin and divide them; for a minority of their own will secede from them, whenever a majority refuses to be controlled by such a minority. For instance, why not any portion of a new confederacy, a year or two hence, arbitrarily secede again, precisely as portions of the present Union now claim to secede from it? All who cherish disunion sentiments are now being educated to the exact temper of doing this. Is there such perfect identity of interests among the States to compose a new Union as to produce harmony only, and prevent renewed secession? Plainly, the central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy.
If the minority won’t go along with it, the majority has to, or the government will have to stop. There’s no way to keep the government going without agreement from one side or the other. If a minority decides to break away instead of going along, they set a precedent that will ultimately lead to their downfall and division; because a minority within their own group will break away whenever a majority refuses to follow such a minority. For example, why wouldn’t any part of a new confederacy, a year or two from now, decide to break away again, just like parts of the current Union are now trying to do? Everyone who supports disunion is being prepared to take this exact action. Is there such a perfect match of interests among the states that would form a new Union that it would create only harmony and prevent any further secession? Clearly, the core idea of secession is the essence of chaos.
A majority held in restraint by constitutional check and limitation, and always changing easily with deliberate changes of popular opinions and sentiments, is the only true sovereign of a free people. Whoever rejects it does, of necessity, fly to anarchy or to despotism. Unanimity is impossible: the rule of a minority, as a permanent arrangement, is wholly inadmissible; so that, rejecting the majority principle, anarchy or despotism in some form is all that is left.
A majority kept in check by constitutional limits, and always shifting with changes in public opinion and feelings, is the only real authority of a free society. Anyone who turns away from this will inevitably fall into chaos or tyranny. Total agreement is not possible; a minority ruling as a permanent setup is completely unacceptable; therefore, if we reject the idea of majority rule, all that remains is some form of chaos or tyranny.
I do not forget the position assumed by some, that constitutional questions are to be decided by the Supreme Court, nor do I deny that such decisions must be binding in any case upon the parties to a suit, as to the object of that suit; while they are also entitled to very high respect and consideration in all parallel cases by all other departments of the government; and, while it is obviously possible that such decision may be erroneous in any given case, still, the evil effect following it, being limited to that particular case, with the chance that it may be overruled and never become a precedent for other cases, can better be borne than could the evils of a different practice.
I don’t forget that some people believe constitutional questions should be decided by the Supreme Court, and I agree that those decisions must be binding for the parties involved in a case regarding the matter at hand. They also deserve great respect and consideration in similar cases by all other branches of government. While it’s clear that such decisions could be wrong in specific instances, the negative impact, being confined to that particular case—with the possibility of it being overturned and not becoming a precedent for future cases—is easier to accept than the issues that would arise from a different approach.
At the same time, the candid citizen must confess, that, if the policy of the government upon the vital questions affecting the whole people is to be irrevocably fixed by the decisions of the Supreme Court the instant they are made, as in ordinary litigation between parties in personal actions, the people will have ceased to be their own masters, having to that extent practically resigned their government into the hands of that eminent tribunal.
At the same time, the honest citizen has to admit that if the government's policy on crucial issues that affect everyone is permanently determined by the Supreme Court's decisions the moment they're made, just like in regular legal cases between individuals, then the people will no longer be in control of their own governance, effectively handing it over to that distinguished court.
Nor is there in this view any assault upon the court or the judges. It is a duty from which they may not shrink, to decide cases properly brought before them; and it is no fault of theirs if others seek to turn their decisions to political purposes. One section of our country believes slavery is right and ought to be extended, while the other believes it is wrong and ought not to be extended; and this is the only substantial dispute: and the fugitive-slave clause of the Constitution, and the law for the suppression of the foreign slave-trade, are each as well enforced, perhaps, as any law can ever be in a community where the moral sense of the people imperfectly supports the law itself. The great body of the people abide by the dry, legal obligation in both cases, and a few break over in each. This, I think, cannot be perfectly cured; and it would be worse in both cases after the separation of the sections than before. The foreign slave-trade, now imperfectly suppressed, would be ultimately revived, without restriction, in one section; while fugitive slaves, now only partially surrendered, would not be surrendered at all by the other.
There’s no attack on the court or the judges in this view. They have a responsibility they can’t avoid: to decide cases that are appropriately presented to them, and it’s not their fault if others try to use their decisions for political aims. One part of our country believes slavery is right and should be expanded, while the other thinks it’s wrong and should not be expanded; that’s the main disagreement. The fugitive-slave clause of the Constitution and the law against the foreign slave trade are enforced, perhaps as well as any law can be in a community where the moral beliefs of the people don’t fully back the law itself. The majority of people follow the strict legal requirements in both cases, while a few individuals break the law in each situation. I believe this issue can’t be completely resolved; and it would actually become worse after the regions separate than it is now. The foreign slave trade, which is currently not fully suppressed, would eventually be reinstated without control in one region, while fugitive slaves, who are now only partially returned, would not be returned at all by the other region.
Physically speaking, we cannot separate: we cannot remove our respective sections from each other, nor build an impassable wall between them. A husband and wife may be divorced, and go out of the presence and beyond the reach of each other; but the different parts of our country cannot do this. They cannot but remain face to face; and intercourse, either amicable or hostile, must continue between them. Is it possible, then, to make that intercourse more advantageous or more satisfactory after separation than before? Can aliens make treaties easier than friends can make laws? Can treaties be more faithfully enforced between aliens than laws can among friends? Suppose you go to war, you cannot fight always; and when, after much loss on both sides, and no gain on either, you cease fighting, the identical questions as to terms of intercourse are again upon you.
Physically, we can't separate: we can't pull our parts away from each other or build an impassable barrier between them. A husband and wife may get divorced and step away from each other's presence, but the different regions of our country can't do that. They have to remain face to face, and interaction, whether friendly or hostile, must continue between them. Is it really possible to make that interaction more beneficial or satisfying after a split than it was before? Can strangers make agreements more easily than friends can create laws? Can treaties be enforced more faithfully between outsiders than laws can among friends? If you go to war, you can't fight forever; and when, after heavy losses on both sides and no gains for either, you stop fighting, the same questions about terms of interaction come up again.
This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it. I cannot be ignorant of the fact, that many worthy and patriotic citizens are desirous of having the national Constitution amended. While I make no recommendation of amendment, I fully recognize the full authority of the people over the whole subject, to be exercised in either of the modes prescribed in the instrument itself; and I should, under existing circumstances, favor rather than oppose a fair opportunity being afforded the people to act upon it.
This country, along with its institutions, belongs to the people who live here. Whenever they get tired of the current government, they can use their constitutional right to make changes, or their revolutionary right to break it apart or replace it. I understand that many dedicated and patriotic citizens want to see changes to the national Constitution. While I'm not suggesting any specific amendments, I fully acknowledge the people's complete authority over this issue, which can be exercised in the ways outlined in the Constitution itself; and I would, given the current circumstances, support rather than oppose a fair chance for the people to take action on it.
I will venture to add, that to me the convention mode seems preferable, in that it allows amendments to originate with the people themselves, instead of only permitting them to take or reject propositions originated by others not especially chosen for the purpose, and which might not be precisely such as they would wish either to accept or refuse. I understand that a proposed amendment to the Constitution (which amendment, however, I have not seen) has passed Congress, to the effect that the Federal Government shall never interfere with the domestic institutions of States, including that of persons held to service. To avoid misconstruction of what I have said, I depart from my purpose not to speak of particular amendments so far as to say, that, holding such a provision to now be implied constitutional law, I have no objection to its being made express and irrevocable.
I want to say that I think the convention method is better because it lets the people propose changes themselves, rather than just voting on ideas put forward by others who weren’t specifically chosen for that. Those proposals might not be exactly what they want to accept or reject. I’ve heard that a proposed amendment to the Constitution, which I haven’t seen, has passed Congress. This amendment states that the Federal Government can never interfere with the domestic institutions of States, including the issue of people held in service. To clarify what I've mentioned, I'm stepping away from my intention not to talk about specific amendments just long enough to say that since I view such a provision as implied constitutional law now, I wouldn’t mind it being made clear and permanent.
The chief magistrate derives all his authority from the people, and they have conferred none upon him to fix the terms for the separation of the States. The people themselves, also, can do this if they choose; but the Executive, as such, has nothing to do with it. His duty is to administer the present government as it came to his hands, and to transmit it unimpaired by him to his successor. Why should there not be a patient confidence in the ultimate justice of the people? Is there any better or equal hope in the world? In our present differences, is either party without faith of being in the right? If the Almighty Ruler of nations, with his eternal truth and justice, be on your side of the North, or on yours of the South, that truth and that justice will surely prevail by the judgment of this great tribunal,—the American people. By the frame of the government under which we live, this same people have wisely given their public servants but little power for mischief, and have with equal wisdom provided for the return of that little to their own hands at very short intervals. While the people retain their virtue and vigilance, no administration, by any extreme wickedness or folly, can very seriously injure the Government in the short space of four years.
The chief magistrate gets all his authority from the people, and they haven’t given him the power to determine how the States should separate. The people themselves can do this if they want; however, the Executive has no role in it. His responsibility is to manage the current government as it was handed to him and to pass it on unchanged to his successor. Why shouldn’t there be a reliable faith in the ultimate fairness of the people? Is there any better or equal hope in the world? In our current disagreements, is either side without a belief in being right? If the Supreme Ruler of nations, with his eternal truth and justice, is on your side in the North or yours in the South, that truth and justice will eventually prevail through this great jury—the American people. The structure of the government we live under gives the people wisely limited power to create harm and also wisely allows them to take that power back into their own hands at short intervals. As long as the people maintain their virtue and vigilance, no administration can seriously damage the Government in just four years, no matter how extreme their wrongdoing or foolishness may be.
My countrymen, one and all, think calmly and well upon this whole subject. Nothing valuable can be lost by taking time.
My fellow countrymen, take a moment to think carefully and thoroughly about this whole issue. You won’t lose anything valuable by pausing to reflect.
If there be an object to hurry any of you, in hot haste, to a step which you would never take deliberately, that object will be frustrated by taking time; but no good object can be frustrated by it.
If there’s something pushing any of you to rush into a decision you would never make thoughtfully, that push will be defeated by taking your time; however, no good intention can be defeated by it.
Such of you as are now dissatisfied still have the old Constitution unimpaired, and, on the sensitive point, the laws of your own framing under it; while the new administration will have no immediate power, if it would, to change either.
Those of you who are unhappy still have the old Constitution intact, along with the laws you created under it; the new administration won’t have the immediate power to change either, even if it wanted to.
If it were admitted that you who are dissatisfied hold the right side in the dispute, there is still no single reason for precipitate action. Intelligence, patriotism, Christianity, and a firm reliance on Him who has never yet forsaken this favored land, are still competent to adjust, in the best way, all our present difficulties.
If we accept that you who are unhappy are on the right side of the argument, there’s still no reason for hasty action. Intelligence, patriotism, Christianity, and a strong trust in Him who has never let this blessed country down are still enough to resolve all our current challenges in the best way possible.
In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The Government will not assail you.
In your hands, my unhappy fellow citizens, and not in mine, is the critical issue of civil war. The Government will not attack you.
You can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors. You can have no oath registered in heaven to destroy the Government; while I shall have the most solemn one to "preserve, protect, and defend" it.
You can't have a conflict without being the aggressors yourselves. There’s no oath in heaven that allows for the destruction of the Government, while I have the most serious vow to "preserve, protect, and defend" it.
I am loah to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.
I’m reluctant to end things. We aren’t enemies; we’re friends. We can’t be enemies. Even though our emotions might have been intense, they shouldn’t sever our ties of friendship.
The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.
The powerful connections of memory, reaching from every battlefield and patriotic grave to every living heart and home across this vast nation, will once again bring together the spirit of the Union, when they are inevitably inspired by the better side of our nature.
This address, so characteristic of its author, and so full of the best qualities of Mr. Lincoln's nature, was well received by the large audience which heard it. Having finished, Mr. Lincoln turned to Chief-Justice Taney, who, with much apparent agitation and emotion, administered to him the following oath:—
This speech, which perfectly reflects its author and showcases the best qualities of Mr. Lincoln's character, was well-received by the large audience that listened to it. After finishing, Mr. Lincoln turned to Chief Justice Taney, who, visibly shaken and emotional, administered the following oath to him:—
"I, Abraham Lincoln, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."
"I, Abraham Lincoln, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully carry out the duties of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, uphold, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."
The ceremony concluded, Mr. Lincoln, as President of the United States, in charge of the Committee of Arrangements, was accompanied by Mr. Buchanan back to the Senate- Chamber, and from there to the Executive Mansion. Here Mr. Buchanan took leave of him, invoking upon his administration a peaceful and happy result; and here for the present we leave him. In another volume we shall endeavor to trace his career as the nation's Chief Magistrate during the ensuing four years.
The ceremony ended, and Mr. Lincoln, as President of the United States and head of the Committee of Arrangements, was joined by Mr. Buchanan as they walked back to the Senate Chamber, and then to the Executive Mansion. There, Mr. Buchanan said goodbye, wishing him a peaceful and successful administration; and for now, we leave him here. In another volume, we will try to follow his journey as the nation's Chief Magistrate over the next four years.
APPENDIX.
THE circumstances under which the original of the accompanying facsimile was written are explained in the following letter:—
THE circumstances under which the original of the accompanying facsimile was written are explained in the following letter:—
National Hotel, Washington, D.C., Feb. 19, 1872. Colonel Ward H. Lamon.
National Hotel, Washington, D.C., Feb. 19, 1872. Colonel Ward H. Lamon.
Dear Sir,—In compliance with your request, I place in your hands a copy of a manuscript in my possession written by Abraham Lincoln, giving a brief account of his early history, and the commencement of that political career which terminated in his election to the Presidency.
Dear Sir,—As you requested, I am giving you a copy of a manuscript I have that was written by Abraham Lincoln. It provides a brief overview of his early life and the start of his political career, which led to his election as President.
It may not be inappropriate to say, that some time preceding the writing of the enclosed, finding, in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, a laudable curiosity in the public mind to know more about the early history of Mr. Lincoln, and looking, too, to the possibilities of his being an available candidate for the Presidency in 1860, I had on several occasions requested of him this information, and that it was not without some hesitation he placed in my hands even this very modest account of himself, which he did in the month of December, 1859.
It might not be out of place to say that some time before writing the enclosed letter, I noticed a genuine interest from the public in Pennsylvania and beyond to learn more about the early life of Mr. Lincoln. Considering the chance of him being a viable candidate for the Presidency in 1860, I asked him several times for this information. After some hesitation, he finally handed me this very modest account of himself in December 1859.
To this were added, by myself, other facts bearing upon his legislative and political history, and the whole forwarded to a friend residing in my native county (Chester, Pa.),—the Hon. Joseph J. Lewis, former Commissioner of Internal Revenue,—who made them the basis of an ably-written and somewhat elaborate memoir of the late President, which appeared in the Pennsylvania and other papers of the country in January, 1860, and which contributed to prepare the way for the subsequent nomination at Chicago the following June.
To this, I added more facts related to his legislative and political history, and sent it all to a friend living in my home county (Chester, Pa.)—the Hon. Joseph J. Lewis, a former Commissioner of Internal Revenue—who used them as the foundation for a well-written and detailed memoir of the late President. This memoir was published in the Pennsylvania and other newspapers across the country in January 1860 and helped pave the way for the upcoming nomination in Chicago the following June.
Believing this brief and unpretending narrative, written by himself in his own peculiar vein,—and injustice to him I should add, without the remotest expectation of its ever appearing in public,—with the attending circumstances, may be of interest to the numerous admirers of that historic and truly great man, I place it at your disposal.
Believing this short and simple story, written by him in his unique style—without any expectation that it would ever be made public—I think the context around it might interest the many fans of that historic and truly great man, so I’m sharing it with you.
I am truly yours,
I’m truly yours,
Jesse W. Fell.
Jesse W. Fell.
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