In one of his letters Lincoln bemoaned his sad fate and referred to "the fatal 1st of January," probably the date when his engagement or "the understanding" with Mary Todd was broken. From this expression, one of Lincoln's biographers elaborated a damaging fiction, stating that Lincoln and his affianced were to have been married that day, that the wedding supper was ready, that the bride was all dressed for the ceremony, the guests assembled—but the melancholy bridegroom failed to come to his own wedding!

If such a thing had happened in a little town like Springfield in those days, the guests would have told of it, and everybody would have gossiped about it. It would have been a nine days' wonder, and such a great joker as Lincoln would "never have heard the last of it."

THE STRANGE EVENTS LEADING UP TO LINCOLN'S MARRIAGE

After Lincoln's return from visiting the Speeds in Louisville, he threw himself into politics again, not, however, in his own behalf. He declined to be a candidate again for the State Legislature, in which he had served four consecutive terms, covering a period of eight years. He engaged enthusiastically in the "Log Cabin" campaign of 1840, when the country went for "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too," which means that General William Henry Harrison, the hero of the battle of Tippecanoe, and John Tyler were elected President and Vice-President of the United States.

In 1842 the young lawyer had so far recovered from bodily illness and mental unhappiness as to write more cheerful letters to his friend Speed of which two short extracts follow:

"It seems to me that I should have been entirely happy but for the never-absent idea that there is one (Miss Todd) 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 at her return spoke, so I heard of it, of having 'enjoyed the trip exceedingly.' God be praised for that."

* * * * *

"You will see by the last Sangamon Journal that I made a temperance speech on the 22d of February, which I claim that Fanny and you shall read as an act of charity toward me; for I cannot learn that anybody has read it or is likely to. Fortunately it is not long, and I shall deem it a sufficient compliance with my request if one of you listens while the other reads it."

Early the following summer Lincoln wrote for the Sangamon Journal a humorous criticism of State Auditor Shields, a vain and "touchy" little man. This was in the form of a story and signed by "Rebecca of the Lost Townships." The article created considerable amusement and might have passed unnoticed by the conceited little auditor if it had not been followed by another, less humorous, but more personal and satirical, signed in the same way, but the second communication was written by two mischievous (if not malicious) girls—Mary Todd and her friend, Julia Jayne. This stinging attack made Shields wild with rage, and he demanded the name of the writer of it. Lincoln told the editor to give Shields his name as if he had written both contributions and thus protect the two young ladies. The auditor then challenged the lawyer to fight a duel. Lincoln, averse to dueling, chose absurd weapons, imposed ridiculous conditions and tried to treat the whole affair as a huge joke. When the two came face to face, explanations became possible and the ludicrous duel was avoided. Lincoln's conduct throughout this humiliating affair plainly showed that, while Shields would gladly have killed him, he had no intention of injuring the man who had challenged him.

Mary Todd's heart seems to have softened toward the young man who was willing to risk his life for her sake, and the pair, after a long and miserable misunderstanding on both sides, were happily married on the 4th of November, 1842. Their wedding ceremony was the first ever performed in Springfield by the use of the Episcopal ritual.

When one of the guests, bluff old Judge Tom Brown, saw the bridegroom placing the ring on Miss Todd's finger, and repeating after the minister, "With this ring"—"I thee wed"—"and with all"—"my worldly goods"—"I thee endow"—he exclaimed, in a stage whisper:

"Grace to Goshen, Lincoln, the statute fixes all that!"

In a letter to Speed, not long after this event, the happy bridegroom wrote:

"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 rooms are the same Dr. Wallace occupied there, and boarding only costs four dollars a week (for the two). I most heartily wish you and your family will not fail to come. Just let us know the time, a week in advance, and we will have a room prepared for you and we'll all be merry together for a while."



CHAPTER XV

LINCOLN & HERNDON

YOUNG HERNDON'S STRANGE FASCINATION FOR LINCOLN

Lincoln remained in the office with Judge Logan about four years, dissolving partnership in 1845. Meanwhile he was interesting himself in behalf of young William H. Herndon, who, after Speed's removal to Kentucky, had gone to college at Jacksonville, Ill. The young man seemed to be made of the right kind of metal, was industrious, and agreeable, and Mr. Lincoln looked forward to the time when he could have "Billy" with him in a business of his own.

Mrs. Lincoln, with that marvelous instinct which women often possess, opposed her husband's taking Bill Herndon into partnership. While the young man was honest and capable enough, he was neither brilliant nor steady. He contracted the habit of drinking, the bane of Lincoln's business career. As Mr. Lincoln had not yet paid off "the national debt" largely due to his first business partner's drunkenness, it seems rather strange that he did not listen to his wife's admonitions. But young Herndon seems always to have exercised a strange fascination over his older friend and partner.

While yet in partnership with Judge Logan, Mr. Lincoln went into the national campaign of 1844, making speeches in Illinois and Indiana for Henry Clay, to whom he was thoroughly devoted.

Before this campaign Lincoln had written to Mr. Speed:

"We had a meeting of the Whigs of the county here 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 attempts to decline it, appointed me one of the delegates, so that in getting Baker the nomination I shall be fixed like a fellow who is made a groomsman to a fellow that has cut him out, and is marrying his own dear 'gal.'"

Mr. Lincoln, about this time, was offered the nomination for Governor of Illinois, and declined the honor. Mrs. Lincoln, who had supreme confidence in her husband's ability, tried to make him more self-seeking in his political efforts. He visited his old home in Indiana, making several speeches in that part of the State. It was fourteen years after he and all the family had removed to Illinois. One of his speeches was delivered from the door of a harness shop near Gentryville, and one he made in the "Old Carter Schoolhouse." After this address he drove home with Mr. Josiah Crawford—"Old Blue Nose" for whom he had "pulled fodder" to pay an exorbitant price for Weems's "Life of Washington," and in whose house his sister and he had lived as hired girl and hired man. He delighted the old friends by asking about everybody, and being interested in the "old swimming-hole," Jones's grocery where he had often argued and "held forth," the saw-pit, the old mill, the blacksmith shop, whose owner, Mr. Baldwin, had told him some of his best stories, and where he once started in to learn the blacksmith's trade. He went around and called on all his former acquaintances who were still living in the neighborhood. His memories were so vivid and his emotions so keen that he wrote a long poem about this, from which the following are three stanzas:

"My childhood's home I see again And sadden with the view; And still, as memory crowds the brain, There's pleasure in it, too.

"Ah, Memory! thou midway world 'Twixt earth and paradise, Where things decayed and loved ones lost In dreamy shadows rise.

"And freed from all that's earthy, vile, Seems hallowed, pure and bright, Like scenes in some enchanted isle, All bathed in liquid light."

TRYING TO SAVE BILLY FROM A BAD HABIT

As Mr. Lincoln spent so much of his time away from Springfield he felt that he needed a younger assistant to "keep office" and look after his cases in the different courts. He should not have made "Billy" Herndon an equal partner, but he did so, though the young man had neither the ability nor experience to earn anything like half the income of the office. If Herndon had kept sober and done his best he might have made some return for all that Mr. Lincoln, who treated him like a foster-father, was trying to do for him. But "Billy" did nothing of the sort. He took advantage of his senior partner's absences by going on sprees with several dissipated young men about town.

WHAT LAWYER LINCOLN DID WITH A FAT FEE

A Springfield gentleman relates the following story which shows Lawyer Lincoln's business methods, his unwillingness to charge much for his legal services; and his great longing to save his young partner from the clutches of drink:

"My father," said the neighbor, "was in business, facing the square, not far from the Court House. He had an account with a man who seemed to be doing a good, straight business for years, but the fellow disappeared one night, owing father about $1000. Time went on and father got no trace of the vanished debtor. He considered the account as good as lost.

"But one day, in connection with other business, he told Mr. Lincoln he would give him half of what he could recover of that bad debt. The tall attorney's deep gray eyes twinkled as he said, 'One-half of nought is nothing. I'm neither a shark nor a shyster, Mr. Man. If I should collect it, I would accept only my regular percentage.'

"'But I mean it,' father said earnestly. 'I should consider it as good as finding money in the street.'

"'And "the finder will be liberally rewarded," eh?' said Mr. Lincoln with a laugh.

"'Yes,' my father replied, 'that's about the size of it; and I'm glad if you understand it. The members of the bar here grumble because you charge too little for your professional services, and I'm willing to do my share toward educating you in the right direction.'

"'Well, seein' as it's you,' said Mr. Lincoln with a whimsical smile, 'considering that you're such an intimate friend, I'd do it for twice as much as I'd charge a total stranger! Is that satisfactory?'

"'I should not be satisfied with giving you less than half the gross amount collected—in this case,' my father insisted. 'I don't see why you are so loath to take what is your due, Mr. Lincoln. You have a family to support and will have to provide for the future of several boys. They need money and are as worthy of it as any other man's wife and sons.'

"Mr. Lincoln put out his big bony hand as if to ward off a blow, exclaiming in a pained tone:

"'That isn't it, Mr. Man. That isn't it. I yield to no man in love to my wife and babies, and I provide enough for them. Most of those who bring their cases to me need the money more than I do. Other lawyers rob them. They act like a pack of wolves. They have no mercy. So when a needy fellow comes to me in his trouble—sometimes it's a poor widow—I can't take much from them. I'm not much of a Shylock. I always try to get them to settle it without going into court. I tell them if they will make it up among themselves I won't charge them anything.'

"'Well, Mr. Lincoln,' said father with a laugh, 'if they were all like you there would be no need of lawyers.'

"'Well,' exclaimed Lawyer Lincoln with a quizzical inflection which meant much. 'Look out for the millennium, Mr. Man—still, as a great favor, I'll charge you a fat fee if I ever find that fellow and can get anything out of him. But that's like promising to give you half of the first dollar I find floating up the Sangamon on a grindstone, isn't it? I'll take a big slice, though, out of the grindstone itself, if you say so,' and the tall attorney went out with the peculiar laugh that afterward became world-famous.

"Not long afterward, while in Bloomington, out on the circuit, Mr. Lincoln ran across the man who had disappeared from Springfield 'between two days,' carrying on an apparently prosperous business under an assumed name. Following the man to his office and managing to talk with him alone, the lawyer, by means of threats, made the man go right to the bank and draw out the whole thousand then. It meant payment in full or the penitentiary. The man understood it and went white as a sheet. In all his sympathy for the poor and needy, Mr. Lincoln had no pity on the flourishing criminal. Money could not purchase the favor of Lincoln.

"Well, I hardly know which half of that thousand dollars father was gladder to get, but I honestly believe he was more pleased on Mr. Lincoln's account than on his own.

"'Let me give you your five hundred dollars before I change my mind,' he said to the attorney.

"'One hundred dollars is all I'll take out of that,' Mr. Lincoln replied emphatically. 'It was no trouble, and—and I haven't earned even that much.'

"'But Mr. Lincoln,' my father demurred, 'you promised to take half.'

"'Yes, but you got my word under false pretenses, as it were. Neither of us had the least idea I would collect the bill even if I ever found the fellow.'

"As he would not accept more than one hundred dollars that day, father wouldn't give him any of the money due, for fear the too scrupulous attorney would give him a receipt in full for collecting. Finally, Mr. Lincoln went away after yielding enough to say he might accept two hundred and fifty dollars sometime in a pinch of some sort.

"The occasion was not long delayed—but it was not because of illness or any special necessity in his own family. His young partner, 'Billy' Herndon, had been carousing with several of his cronies in a saloon around on Fourth Street, and the gang had broken mirrors, decanters and other things in their drunken spree. The proprietor, tired of such work, had had them all arrested.

"Mr. Lincoln, always alarmed when Billy failed to appear at the usual hour in the morning, went in search of him, and found him and his partners in distress, locked up in the calaboose. The others were helpless, unable to pay or to promise to pay for any of the damages, so it devolved on Mr. Lincoln to raise the whole two hundred and fifty dollars the angry saloon keeper demanded.

"He came into our office out of breath and said sheepishly:

"'I reckon I can use that two-fifty now.'

"'Check or currency?' asked father.

"'Currency, if you've got it handy.'

"'Give Mr. Lincoln two hundred and fifty dollars,' father called to a clerk in the office.

"There was a moment's pause, during which my father refrained from asking any questions, and Mr. Lincoln was in no mood to give information. As soon as the money was brought, the tall attorney seized the bills and stalked out without counting it or saying anything but 'Thankee, Mr. Man,' and hurried diagonally across the square toward the Court House, clutching the precious banknotes in his bony talons.

"Father saw him cross the street so fast that the tails of his long coat stood out straight behind; then go up the Court House steps, two at a time, and disappear.

"We learned afterward what he did with the money. Of course, Bill Herndon was penitent and promised to mend his ways, and, of course, Mr. Lincoln believed him. He took the money very much against his will, even against his principles—thinking it might save his junior partner from the drunkard's grave. But the heart of Abraham Lincoln was hoping against hope."



CHAPTER XVI

HIS KINDNESS OF HEART

PUTTING TWO YOUNG BIRDS BACK IN THE NEST

Mr. Lincoln's tender-heartedness was the subject of much amusement among his fellow attorneys. One day, while out riding with several friends, they missed Lincoln. One of them, having heard the distressed cries of two young birds that had fallen from the nest, surmised that this had something to do with Mr. Lincoln's disappearance. The man was right. Lincoln had hitched his horse and climbed the fence into the thicket where the fledglings were fluttering on the ground in great fright. He caught the young birds and tenderly carried them about until he found their nest. Climbing the tree he put the birdlings back where they belonged. After an hour Mr. Lincoln caught up with his companions, who laughed at him for what they called his "childishness." He answered them earnestly:

"Gentlemen, you may laugh, but I could not have slept tonight if I had not saved those little birds. The mother's cries and theirs would have rung in my ears."

LAWYER LINCOLN, IN A NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES, RESCUING A PIG STUCK IN THE MUD

Lawyer Lincoln rode from one county-seat to another, on the Eighth Judicial Circuit of Illinois, either on the back of a raw-boned horse, or in a rickety buggy drawn by the same old "crowbait," as his legal friends called the animal. The judge and lawyers of the several courts traveled together and whiled away the time chatting and joking. Of course, Abraham Lincoln was in great demand because of his unfailing humor.

One day he appeared in a new suit of clothes. This was such a rare occurrence that the friends made remarks about it. The garments did not fit him very well, and the others felt in duty bound to "say things" which were anything but complimentary.

As they rode along through the mud they were making Lincoln the butt of their gibes. He was not like most jokers, for he could take as well as give, while he could "give as good as he got."

In the course of their "chaffing" they came to a spot about four miles from Paris, Illinois, where they saw a pig stuck in the mud and squealing lustily. The men all laughed at the poor animal and its absurd plight.

"Poor piggy!" exclaimed Mr. Lincoln impulsively. "Let's get him out of that."

The others jeered at the idea. "You'd better do it. You're dressed for the job!" exclaimed one.

"Return to your wallow!" laughed another, pointing in great glee to the wallowing hog and the mudhole.

Lincoln looked at the pig, at the deep mud, then down at his new clothes. Ruefully he rode on with them for some time. But the cries of the helpless animal rang in his ears. He could endure it no longer. Lagging behind the rest, he waited until they had passed a bend in the road. Then he turned and rode back as fast as his poor old horse could carry him through the mud. Dismounting, he surveyed the ground. The pig had struggled until it was almost buried in the mire, and was now too exhausted to move. After studying the case as if it were a problem in civil engineering, he took some rails off the fence beside the road. Building a platform of rails around the now exhausted hog, then taking one rail for a lever and another for a fulcrum, he began gently to pry the fat, helpless creature out of the sticky mud. In doing this he plastered his new suit from head to foot, but he did not care, as long as he could save that pig!

"Now, piggy-wig," he said. "It's you and me for it. You do your part and I'll get you out. Now—'one-two-three—up-a-daisy!'"

He smiled grimly as he thought of the jeers and sneers that would be hurled at him if his friends had stayed to watch him at this work.

After long and patient labor he succeeded in loosening the hog and coaxing it to make the attempt to get free. At last, the animal was made to see that it could get out. Making one violent effort it wallowed away and started for the nearest farmhouse, grunting and flopping its ears as it went.

Lawyer Lincoln looked ruefully down at his clothes, then placed all the rails back on the fence as he had found them.

He had to ride the rest of the day alone, for he did not wish to appear before his comrades until the mud on his suit had dried so that it could be brushed off. That night, when they saw him at the tavern, they asked him what he had been doing all day, eying his clothes with suspicious leers and grins. He had to admit that he could not bear to leave that hog to die, and tried to excuse his tender-heartedness to them by adding: "Farmer Jones's children might have had to go barefoot all Winter if he had lost a valuable hog like that!"

"BEING ELECTED TO CONGRESS HAS NOT PLEASED ME AS MUCH AS I EXPECTED"

In 1846 Abraham Lincoln was elected to Congress, defeating the Rev. Peter Cartwright, the famous backwoods preacher, who was elected to the State Legislature fourteen years before, the first time Lincoln was a candidate and the only time he was ever defeated by popular vote. Cartwright had made a vigorous canvass, telling the people that Lincoln was "an aristocrat and an atheist." But, though they had a great respect for Peter Cartwright and his preaching, the people did not believe all that he said against Lincoln, and they elected him. Shortly after this he wrote again to 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 a rather cold reason for allowing such a friendship as ours to die out by degrees.

"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."

In the same letter he imparted to his friend some information which seems to have been much more interesting to him than being elected to Congress:

"We have another boy, born the 10th of March (1846). He is very much such a child as Bob was at his age, rather of a longer order. Bob is 'short and low,' and I 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 five than ever after.

"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 has run away again!

"As ever yours, "A. LINCOLN."

The new baby mentioned in this letter was Edward, who died in 1850, before his fourth birthday. "Bob," or Robert, the eldest of the Lincoln's four children, was born in 1843. William, born in 1850, died in the White House. The youngest was born in 1853, after the death of Thomas Lincoln, so he was named for his grandfather, but he was known only by his nickname, "Tad." "Little Tad" was his father's constant companion during the terrible years of the Civil War, especially after Willie's death, in 1862. "Tad" became "the child of the nation." He died in Chicago, July 10, 1871, at the age of eighteen, after returning from Europe with his widowed mother and his brother Robert. Robert has served his country as Secretary of War and Ambassador to the English court, and is recognized as a leader in national affairs.

When Lincoln was sent to the national House of Representatives, Douglas was elected to the Senate for the first time. Lincoln was the only Whig from Illinois. This shows his great personal popularity. Daniel Webster was then living in the national capital, and Congressman Lincoln stopped once at Ashland, Ky., on his way to Washington to visit the idol of the Whigs, Henry Clay.

As soon as Lincoln was elected, an editor wrote to ask him for a biographical sketch of himself for the "Congressional Directory." This is all Mr. Lincoln wrote—in a blank form sent for the purpose:

"Born February 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky.

"Education defective.

"Profession, lawyer.

"Military service, captain of volunteers in Black Hawk War.

"Offices held: Postmaster at a very small office; four times a member of the Illinois Legislature, and elected to the lower House of the next Congress."

Mr. Lincoln was in Congress while the Mexican War was in progress, and there was much discussion over President Polk's action in declaring that war.

As Mrs. Lincoln was obliged to stay in Springfield to care for her two little boys, Congressman Lincoln lived in a Washington boarding-house. He soon gained the reputation of telling the best stories at the capital. He made a humorous speech on General Cass, comparing the general's army experiences with his own in the Black Hawk War. He also drafted a bill to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia, which was never brought to a vote. Most of his care seems to have been for Billy Herndon, who wrote complaining letters to him about the "old men" in Springfield who were always trying to "keep the young men down." Here are two of Mr. Lincoln's replies:

"WASHINGTON, June 22, 1848.

"DEAR WILLIAM:

"Judge how heart-rending it was to come to my room and find and read your discouraging letter of the 15th. 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 would ever have got into notice if I had waited to be hunted up and pushed forward by older men?"

"DEAR WILLIAM:

"Your letter was received last night. The subject of that letter is exceedingly painful to me; and I cannot but think that there is some mistake in your impression of the motives of the old men. 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 keep any man in any situation. There may be sometimes 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.

"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 somewhat the advantage of you in the world's experience, merely by being older; and it is this that induces me to advise.

"Your friend, as ever, "A. LINCOLN."

LAST DAYS OF THOMAS LINCOLN

Mr. Lincoln did not allow his name to be used as a candidate for re-election, as there were other men in the congressional district who deserved the honor of going to Washington as much as he. On his way home from Washington, after the last session of the Thirtieth Congress, he visited New England, where he made a few speeches, and stopped at Niagara Falls, which impressed him so strongly that he wrote a lecture on the subject.

After returning home he made a flying visit to Washington to enter his patent steamboat, equipped so that it would navigate shallow western rivers. This boat, he told a friend, "would go where the ground is a little damp." The model of Lincoln's steamboat is one of the sights of the Patent Office to this day.

After Mr. Lincoln had settled down to his law business, permanently, as he hoped, his former fellow-clerk, William G. Greene, having business in Coles County, went to "Goosenest Prairie" to call on Abe's father and stepmother, who still lived in a log cabin. Thomas Lincoln received his son's friend very hospitably. During the young man's visit, the father reverted to the old subject, his disapproval of his son's wasting his time in study. He said:

"I s'pose Abe's still a-foolin' hisself with eddication. I tried to stop it, but he's got that fool idee in his head an' it can't be got out. Now I haint got no eddication, but I git along better than if I had."

Not long after this, in 1851, Abraham learned that his father was very ill. As he could not leave Springfield then, he wrote to his stepbrother (for Thomas Lincoln could not read) the following comforting letter to be read to his father:

"I sincerely hope father may recover his health; but at all events, tell him to remember to call upon and confide in our great and merciful Maker, who will not turn away from him in any extremity. He notes the fall of the 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 be more painful than pleasant, but if it is his lot to go now, he will soon have a joyful meeting with the loved ones gone before, and where the rest of us, through the mercy of God, hope ere long to join them."

Thomas Lincoln died that year, at the age of seventy-three.

A KIND BUT MASTERFUL LETTER TO HIS STEPBROTHER

After his father's death Abraham Lincoln had, on several occasions, to protect his stepmother against the schemes of her own lazy, good-for-nothing son. Here is one of the letters written, at this time, to his stepbrother, John Johnston:

"DEAR BROTHER: I hear that you were anxious to sell the land where you live, and move to Missouri. 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 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 that it is my duty to have no hand in such a piece of foolery. I feel it is so even on your own account, and particularly on mother's account.

"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 your time. Your thousand pretenses deceive nobody but yourself. Go to work is the only cure for your case."



CHAPTER XVII

WHAT MADE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND HIS STEPBROTHER

These letters show the wide difference between the real lives of two boys brought up in the same surroundings, and under similar conditions. The advantages were in John Johnston's favor. He and Dennis Hanks never rose above the lower level of poverty and ignorance. John was looked down upon by the poor illiterates around him as a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, and Dennis Hanks was known to be careless about telling the truth.

In speaking of the early life of Abe's father and mother, Dennis threw in the remark that "the Hankses was some smarter than the Lincolns." It was not "smartness" that made Abe Lincoln grow to be a greater man than Dennis Hanks. There are men in Springfield to-day who say, "There were a dozen smarter men in this town than Mr. Lincoln when he happened to be nominated, and peculiar conditions prevailing at that time brought about his election to the presidency!"

True greatness is made of goodness rather than smartness. Abraham Lincoln was honest with himself while a boy and a man, and it was "Honest Abe" who became President of the United States. The people loved him for his big heart—because he loved them more than he loved himself and they knew it. In his second inaugural address as President he used this expression: "With malice toward none, with charity for all." This was not a new thought, but it was full of meaning to the country because little Abe Lincoln had lived that idea all his life, with his own family, his friends, acquaintances, and employers. He became the most beloved man in the world, in his own or any other time, because he himself loved everybody.

Mrs. Crawford, the wife of "Old Blue Nose," used to laugh at the very idea of Abe Lincoln ever becoming President. Lincoln often said to her: "I'll get ready and the time will come." He got ready in his father's log hut and when the door of opportunity opened he walked right into the White House. He "made himself at home" there, because he had only to go on in the same way after he became the "servant of the people" that he had followed when he was "Old Blue Nose's" hired boy and man.

ONE PARTNER IN THE WHITE HOUSE, THE OTHER IN THE POOR HOUSE

Then there was William H. Herndon, known to the world only because he happened to be "Lincoln's law partner." His advantages were superior to Lincoln's. And far more than that, he had his great partner's help to push him forward and upward. But "poor Billy" had an unfortunate appetite. He could not deny himself, though it always made him ashamed and miserable. It dragged him down, down from "the President's partner" to the gutter. That was not all. When he asked his old partner to give him a government appointment which he had, for years, been making himself wholly unworthy to fill, President Lincoln, much as he had loved Billy all along, could not give it to him. It grieved Mr. Lincoln's great heart to refuse Billy anything. But Herndon did not blame himself for all that. He spent the rest of his wretched life in bitterness and spite—avenging himself on his noble benefactor by putting untruths into the "Life of Lincoln" he was able to write because Abraham Lincoln, against the advice of his wife and friends, had insisted on keeping him close to his heart. It is a terrible thing—that spirit of spite! Among many good and true things he had to say about his fatherly law partner, he poisoned the good name of Abraham Lincoln in the minds of millions, by writing stealthy slander about Lincoln's mother and wife, and made many people believe that the most religious of men at heart was an infidel (because he himself was one!), that Mr. Lincoln sometimes acted from unworthy and unpatriotic motives, and that he failed to come to his own wedding. If these things had been true it would have been wrong to publish them to the prejudice of a great man's good name—then how much more wicked to invent and spread broadcast falsehoods which hurt the heart and injure the mind of the whole world—just to spite the memory of the best friend a man ever had!

The fate of the firm of Lincoln & Herndon shows in a striking way how the world looks upon the heart that hates and the heart that loves, for the hateful junior partner died miserably in an almshouse, but the senior was crowned with immortal martyrdom in the White House.

THE RIVAL FOR LOVE AND HONORS

Stephen A. Douglas, "the Little Giant," who had been a rival for the hand of the fascinating Mary Todd, was also Lincoln's chief opponent in politics. Douglas was small and brilliant; used to society ways, he seemed always to keep ahead of his tall, uncouth, plodding competitor. After going to Congress, Mr. Lincoln was encouraged to aspire even higher, so, ten years later, he became a candidate for the Senate. Slavery was then the burning question, and Douglas seemed naturally to fall upon the opposite side, favoring and justifying it in every way he could.

Douglas was then a member of the Senate, but the opposing party nominated Lincoln to succeed him, while "the Little Giant" had been renominated to succeed himself. Douglas sneered at his tall opponent, trying to "damn him with faint praise" by referring to him as "a kind, amiable and intelligent gentleman." Mr. Lincoln challenged the Senator to discuss the issues of the hour in a series of debates.

Douglas was forced, very much against his will, to accept, and the debates took place in seven towns scattered over the State of Illinois, from August 21st to October 15th, 1858. Lincoln had announced his belief that "a house divided against itself cannot stand;" therefore the United States could not long exist "half slave and half free."

"The Little Giant" drove from place to place in great style, traveling with an escort of influential friends. These discussions, known in history as the "Lincoln-Douglas Debates," rose to national importance while they were in progress, by attracting the attention, in the newspapers, of voters all over the country. They were attended, on an average, by ten thousand persons each, both men being accompanied by bands and people carrying banners and what Mr. Lincoln called "fizzlegigs and fireworks."

Some of the banners were humorous.

Abe the Giant-Killer

was one. Another read:

- Westward the Star of Empire takes its way; The girls link on to Lincoln, their mothers were for Clay. -

At the first debate Lincoln took off his linen duster and, handing it to a bystander, said:

"Hold my coat while I stone Stephen!"

In the course of these debates Lincoln propounded questions for Mr. Douglas to answer. Brilliant as "the Little Giant" was, he was not shrewd enough to defend himself from the shafts of his opponent's wit and logic. So he fell into Lincoln's trap.

"If he does that," said Lincoln, "he may be Senator, but he can never be President. I am after larger game. The battle of 1860 is worth a hundred of this."

This prophecy proved true.



CHAPTER XVIII

HOW EMANCIPATION CAME TO PASS

When Abraham Lincoln was a small boy he began to show the keenest sympathy for the helpless and oppressed. The only time he betrayed anger as a child was, as you already have learned, when he saw the other boys hurting a mud-turtle. In his first school "composition," on "Cruelty to Animals," his stepsister remembers this sentence: "An ant's life is as sweet to it as ours is to us."

As you have read on an earlier page, when Abe grew to be a big, strong boy he saved a drunken man from freezing in the mud, by carrying him to a cabin, building a fire, and spent the rest of the night warming and sobering him up. Instead of leaving the drunkard to the fate the other fellows thought he deserved, Abe Lincoln, through pity for the helpless, rescued a fellow-being not only from mud and cold but also from a drunkard's grave. For that tall lad's love and mercy revealed to the poor creature the terrible slavery of which he was the victim. Thus Abe helped him throw off the shackles of drink and made a man of him.

BLACK SLAVES AND WHITE

As he grew older, Abe Lincoln saw that the drink habit was a sort of human slavery. He delivered an address before the Washingtonian (Temperance) Society in which he compared white slavery with black, in which he said:

"And when the victory shall be complete—when there shall be neither a slave nor a drunkard on the earth—how proud the title of that land which may truly claim to be the birthplace and the cradle of both those revolutions that have ended in that victory."

This address was delivered on Washington's Birthday, 1842. The closing words throb with young Lawyer Lincoln's fervent patriotism:

"This is the one hundred and tenth anniversary of the birth of Washington; we are met to celebrate this day. Washington is the mightiest name of earth, long since the mightiest in the cause of civil liberty, still mightiest in moral reformation. On that name no eulogy is expected. It cannot be. To add to the brightness of the sun or glory to the name of Washington is alike impossible. Let none attempt it. In solemn awe we pronounce the name and, in its naked, deathless splendor, leave it shining on."

It was young Lincoln's patriotic love for George Washington which did so much to bring about, in time, a double emancipation from white slavery and black.

Once, as President, he said to a boy who had just signed the temperance pledge:

"Now, Sonny, keep that pledge and it will be the best act of your life."

President Lincoln was true and consistent in his temperance principles. In March, 1864, he went by steamboat with his wife and "Little Tad," to visit General Grant at his headquarters at City Point, Virginia.

When asked how he was, during the reception which followed his arrival there, the President said, as related by General Horace Porter:

"'I am not feeling very well. I got pretty badly shaken up on the bay coming down, and am not altogether over it yet.'

"'Let me send for a bottle of champagne for you, Mr. President,' said a staff-officer, 'that's the best remedy I know of for sea-sickness.'

"'No, no, my young friend,' replied the President, 'I've seen many a man in my time seasick ashore from drinking that very article.'

"That was the last time any one screwed up sufficient courage to offer him wine."

"THE UNDER DOG"

Some people are kinder to dumb animals—is it because they are dumb?—than to their relatives. Many are the stories of Lincoln's tenderness to beasts and birds. But his kindness did not stop there, nor with his brothers and sisters in white. He recognized his close relationship with the black man, and the bitterest name his enemies called him—worse in their minds than "fool," "clown," "imbecile" or "gorilla"—was a "Black Republican." That terrible phobia against the negro only enlisted Abraham Lincoln's sympathies the more. He appeared in court in behalf of colored people, time and again. The more bitter the hatred and oppression of others, the more they needed his sympathetic help, the more certain they were to receive it.

"My sympathies are with the under dog," said Mr. Lincoln, one day, "though it is often that dog that starts the fuss."

The fact that the poor fellow may have brought the trouble upon himself did not make him forfeit Abraham Lincoln's sympathy. That was only a good lesson to him to "Look out and do better next time!"

THE QUESTION OF EMANCIPATION

After he went to Washington, President Lincoln was between two fires. One side wanted the slaves freed whether the Union was broken up or not. They could not see that declaring them free would have but little effect, if the government could not "back up" such a declaration.

The other party did not wish the matter tampered with, as cheap labor was necessary for raising cotton, sugar and other products on which the living of millions of people depended.

The extreme Abolitionists, who wished slavery abolished, whether or no, sent men to tell the President that if he did not free the slaves he was a coward and a turncoat, and they would withhold their support from the Government and the Army.

Delegations of Abolitionists from all over the North arrived almost daily from different cities to urge, coax and threaten the President. They did not know that he was trying to keep the Border States of Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri from seceding. If Maryland alone had gone out of the Union, Washington, the national capital, would have been surrounded and forced to surrender.

Besides, at this time, the armies of the North were losing nearly all the battles.

To declare all the slaves down South freed, when the Government could not enforce such a statement and could not even win a battle, would be absurd. To one committee the President said: "If I issued a proclamation of emancipation now it would be like the Pope's bull (or decree) against the comet!"

A delegation of Chicago ministers came to beg Mr. Lincoln to free the slaves. He patiently explained to them that his declaring them free would not make them free. These men seemed to see the point and were retiring, disappointed, when one of them returned to him and whispered solemnly:

"What you have said to us, Mr. President, compels me to say to you in reply that it is a message from our divine Master, through me, commanding you, sir, to open the doors of bondage that the slave may go free!"

"Now, isn't that strange?" the President replied instantly. "Here I am, studying this question, day and night, and God has placed it upon me, too. Don't you think it's rather odd that He should send such a message by way of that awful wicked city of Chicago?"

The ministers were shocked at such an answer from the President of the United States. They could not know, for Mr. Lincoln dared not tell them, that he had the Emancipation Proclamation in his pocket waiting for a Federal victory before he could issue it!

THE PROCLAMATION

Then, came the news of Antietam, a terrible battle, but gained by the Northern arms. At last the time had come to announce the freeing of the slaves that they might help in winning their liberties. The President had not held a meeting of his Cabinet for some time. He thought of the occasion when, as a young man he went on a flatboat trip to New Orleans and saw, for the first, the horrors of negro slavery, and said to his companions:

"If ever I get a chance to hit that thing I'll hit it hard!"

Now the "chance to hit that thing"—the inhuman monster of human slavery—had come, and he was going to "hit it hard."

He called the Cabinet together. Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War, has described the scene:

"On the 22nd of September, 1862, I had a sudden and peremptory call to a Cabinet meeting at the White House. I went immediately and found the historic War Cabinet of Abraham Lincoln assembled, every member being present. The President hardly noticed me as I came in. He was reading a book of some kind which seemed to amuse him. It was a little book. He finally turned to us and said:

"'Gentlemen, did you ever read anything from "Artemus Ward?" Let me read you a chapter that is very funny.'

"Not a member of the Cabinet smiled; as for myself, I was angry, and looked to see what the President meant. It seemed to me like buffoonery. He, however, concluded to read us a chapter from 'Artemus Ward,' which he did with great deliberation. Having finished, he laughed heartily, without a member of the Cabinet joining in the laughter.

"'Well,' he said, 'let's have another chapter.'

"I was considering whether I should rise and leave the meeting abruptly, when he threw the book down, heaved a long sigh, and said:

"'Gentlemen, why don't you laugh? With the fearful strain that is upon me night and day, if I did not laugh I should die, and you need this medicine as much as I do.'

"He then put his hand in his tall hat that sat upon the table, and pulled out a little paper. Turning to the members of the Cabinet, he said:

"'Gentlemen, I have called you here upon very important business. I have prepared a little paper of much significance. I have made up my mind that this paper is to issue; that the time is come when it should issue; that the people are ready for it to issue.

"'It is due to my Cabinet that you should be the first to hear and know of it, and if any of you have any suggestions to make as to the form of this paper or its composition, I shall be glad to hear them. But the paper is to issue.'

"And, to my astonishment, he read the Emancipation Proclamation of that date, which was to take effect the first of January following."

Secretary Stanton continued: "I have always tried to be calm, but I think I lost my calmness for a moment, and with great enthusiasm I arose, approached the President, extended my hand and said:

"'Mr. President, if the reading of chapters of "Artemus Ward" is a prelude to such a deed as this, the book should be filed among the archives of the nation, and the author should be canonized. Henceforth I see the light and the country is saved.'

"And all said 'Amen!'

"And Lincoln said to me in a droll way, just as I was leaving, 'Stanton, it would have been too early last Spring.'

"And as I look back upon it, I think the President was right."

It was a fitting fulfillment of the Declaration of Independence, which proclaimed that:

"All men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

That Declaration young Abe Lincoln first read in the Gentryville constable's copy of the "Statutes of Indiana."

At noon on the first of January, 1863, William H. Seward, Secretary of State, with his son Frederick, called at the White House with the Emancipation document to be signed by the President. It was just after the regular New Year's Day reception.

Mr. Lincoln seated himself at his table, took up the pen, dipped it in the ink, held the pen a moment, then laid it down. After waiting a while he went through the same movements as before. Turning to his Secretary of State, he said, to explain his hesitation:

"I have been shaking hands since nine o'clock this morning, and my arm is almost paralyzed. If my name ever goes into history, it will be for this act, and my whole soul is in it. If my hand trembles when I sign the Proclamation, all who examine the document hereafter will say:

"'He hesitated.'"

Turning back to the table, he took the pen again and wrote, deliberately and firmly, the "Abraham Lincoln" with which the world is now familiar. Looking up at the Sewards, father and son, he smiled and said, with a sigh of relief:

"That will do!"



CHAPTER XIX

THE GLORY OF GETTYSBURG

THE BATTLE

The Battle of Gettysburg, which raged through July 1st, 2nd and 3d, 1863, was called the "high water mark" of the Civil War, and one of the "fifteen decisive battles" of history. It was decisive because General Robert E. Lee, with his brave army, was driven back from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. If Lee had been victorious there, he might have destroyed Philadelphia and New York. By such a brilliant stroke he could have surrounded and captured Baltimore and Washington. This would have changed the grand result of the war.

In point of numbers, bravery and genius, the battle of Gettysburg was the greatest that had ever been fought up to that time. Glorious as this was, the greatest glory of Gettysburg lay in the experiences and utterances of one man, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America.

It came at a terrible time in the progress of the war, when everything seemed to be going against the Union. There had been four disastrous defeats—twice at Bull Run, followed by Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. Even the battle of Antietam, accounted victory enough for the President to issue his Emancipation Proclamation, proved to be a drawn battle, with terrific losses on both sides. Lee was driven back from Maryland then, it is true, but he soon won the great battles of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and had made his way north into Pennsylvania.

The night after the battle of Chancellorsville (fought May 2nd and 3d, 1863), was the darkest in the history of the Civil War. President Lincoln walked the floor the whole night long, crying out in his anguish, "O what will the country say!"

To fill the decimated ranks of the army, the Government had resorted to the draft, which roused great opposition in the North and provoked foolish, unreasoning riots in New York City.

After winning the battle of Gettysburg, which the President hoped would end the war, General Meade, instead of announcing that he had captured the Confederate army, stated that he had "driven the invaders from our soil." Mr. Lincoln fell on his knees and, covering his face with his great, strong hands, cried out in tones of agony:

"'Driven the invaders from our soil!' My God, is that all?"

But Lincoln's spirits were bound to rise. Believing he was "on God's side," he felt that the cause of Right could not lose, for the Lord would save His own.

The next day, July 4th, 1863, came the surrender of Vicksburg, the stronghold of the great West. Chastened joy began to cover his gaunt and pallid features, and the light of hope shone again in his deep, gray eyes.

Calling on General Sickles, in a Washington hospital—for the general had lost a leg on the second day of the battle of Gettysburg—the President was asked why he believed that victory would be given the Federal forces at Gettysburg.

"I will tell you how it was. In the pinch of your campaign up there, when everybody seemed panic-stricken, and nobody could tell what was going to happen, I went to my room one day and locked the door, and got down on my knees before Almighty God, and prayed to him mightily for victory at Gettysburg. I told Him this was His war, and our cause His cause, but that we couldn't stand another Fredericksburg or Chancellorsville. And I then and there made a solemn vow to Almighty God that if He would stand by our boys at Gettysburg, I would stand by Him. And He did, and I will!"

The President's call on General Sickles was on the Sunday after the three-days' battle of Gettysburg, before the arrival of the gunboat at Cairo, Illinois, with the glad tidings from Vicksburg, which added new luster to the patriotic joy of Independence Day. The telegraph wires had been so generally cut on all sides of Vicksburg that the news was sent to Cairo and telegraphed to Washington. In proof that his faith even included the Mississippi blockade he went on:

"Besides, I have been praying over Vicksburg also, and believe our Heavenly Father is going to give us victory there, too, because we need it, in order to bisect the Confederacy, and let 'the Father of Waters flow unvexed to the sea.'"

THE ADDRESS

Not long after the conflict at Gettysburg a movement was on foot to devote a large part of that battle-ground to a national cemetery.

The Hon. Edward Everett, prominent in national and educational affairs, and the greatest living orator, was invited to deliver the grand oration. The President was asked, if he could, to come and make a few dedicatory remarks, but Mr. Everett was to be the chief speaker of the occasion.

The Sunday before the 19th of November, 1863, the date of the dedication, the President went with his friend Noah Brooks to Gardner's gallery, in Washington, where he had promised to sit for his photograph. While there he showed Mr. Brooks a proof of Everett's oration which had been sent to him. As this printed address covered two newspaper pages, Mr. Lincoln struck an attitude and quoted from a speech by Daniel Webster:

"Solid men of Boston, make no long orations!" and burst out laughing. When Mr. Brooks asked about his speech for that occasion, Mr. Lincoln replied: "I've got it written, but not licked into shape yet. It's short, short, SHORT!"

During the forenoon of the 18th, Secretary John Hay was anxious lest the President be late for the special Presidential train, which was to leave at noon for Gettysburg.

"Don't worry, John," said Mr. Lincoln. "I'm like the man who was going to be hung, and saw the crowds pushing and hurrying past the cart in which he was being taken to the place of execution. He called out to them: 'Don't hurry, boys. There won't be anything going on till I get there!'"

When the train stopped, on the way to Gettysburg, a little girl on the platform held up a bouquet to Mr. Lincoln, lisping: "Flowerth for the Prethident."

He reached out, took her up and kissed her, saying:

"You're a sweet little rosebud yourself. I hope your life will open into perpetual beauty and goodness."

About noon on the 19th of November, the distinguished party arrived in a procession and took seats on the platform erected for the exercises. The President was seated in a rocking-chair placed there for him. There were fifteen thousand people waiting, some of whom had been standing in the sun for hours. It was a warm day and a Quaker woman near the platform fainted. An alarm was given and the unconscious woman was in danger of being crushed.

The President sprang to the edge of the staging and called out:

"Here, let me get hold of that lady."

With a firm, strong grasp he extricated her from the crush and seated her in his rocking-chair. When that modest woman "came to," she saw fifteen thousand pairs of eyes watching her while the President of the United States was fanning her tenderly.

This was too much for her. She gasped:

"I feel—better—now. I want to go—back to—my husband!"

"Now, my dear lady," said Mr. Lincoln. "You are all right here. I had an awful time pulling you up out of there, and I couldn't stick you back again!"

A youth who stood near the platform in front of the President says that, while Mr. Everett was orating, Mr. Lincoln took his "little speech," as he called it, out of his pocket, and conned it over like a schoolboy with a half-learned lesson. The President had put the finishing touches on it that morning. As it was expected that the President would make a few offhand remarks, no one seems to have noticed its simple grandeur until it was printed in the newspapers.

Yet Mr. Lincoln was interrupted four or five times during the two minutes by applause. The fact that the President was speaking was sufficient, no matter what he said. The people would have applauded Abraham Lincoln if he had merely recited the multiplication table! When he finished, they gave "three times three cheers" for the President of the United States, and three cheers for each of the State Governors present.

That afternoon there was a patriotic service in one of the churches which the President decided to attend. Taking Secretary Seward with him, he called on an old cobbler named John Burns, of whose courage in the battle of Gettysburg Mr. Lincoln had just heard. Those who planned the dedication did not think the poor cobbler was of much account. The old hero, now known through Bret Harte's poem, "John Burns of Gettysburg," had the pride and joy of having all the village and visitors see him march to the church between President Lincoln and Secretary Seward. This simple act was "just like Lincoln!" He honored Gettysburg in thus honoring one of its humblest citizens. It was Abraham Lincoln's tribute to the patriotism of the dear "common people" whom he said "God must love."



CHAPTER XX

"NO END OF A BOY"

"THE STORY OF YOUNG ABRAHAM LINCOLN" would be incomplete without some insight into the perfect boyishness of the President of the United States. When the cares of State and the horrors of war had made his homely yet beautiful face pallid and seamed, till it became a sensitive map of the Civil War, it was said that the only times the President was ever happy were when he was playing with little Tad.

He used to carry the boy on his shoulder or "pick-a-back," cantering through the spacious rooms of the Executive Mansion, both yelling like Comanches. The little boy was lonely after Willie died, and the father's heart yearned over the only boy left at home, for Robert was at Harvard until near the close of the war, when he went to the front as an aide to General Grant. So little Tad was his father's most constant companion and the President became the boy's only playfellow. Mr. Lincoln, with a heart as full of faith as a little child's, had always lived in deep sympathy with the children, and this feeling was intensified toward his own offspring.

When Abe Lincoln was living in New Salem he distinguished himself by caring for the little children—a thing beneath the dignity of the other young men of the settlement.

Hannah Armstrong, wife of the Clary's Grove bully, whom Abe had to "lick" to a finish in order to establish himself on a solid basis in New Salem society, told how friendly their relations became after the thrashing he gave her husband:

"Abe would come to our house, drink milk, eat mush, cornbread and butter, bring the children candy and rock the cradle." (This seemed a strange thing to her.) "He would nurse babies—do anything to accommodate anybody."

HOW HE REPAID THE ARMSTRONGS' KINDNESS

The Armstrong baby, Willie, grew to be a youth of wrong habits, and was nicknamed "Duff." He was drawn, one afternoon, into a bad quarrel with another rough young man, named Metzker, who was brutally beaten. In the evening a vicious young man, named Morris, joined the row and the lad was struck on the head and died without telling who had dealt the fatal blow. The blame was thrown upon "Duff" Armstrong, who was arrested. Illinois law preventing him from testifying in his own behalf.

When Lawyer Lincoln heard of the case, he wrote as follows:

"SPRINGFIELD, ILL., September, 1857.

"DEAR MRS. ARMSTRONG:

"I have just heard of your deep affliction, and the arrest of your son for murder.

"I can hardly believe that he can be capable of the crime alleged against him.

"It does not seem possible. I am anxious that he should be given a fair trial, at any rate; and gratitude for your long-continued kindness to me in adverse circumstances prompts me to offer my humble services gratuitously in his behalf.

"It will afford me an opportunity to requite, in a small degree, the favors I received at your hand, and that of your lamented husband, when your roof afforded me a grateful shelter, without money and without price.

"Yours truly, "A. LINCOLN."

The feeling in the neighborhood where the crime was committed was so intense that it was decided that it must be taken over to the next county to secure a fair trial. Lawyer Lincoln was on hand to defend the son of his old friend.

Besides those who testified to the bad character of the young prisoner, one witness, named Allen, testified that he saw "Duff" Armstrong strike the blow which killed Metzker.

"Couldn't you be mistaken about this?" asked Mr. Lincoln. "What time did you see it?"

"Between nine and ten o'clock that night."

"Are you certain that you saw the prisoner strike the blow?—Be careful—remember—you are under oath!"

"I am sure. There is no doubt about it."

"But wasn't it dark at that hour?"

"No, the moon was shining bright."

"Then you say there was a moon and it was not dark."

"Yes, it was light enough for me to see him hit Metzker on the head."

"Now I want you to be very careful. I understand you to say the murder was committed about half past nine o'clock, and there was a bright moon at the time?"

"Yes, sir," said the witness positively.

"Very well. That is all."

Then Lawyer Lincoln produced an almanac showing that there was no moon that night till the early hours of the morning.

"This witness has perjured himself," he said, "and his whole story is a lie."

* * * * *

"Duff" Armstrong was promptly acquitted. The tears of that widowed mother and the gratitude of the boy he had rocked were the best sort of pay to Lawyer Lincoln for an act of kindness and life-saving.

"JUST WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH THE WHOLE WORLD!"

A Springfield neighbor used to say that it was almost a habit with Mr. Lincoln to carry his children about on his shoulders. Indeed, the man said he seldom saw the tall lawyer go by without one or both boys perched on high or tugging at the tails of his long coat. This neighbor relates that he was attracted to the door of his own house one day by a great noise of crying children, and saw Mr. Lincoln passing with the two boys in their usual position, and both were howling lustily.

"Why, Mr. Lincoln, what's the matter?" he asked in astonishment.

"Just what's the matter with the whole world," the lawyer replied coolly. "I've got three walnuts, and each wants two."

THE "BUCKING" CHESS BOARD

Several years later Judge Treat, of Springfield was playing chess with Mr. Lincoln in his law office when Tad came in to call his father to supper. The boy, impatient at the delay of the slow and silent game, tried to break it up by a flank movement against the chess board, but the attacks were warded off, each time, by his father's long arms.

The child disappeared, and when the two players had begun to believe they were to be permitted to end the game in peace, the table suddenly "bucked" and the board and chessmen were sent flying all over the floor.

Judge Treat was much vexed, and expressed impatience, not hesitating to tell Mr. Lincoln that the boy ought to be punished severely.

Mr. Lincoln replied, as he gently took down his hat to go home to supper:

"Considering the position of your pieces, judge, at the time of the upheaval, I think you have no reason to complain."

WHEN TAD GOT A SPANKING

Yet, indulgent as he was, there were some things Mr. Lincoln would not allow even his youngest child to do. An observer who saw the President-elect and his family in their train on the way to Washington to take the helm of State, relates that little Tad amused himself by raising the car window an inch or two and trying, by shutting it down suddenly, to catch the fingers of the curious boys outside who were holding themselves up by their hands on the window sill of the car to catch sight of the new President and his family.

The President-elect, who had to go out to the platform to make a little speech to a crowd at nearly every stop, noticed Tad's attempts to pinch the boys' fingers. He spoke sharply to his son and commanded him to stop that. Tad obeyed for a time, but his father, catching him at the same trick again, leaned over, and taking the little fellow across his knee, gave him a good, sound spanking, exclaiming as he did so:

"Why do you want to mash those boys' fingers?"

THE TRUE STORY OF BOB'S LOSING THE INAUGURAL ADDRESS

Mr. Lincoln was always lenient when the offense was against himself. The Hon. Robert Todd Lincoln, the only living son of the great President, tells how the satchel containing his father's inaugural address was lost for a time. Some writers have related the story of this loss, stating that it all happened at Harrisburg, and telling how the President-elect discovered a bag like his own, and on opening it found only a pack of greasy cards, a bottle of whisky and a soiled paper collar. Also that Mr. Lincoln was "reminded" of a cheap, ill-fitting story—but none of these things really took place.

Here is the true story, as related to the writer by Robert Lincoln himself:

"My father had confided to me the care of the satchel containing his inaugural address. It was lost for a little while during the stay of our party at the old Bates House in Indianapolis. When we entered the hotel I set the bag down with the other luggage, which was all removed to a room back of the clerk's desk.

"As soon as I missed the valise I went right to father, in great distress of mind. He ordered a search made. We were naturally much alarmed, for it was the only copy he had of his inaugural address, which he had carefully written before leaving Springfield. Of course, he added certain parts after reaching Washington. The missing bag was soon found in a safe place.

"Instead of taking out the precious manuscript and stuffing it into his own pocket, father handed it right back to me, saying:

"'There, Bob, see if you can't take better care of it this time'—and you may be sure I was true to the trust he placed in me. Why, I hardly let that precious gripsack get out of my sight during my waking hours all the rest of the long roundabout journey to Washington."

THE TERRIBLE LONELINESS AFTER WILLIE DIED

The death of Willie, who was nearly three years older than Tad, early in 1862, during their first year in the White House, nearly broke his father's heart. It was said that Mr. Lincoln never recovered from that bereavement. It made him yearn the more tenderly over his youngest son who sadly missed the brother who had been his constant companion.

It was natural for a lad who was so much indulged to take advantage of his freedom. Tad had a slight impediment in his speech which made the street urchins laugh at him, and even cabinet members, because they could not understand him, considered him a little nuisance. So Tad, though known as "the child of the nation," and greatly beloved and petted by those who knew him for a lovable affectionate child, found himself alone in a class by himself, and against all classes of people.

TURNING THE HOSE ON HIGH OFFICIALS

He illustrated this spirit one day by getting hold of the hose and turning it on some dignified State officials, several army officers, and finally on a soldier on guard who was ordered to charge and take possession of that water battery. Although that little escapade appealed to the President's sense of humor, for he himself liked nothing better than to take generals and pompous officials down "a peg or two," Tad got well spanked for the havoc he wrought that day.

BREAKING INTO A CABINET MEETING

The members of the President's cabinet had reason to be annoyed by the boy's frequent interruptions. He seemed to have the right of way wherever his father happened to be. No matter if Senator Sumner or Secretary Stanton was discussing some weighty matter of State or war, if Tad came in, his father turned from the men of high estate to minister to the wants of his little boy. He did it to get rid of him, for of course he knew Tad would raise such a racket that no one could talk or think till his wants were disposed of.

AN EXECUTIVE ORDER ON THE COMMISSARY DEPARTMENT FOR TAD AND HIS BOY FRIENDS

A story is told of the boy's interruption of a council of war. This habit of Tad's enraged Secretary Stanton, whose horror of the boy was similar to that of an elephant for a mouse. The President was giving his opinion on a certain piece of strategy which he thought the general in question might carry out—when a great noise was heard out in the hall, followed by a number of sharp raps on the door of the cabinet room.

Strategy, war, everything was, for the moment forgotten by the President, whose wan face assumed an expression of unusual pleasure, while he gathered up his great, weary length from different parts of the room as he had half lain, sprawling about, across and around his chair and the great table.

"That's Tad," he exclaimed, "I wonder what that boy wants now." On his way to open the door, Mr. Lincoln explained that those knocks had just been adopted by the boy and himself, as part of the telegraph system, and that he was obliged to let the lad in—"for it wouldn't do to go back on the code now," he added, half in apology for permitting such a sudden break in their deliberations.

When the door was opened, Tad, with flushed face and sparkling eyes, sprang in and threw his arms around his father's neck. The President straightened up and embraced the boy with an expression of happiness never seen on his face except while playing with his little son.

Mr. Lincoln turned, with the boy still in his arms, to explain that he and Tad had agreed upon this telegraphic code to prevent the lad from bursting in upon them without warning. The members of the cabinet looked puzzled or disgusted, as though they failed to see that several startling raps could be any better than having Tad break in with a whoop or a wail, as had been the boy's custom.

ISSUING THE EXECUTIVE ORDER ON PETER FOR PIE

The boy raised a question of right. He had besieged Peter, the colored steward, demanding that a dinner be served to several urchins he had picked up outside—two of whom were sons of soldiers. Peter had protested that he "had other fish to fry" just then.

The President recognized at once that this was a case for diplomacy. Turning to various members of the cabinet, he called on each to contribute from his store of wisdom, what would be best to do in a case of such vast importance. Tad looked on in wonder as his father set the great machinery of government in motion to make out a commissary order on black Peter, which would force that astonished servant to deliver certain pieces of pie and other desired eatables to Tad, for himself and his boy friends.

At last an "order" was prepared by the Chief Executive of the United States directing "The Commissary Department of the Presidential Residence to issue rations to Lieutenant Tad Lincoln and his five associates, two of whom are the sons of soldiers in the Army of the Potomac."

With an expression of deep gravity and a solemn flourish, the President tendered this Commissary Order to the lieutenant, his son, saying as he presented the document:

"I reckon Peter will have to come to time now."



CHAPTER XXI

LIEUTENANT TAD LINCOLN, PATRIOT

There was no more sturdy little patriot in the whole country than Lieutenant Tad Lincoln, "the child of the nation," nor had the President of the United States a more devoted admirer and follower than his own small son. A word from his father would melt the lad to tears and submission, or bring him out of a nervous tantrum with his small round face wreathed with smiles, and a chuckling in his throat of "Papa-day, my papa-day!" No one knew exactly what the boy meant by papa-day. It was his pet name for the dearest man on earth, and it was his only way of expressing the greatest pleasure his boyish heart was able to hold. It was the "sweetest word ever heard" by the war-burdened, crushed and sorrowing soul of the broken-hearted President of the United States.

Mr. Lincoln took his youngest son with him everywhere—on his great mission to Fortress Monroe, and they—"the long and the short of it," the soldiers said—marched hand in hand through the streets of fallen Richmond. The understanding between the man and the boy was so complete and sacred, that some acts which seemed to outsiders absurd and ill-fitting, became perfectly right and proper when certain unknown facts were taken into account.

WAVING THE "STARS AND BARS" OUT OF A WHITE HOUSE WINDOW

For instance, one night, during an enthusiastic serenade at the White House, after a great victory of the northern armies, when the President had been out and made a happy speech in response to the congratulations he had received, everybody was horrified to see the Confederate "Stars and Bars" waving frantically from an upper window with shouts followed by shrieks as old Edward, the faithful colored servant, pulled in the flag and the boy who was guilty of the mischief.

"That was little Tad!" exclaimed some one in the crowd. Many laughed, but some spectators thought the boy ought to be punished for such a treasonable outbreak on the part of a President's boy in a soldier's uniform.

"If he don't know any better than that," said one man, "he should be taught better. It's an insult to the North and the President ought to stop it and apologize, too."

"BOYS IN BLUE" AND "BOYS IN GRAY"

But little Tad understood his father's spirit better than the crowd did. He knew that the President's love was not confined to "the Boys in Blue," but that his heart went out also to "the Boys in Gray." The soldiers were all "boys" to him. They knew he loved them. They said among themselves: "He cares for us. He takes our part. We will fight for him; yes, we will die for him."

And a large part of the common soldier's patriotism was this heart-response of "the boys" to the great "boy" in the White House. That was the meaning of their song as they trooped to the front at his call:

"We are coming, Father Abraham; Three hundred thousand more."

Little Tad saw plenty of evidences of his father's love for the younger soldiers—the real boys of the army. Going always with the President, he had heard his "Papa-day" say of several youths condemned to be shot for sleeping at their post or some like offense:

"That boy is worth more above ground than under;" or, "A live boy can serve his country better than a dead one."

"Give the boys a chance," was Abraham Lincoln's motto. He hadn't had much of a chance himself and he wanted all other boys to have a fair show. His own father had been too hard with him, and he was going to make it up to all the other boys he could reach. This passion for doing good to others began in the log cabin when he had no idea he could ever be exercising his loving kindness in the Executive Mansion—the Home of the Nation. "With malice toward none, with charity for all," was the rule of his life in the backwoods as well as in the National Capital.

And "the Boys in Gray" were his "boys," too, but they didn't understand, so they had wandered away—they were a little wayward, but he would win them back. The great chivalrous South has learned, since those bitter, ruinous days, that Abraham Lincoln was the best friend the South then had in the North. Tad had seen his father show great tenderness to all the "boys" he met in the gray uniform, but the President had few opportunities to show his tenderness to the South—though there was a secret pigeonhole in his desk stuffed full of threats of assassination. He was not afraid of death—indeed, he was glad to die if it would do his "boys" and the country any good. But it hurt him deep in his heart to know that some of his beloved children misunderstood him so that they were willing to kill him!

It was no one's bullet which made Abraham Lincoln a martyr. All his life he had shown the spirit of love which was willing to give his very life if it could save or help others.

All these things little Tad could not have explained, but they were inbred into the deep understanding of the big father and the small son who were living in the White House as boys together.

MR. LINCOLN'S LAST SPEECH AND HOW TAD HELPED

A few days after the war ended at Appomattox, a great crowd came to the White House to serenade the President. It was Tuesday evening, April 11, 1865. Mr. Lincoln had written a short address for the occasion. The times were so out of joint and every word was so important that the President could not trust himself to speak off-hand.

A friend stepped out on the northern portico with him to hold the candle by which Mr. Lincoln was to read his speech. Little Tad was with his father, as usual, and when the President had finished reading a page of his manuscript he let it flutter down, like a leaf, or a big white butterfly, for Tad to catch. When the pages came too slowly the boy pulled his father's coat-tail, piping up in a muffled, excited tone:

"Give me 'nother paper, Papa-day."

To the few in the front of the crowd who witnessed this little by-play it seemed ridiculous that the President of the United States should allow any child to behave like that and hamper him while delivering a great address which would wield a national, if not world-wide influence. But little Tad did not trouble his father in the least. It was a part of the little game they were constantly playing together.

The address opened with these words:

"FELLOW-CITIZENS: We meet this evening not in sorrow, but gladness of heart. The evacuation of Petersburg and Richmond, and the surrender of the principal insurgent army (at Appomattox) give hope of a righteous and speedy peace whose joyous expression cannot be restrained. In the midst of this, however, He from whom all blessings flow must not be forgotten. A call for national thanksgiving is being prepared and will be duly promulgated."

"GIVE US 'DIXIE,' BOYS!"

Then he went on outlining a policy of peace and friendship toward the South—showing a spirit far higher and more advanced than that of the listening crowd. On concluding his address and bidding the assembled multitude good night, he turned to the serenading band and shouted joyously:

"Give us 'Dixie,' boys; play 'Dixie.' We have a right to that tune now."

There was a moment of silence. Some of the people gasped, as they had done when they saw Tad waving the Confederate flag at the window. But the band, loyal even to a mere whim (as they then thought it) of "Father Abraham," started the long-forbidden tune, and the President, bowing, retired, with little Tad, within the White House. Those words, "Give us 'Dixie,' boys," were President Lincoln's last public utterance.

As Mr. Lincoln came in through the door after speaking to the crowd, Mrs. Lincoln—who had been, with a group of friends, looking on from within—exclaimed to him:

"You must not be so careless. Some one could easily have shot you while you were speaking there—and you know they are threatening your life!"

The President smiled at his wife, through a look of inexpressible pain and sadness, and shrugged his great shoulders, but "still he answered not a word."

THE SEPARATION OF THE TWO "BOYS"

At a late hour Good Friday night, that same week, little Tad came in alone at a basement door of the White House from the National Theater, where he knew the manager, and some of the company, had made a great pet of him. He had often gone there alone or with his tutor. How he had heard the terrible news from Ford's Theater is not known, but he came up the lower stairway with heartrending cries like a wounded animal. Seeing Thomas Pendel, the faithful doorkeeper, he wailed from his breaking heart:

"Tom Pen, Tom Pen, they have killed Papa-day! They have killed my Papa-day!"

* * * * *

After the funeral the little fellow was more lonely than ever. It was hard to have his pony burned up in the stable. It was harder still to lose Brother Willie, his constant companion, and now his mother was desperately ill, and his father had been killed. Tad, of course, could not comprehend why any one could be so cruel and wicked as to wish to murder his darling Papa-day, who loved every one so!

He wandered through the empty rooms, aching with loneliness, murmuring softly to himself:

"Papa-day, where's my Papa-day. I'm tired—tired of playing alone. I want to play together. Please, Papa-day, come back and play with your little Tad."

Young though he was he could not sleep long at night. His sense of loneliness penetrated his dreams. Sometimes he would chuckle and gurgle in an ecstacy, as he had done when riding on his father's back, romping through the stately rooms. He would throw his arm about the neck of the doorkeeper or lifeguard who had lain down beside him to console the boy and try to get him to sleep. When the man spoke to comfort him, Tad would find out his terrible mistake, that his father was not with him.

Then he would wail again in the bitterness of his disappointment:

"Papa-day, where's my Papa-day?"

"Your papa's gone 'way off"—said his companion, his voice breaking with emotion—"gone to heaven."

Tad opened his eyes wide with wonder. "Is Papa-day happy in heaven?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure he's happy there, Taddie dear; now go to sleep."

"Papa-day's happy. I'm glad—so glad!"—sighed the little boy—"for Papa-day never was happy here."

Then he fell into his first sweet sleep since that terrible night.

* * * * *

"GIVE THE BOYS A CHANCE"

The fond-hearted little fellow went abroad with his mother a few years after the tragedy that broke both their lives. By a surgical operation, and by struggling manfully, he had corrected the imperfection in his speech. But the heart of little Tad had been broken. While still a lad he joined his fond father in the Beyond.

"Give the boys a chance," had amounted to a passion with Abraham Lincoln, yet through great wickedness and sad misunderstandings his own little son was robbed of this great boon. Little Tad had been denied the one chance he sorely needed for his very existence. For this, as for all the inequities the great heart of the White House was prepared. His spirit had shone through his whole life as if in letters of living fire:

"With malice toward none; with charity for all."

THE END



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