The first law book Lincoln ever read was "The Statutes of Indiana." He
obtained the volume from his friend David Tumham, who testifies that he
fairly devoured the book in his eager efforts to abstract the store of
knowledge that lay between the lids. No doubt, as Tumham insists, the
study of the statutes at this early day led Abe to think of the law
as his calling in maturer years. At any rate he now began to evince no
little zeal in the matter of public speaking--in compliance with the
old notion, no doubt, that a lawyer can never succeed unless he has the
elements of the orator or advocate in his construction--and even when
at work in the field he could not resist the temptation to mount the
nearest stump and practise on his fellow laborers. The latter would
flock around him, and active operations would cease whenever he began.
A cluster of tall and stately trees often made him a most dignified
and apreciative audience during the delivery of these maiden forensic
efforts. He was old enough to attend musters, log-rollings, and
horse-races, and was rapidly becoming a favored as well as favorite
character. "The first time I ever remember of seeing Abe Lincoln," is
the testimony of one of his neighbors,* "was when I was a small boy and
had gone with my father to attend some kind of an election. One of our
neighbors, James Larkins, was there. Larkins was a great hand to brag on
anything he owned. This time it was his horse. He stepped up before Abe,
who was in the crowd, and commenced talking to him, boasting all the
while of his animal.
"'I have got the best horse in the country'" he shouted to his young
listener. "'I ran him three miles in exactly nine minutes, and he never
fetched a long breath.'"
"'I presume,' said Abe, rather dryly, 'he fetched a good many short ones
though.'"
* John W. Lamar, MS. letter, June 29, 1866.
With all his peaceful propensities Abe was not averse to a contest
of strength, either for sport or in settlement--as in one memorable
case--of grievances. Personal encounters were of frequent occurrence
in Gentryville in those days, and the prestige of having thrashed an
opponent gave the victor marked social distinction. Green B. Taylor,
with whom Abe worked the greater part of one winter on a farm, furnished
me with an account of the noted fight between John Johnston, Abe's
stepbrother, and William Grigsby, in which stirring drama Abe himself
played an important role before the curtain was rung down. Taylor's
father was the second for Johnston, and William Whitten officiated in
a similar capacity for Grigsby. "They had a terrible fight," relates
Taylor, "and it soon became apparent that Grigsby was too much for
Lincoln's man, Johnston. After they had fought a long time without
interference, it having been agreed not to break the ring, Abe burst
through, caught Grigsby, threw him off and some feet away. There he
stood, proud as Lucifer, and swinging a bottle of liquor over his head
swore he was 'the big buck of the lick.' 'If any one doubts it,'
he shouted, 'he has only to come on and whet his horns.'" A general
engagement followed this challenge, but at the end of hostilities the
field was cleared and the wounded retired amid the exultant shouts of
their victors.
Much of the latter end of Abe's boyhood would have been lost in the
midst of tradition but for the store of information and recollections I
was fortunate enough to secure from an interesting old lady whom I met
in Indiana in 1865. She was the wife of Josiah Crawford*--"Blue Nose,"
as Abe had named him--and possessed rare accomplishments for a woman
reared in the backwoods of Indiana. She was not only impressed with
Abe's early efforts, but expressed great admiration for his sister
Sarah, whom she often had with her at her own hospitable home and
whom she described as a modest, industrious, and sensible sister of a
humorous and equally sensible brother. From Mrs. Crawford I obtained
the few specimens of Abe's early literary efforts and much of the matter
that follows in this chapter. The introduction here of the literary
feature as affording us a glimpse of Lincoln's boyhood days may to a
certain extent grate harshly on over-refined ears; but still no apology
is necessary, for, as intimated at the outset, I intend to keep close
to Lincoln all the way through. Some writers would probably omit
these songs and backwoods recitals as savoring too strongly of the
Bacchanalian nature, but that would be a narrow view to take of history.
If we expect to know Lincoln thoroughly we must be prepared to take him
as he really was.
* In one of her conversations with me Mrs. Crawford told me
of the exhibitions with which at school they often
entertained the few persons who attended the closing day.
Sometimes, in warm weather, the scholars made a platform of
clean boards covered overhead with green boughs. Generally,
however, these exhibitions took place in the school-room.
The exercises consisted of the varieties offered at this day
at the average seminary or school--declamations and
dialogues or debates. The declamations were obtained
principally from a book called "The Kentucky Preceptor,"
which volume Mrs. Crawford gave me as a souvenir of my
visit. Lincoln had often used it himself, she said. The
questions for discussion were characteristic of the day and
age. The relative merits of the "Bee and the Ant," the
difference in strength between "Wind and Water," taxed their
knowledge of physical phenomena; and the all-important
question "Which has the most right to complain, the Indian
or the Negro?" called out their conceptions of a great moral
or national wrong. In the discussion of all these grave
subjects Lincoln took a deep interest.
In 1826 Abe's sister Sarah was married to Aaron Grigsby, and at the
wedding the Lincoln family sang a song composed in honor of the event
by Abe himself. It is a tiresome doggerel and full of painful rhymes. I
reproduce it here from the manuscript furnished me by Mrs. Crawford. The
author and composer called it "Adam and Eve's Wedding Song."
"When Adam was created
He dwelt in Eden's shade,
As Moses has recorded,
And soon a bride 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
That man should be alone,
But caused a sleep upon him,
And from him took a bone.
Then Adam he rejoiced
To see his loving bride
A part of his own body,
The product of his side.
The woman was not taken
From Adam's feet we see,
So he must not abuse her,
The meaning seems to be.
The woman was not taken
From Adam's head, we know,
To show she must not rule him,
'Tis evidently so.
The woman she was taken
From under Adam's arm,
So she must be protected
From injuries and harm."
Poor Sarah, at whose wedding this song was sung, never lived to see the
glory nor share in the honor that afterwards fell to the lot of her tall
and angular brother. Within two years after her marriage she died in
childbirth.
Although devoid of any natural ability as a singer Abe nevertheless made
many efforts and had great appreciation of certain songs. In after years
he told me he doubted if he really knew what the harmony of sound was.
The songs in vogue then were principally of the sacred order. They were
from Watts' and Dupuy's hymn-books. David Tumham furnished me with a
list, marking as especial favorites the following: "Am I a Soldier of
the Cross"; "How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours"; "There is a Fountain
Filled with Blood," and, "Alas, and did my Saviour Bleed?" One song
pleased Abe not a little. "I used to sing it for old Thomas Lincoln,"
relates Turnham, "at Abe's request. The old gentleman liked it and made
me sing it often. I can only remember one couplet:
"'There was a Romish lady
She was brought up in Popery.'"
Dennis Hanks insists that Abe used to try his hand and voice at "Poor
old Ned," but never with any degree of success. "Rich, racy verses" were
sung by the big boys in the country villages of that day with as keen a
relish as they are to-day. There is no reason and less evidence for the
belief that Abe did not partake of this forbidden fruit along with other
boys of the same age and condition in life. Among what Dennis called
"field songs" are a few lines from this one:
"The turbaned Turk that scorns the world
And struts about with his whiskers curled,
For no other man but himself to see."
Of another ballad we have this couplet:
"Hail Columbia, happy land,
If you aint drunk then I'll be damned."
We can imagine the merry Dennis, hilarious with the exhilaration of deep
potations at the village grocery, singing this "field song" as he and
Abe wended their way homeward. A stanza from a campaign song which Abe
was in the habit of rendering, according to Mrs. Crawford, attests his
earliest political predilections:
"Let auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind,
May Jackson be our president,
And Adams left behind."
A mournful and distressing ballad, "John Anderson's Lamentation," as
rendered by Abe, was written out for me by Mrs. Crawford, but the first
lines,
"Oh, sinners, poor sinners, take warning by me,
The fruits of transgression behold now and see,"
will suffice to indicate how mournful the rest of it was.
The centre of wit and wisdom in the village of Gentryville was at the
store. This place was in charge of one Jones, who soon after embarking
in business seemed to take quite a fancy to Abe. He took the only
newspaper--sent from Louisville--and at his place of business gathered
Abe, Dennis Hanks, Baldwin the blacksmith, and other kindred spirits to
discuss such topics as are the exclusive property of the store lounger.
Abe's original and ridiculous stories not only amused the crowd, but the
display of his unique faculties made him many friends. One who saw him
at this time says:
"Lincoln would frequently make political speeches to the boys; he was
always calm, logical, and clear. His jokes and stories were so odd,
original, and witty all the people in town would gather around him. He
would keep them till midnight. Abe was a good talker, a good reasoner,
and a kind of newsboy." He attended all the trials before the "squire,"
as that important functionary was called, and frequently wandered off
to Boonville, a town on the river, distant fifteen miles, and the county
seat of Warrick County, to hear and see how the courts were conducted
there. On one occasion, at the latter place, he remained during the
trial of a murderer and attentively absorbed the proceedings. A lawyer
named Breckenridge represented the defense, and his speech so pleased
and thrilled his young listener that the latter could not refrain
from approaching the eloquent advocate at the close of his address and
congratulating him on his signal success. How Breckenridge accepted
the felicitations of the awkward, hapless youth we shall probably never
know. The story is told that during Lincoln's term as President, he
was favored one day at the White House with a visit by this same
Breckenridge, then a resident of Texas, who had called to pay his
respects. In a conversation about early days in Indiana, the President,
recalling Breckenridge's argument in the murder trial, remarked, "If I
could, as I then thought, have made as good a speech as that, my soul
would have been satisfied; for it was up to that time the best speech I
had ever heard."
No feature of his backwoods life pleased Abe so well as going to mill.
It released him from a day's work in the woods, besides affording him a
much desired opportunity to watch the movement of the mill's primitive
and cumbersome machinery. It was on many of these trips that David
Tumham accompanied him. In later years Mr. Lincoln related the following
reminiscence of his experience as a miller in Indiana; One day, taking a
bag of corn, he mounted the old flea-bitten gray mare and rode leisurely
to Gordon's mill. Arriving somewhat late, his turn did not come till
almost sundown. In obedience to the custom requiring each man to furnish
his own power he hitched the old mare to the arm, and as the animal
moved round, the machinery responded with equal speed. Abe was mounted
on the arm, and at frequent intervals made use of his whip to urge the
animal on to better speed. With a careless "Get up, you old hussy,"
he applied the lash at each revolution of the arm. In the midst of the
exclamation, or just as half of it had escaped through his teeth, the
old jade, resenting the continued use of the goad, elevated her shoeless
hoof and striking the young engineer in the forehead, sent him sprawling
to the earth. Miller Gordon hurried in, picked up the bleeding,
senseless boy, whom he took for dead, and at once sent for his father.
Old Thomas Lincoln came--came as soon as embodied listlessness
could moveloaded the lifeless boy in a wagon and drove home. Abe lay
unconscious all night, but towards break of day the attendants noticed
signs of returning consciousness. The blood beginning to flow normally,
his tongue struggled to loosen itself, his frame jerked for an instant,
and he awoke, blurting out the words "you old hussy," or the latter half
of the sentence interrupted by the mare's heel at the mill.
Mr. Lincoln considered this one of the remarkable incidents of his life.
He often referred to it, and we had many discussions in our law office
over the psychological phenomena involved in the operation. Without
expressing my own views I may say that his idea was that the latter half
of the expression, "Get up, you old hussy," was cut off by a suspension
of the normal flow of his mental energy, and that as soon as life's
forces returned he unconsciously ended the sentence; or, as he in
a plainer figure put it: "Just before I struck the old mare my
will through the mind had set the muscles of my tongue to utter the
expression, and when her heels came in contact with my head the whole
thing stopped half-cocked, as it were, and was only fired off when
mental energy or force returned."
By the time he had reached his seventeenth year he had attained the
physical proportions of a full-grown man. He was employed to assist
James Taylor in the management of a ferry-boat across the Ohio river
near the mouth of Anderson's creek, but was not allowed a man's
wages for the work. He received thirty-seven cents a day for what he
afterwards told me was the roughest work a young man could be made to
do. In the midst of whatever work he was engaged on he still found
time to utilize his pen. He prepared a composition on the American
Government, calling attention to the necessity of preserving the
Constitution and perpetuating the Union, which with characteristic
modesty he turned over to his friend and patron, William Woods, for
safe-keeping and perusal. Through the instrumentality of Woods it
attracted the attention of many persons, among them one Pitcher,* a
lawyer at Rockport, who with faintly concealed enthusiasm declared
"the world couldn't beat it." An article on Temperance was shown under
similar circumstance to Aaron Farmer, a Baptist preacher of local
renown, and by him furnished to an Ohio newspaper for publication. The
thing, however, which gave him such prominence--a prominence too which
could have been attained in no other way--was his remarkable physical
strength, for he was becoming not only one of the longest, but one of
the strongest men around Gentryville. He enjoyed the brief distinction
his exhibitions of strength gave him more than the admiration of
his friends for his literary or forensic efforts. Some of the feats
attributed to him almost surpass belief. One witness declares he was
equal to three men, having on a certain occasion carried a load of six
hundred pounds At another time he walked away with a pair of logs which
three robust men were skeptical of their ability to carry. "He could
strike with a maul a heavier blow--could sink an axe deeper into wood
than any man I ever saw," is the testimony of another witness.
* This gentleman, Judge John Pitcher, ninety-three years
old, is still living in Mount Vernon, Indiana. He says that
young Lincoln often called at his office and borrowed books
to read at home during leisure hours. On one occasion he
expressed a desire to study law with Pitcher, but explained
that his parents were so poor that he could not be spared
from the farm on which they lived. "He related to me in my
office one day," says Pitcher, "an account of his payment to
Crawford of the damage done to the latter's book--Weems'
'Life of Washington.' Lincoln said, "You see, I am tall and
long-armed, and I went to work in earnest. At the end of the
two days there was not a corn-blade left on a stalk in the
field. I wanted to pay full damage for all the wetting the
book got, and I made a clean sweep."
After he had passed his nineteenth year and was nearing his majority
he began to chafe and grow restless under the restraints of home rule.
Seeing no prospect of betterment in his condition, so long as his
fortune was interwoven with that of his father, he at last endeavored to
strike out into the broad world for himself. Having great faith in the
judgment and influence of his fast friend Wood, he solicited from him
a recommendation to the officers of some one of the boats plying up and
down the river, hoping thereby to obtain employment more congenial than
the dull, fatiguing work of the farm. To this project the judicious Wood
was much opposed, and therefore suggested to the would-be boatman the
moral duty that rested on him to remain with his father till the law
released him from that obligation. With deep regret he retraced his
steps to the paternal mansion, seriously determined not to evade the
claim from which in a few weary months he would be finally released.
Meanwhile occurred his first opportunity to see the world. In March,
1828, James Gentry, for whom he had been at work, had fitted out a boat
with a stock of grain and meat for a trading expedition to New Orleans,
and placed his son Allen in charge of the cargo for the voyage. Abe's
desire to make a river trip was at last satisfied, and he accompanied
the proprietor's son, serving as "bow hand." His pay was eight dollars
a month and board. In due course of time the navigators returned from
their expedition with the evidence of profitable results to gladden the
heart of the owner. The only occurrence of interest they could relate
of the voyage was the encounter with a party of marauding negroes at the
plantation of Madame Duchesne, a few miles below Baton Rouge. Abe and
Gentry, having tied up for the night, were fast asleep on their boat
when aroused by the arrival of a crowd of negroes bent on plunder.
They set to work with clubs, and not only drove off the intruders, but
pursued them inland, then hastily returning to their quarters they cut
loose their craft and floated down-stream till daylight.
Before passing on further it may not be amiss to glance for a moment at
the social side of life as it existed in Gentryville in Abe's day. "We
thought nothing," said an old lady whom I interviewed when in Indiana,
"of going eight or ten miles to church. The ladies did not stop for the
want of a shawl, cloak, or riding-dress in winter time, but would put on
their husbands' old overcoats and wrap up their little ones and take one
or two of them on their beasts. Their husbands would walk, and thus they
would go to church, frequently remaining till the second day before they
returned home."
The old men starting from the fields and out of the woods would carry
their guns on their shoulders and go also. They dressed in deer-skin
pants, moccasins, and coarse hunting shirts--the latter usually fastened
with a rope or leather strap. Arriving at the house where services were
to be held they would recite to each other thrilling stories of their
hunting exploits, and smoke their pipes with the old ladies. They were
treated, and treated each other, with the utmost kindness. A bottle of
liquor, a pitcher of water, sugar, and glasses were set out for them;
also a basket of apples or turnips, with, now and then, a pie or cakes.
Thus they regaled themselves till the preacher found himself in a
condition to begin. The latter, having also partaken freely of the
refreshments provided, would "take his stand, draw his coat, open
his shirt collar, read his text, and preach and pound till the sweat,
produced alike by his exertions and the exhilarating effects of the
toddy, rolled from his face in great drops. Shaking hands and singing
ended the service."
The houses were scattered far apart, but the people travelled great
distances to participate in the frolic and coarse fun of a log-rolling
and sometimes a wedding. Unless in mid-winter the young ladies carried
their shoes in their hands, and only put them on when the scene of
the festivities was reached. The ladies of maturer years drank whiskey
toddy, while the men took the whiskey straight. They all danced merrily,
many of them barefooted, to the tune of a cracked fiddle the night
through. We can imagine the gleeful and more hilarious swaggering home
at daybreak to the tune of Dennis Hanks' festive lines:
"Hail Columbia, happy land,
If you ain't drunk then I'll be damned."
Although gay, prosperous, and light-hearted, these people were brimming
over with superstition. It was at once their food and drink. They
believed in the baneful influence of witches, pinned their faith to the
curative power of wizards in dealing with sick animals, and shot the
image of a witch with a silver ball to break the spell she was supposed
to have over human beings. They followed with religious minuteness the
directions of the water-wizard, with his magic divining rod, and the
faith doctor who wrought miraculous cures by strange sounds and signals
to some mysterious agency. The flight of a bird in at the window, the
breath of a horse on a child's head, the crossing by a dog of a hunter's
path, all betokened evil luck in store for some one. The moon exercised
greater influence on the actions of the people and the growth of
vegetation than the sun and all the planetary system combined. Fence
rails could only be cut in the light of the moon, and potatoes planted
in the dark of the moon. Trees and plants which bore their fruit above
ground could be planted when the moon shone full. Soap could only be
made in the light of the moon, and it must only be stirred in one way
and by one person. They had the horror of Friday which with many exists
to this day. Nothing was to be begun on that unlucky day, for if the
rule were violated an endless train of disasters was sure to follow.
Surrounded by people who believed in these things, Lincoln grew to
manhood. With them he walked, talked, and labored, and from them he also
absorbed whatever of superstition showed itself in him thereafter. His
early Baptist training made him a fatalist up to the day of his death,
and, listening in boyish wonder to the legends of some toothless old
dame led him to believe in the significance of dreams and visions. His
surroundings helped to create that unique character which in the eyes of
a great portion of the American people was only less curious and amusing
than it was august and noble.
The winter of 1829 was marked by another visitation of that dreaded
disease, "the milk-sick." It was making the usual ravages among the
cattle. Human victims were falling before it every day, and it caused
the usual stampede in southern Indiana. Dennis Hanks, discouraged by
the prospect and grieving over the loss of his stock, proposed a move
further westward. Returning emigrants had brought encouraging news of
the newly developed state of Illinois. Vast stretches of rich alluvial
lands were to be had there on the easiest of terms.
Besides this, Indiana no longer afforded any inducements to the poor
man. The proposition of Dennis met with the general assent of the
Lincoln family, and especially suited the roving and migratory spirit of
Thomas Lincoln. He had been induced to leave Kentucky for the hills of
Indiana by the same rosy and alluring reports. He had moved four times
since his marriage and in point of worldly goods was no better off than
when he started in life. His land groaned under the weight of a long
neglected incumbrance and, like many of his neighbors, he was ready for
another change. Having disposed of his land to James Gentry, and his
grain and stock to young David Turnham, he loaded his household effects
into a wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen, and in March, 1830, started for
Illinois. The two daughters of Mrs. Lincoln had meanwhile married
Dennis Hanks and Levi Hall, and with these additions the party numbered
thirteen in all. Abe had just passed his twenty-first birthday.
The journey was a long and tedious one; the streams were swollen and the
roads were muddy almost to the point of impassability. The rude, heavy
wagon, with its primitive wheels, creaked and groaned as it crawled
through the woods and now and then stalled in the mud. Many were the
delays, but none ever disturbed the equanimity of its passengers. They
were cheerful in the face of all adversity, hopeful, and some of them
determined; but none of them more so than the tall, ungainly youth in
buckskin breeches and coon-skin cap who wielded the gad and urged the
patient oxen forward. As these humble emigrants entered the new State
little did the curious people in the towns through which they passed
dream that the obscure and penniless driver who yelled his commands to
the oxen would yet become Chief Magistrate of the greatest nation of
modern times.*
* Mr. Lincoln once described this journey to me. He said the
ground had not yet yielded up the frosts of winter; that
daring the day the roads would thaw out on the surface and
at night freeze over again, thus making travelling,
especially with oxen, painfully slow and tiresome. There
were, of course, no bridges, and the party were consequently
driven to ford the streams, unless by a circuitous route
they could avoid them. In the early part of the day the
latter were also frozen slightly, and the oxen would break
through a square yard of thin ice at every step. Among other
things which the party brought with them was a pet dog,
which trotted along after the wagon. One day the little
fellow fell behind and failed to catch up till after they
had crossed the stream. Missing him they looked back, and
there, on the opposite bank, he stood, whining and jumping
about in great distress. The water was running over the
broken edges of the ice, and the poor animal was afraid to
cross. It would not pay to turn the oxen and wagon back and
ford the stream again in order to recover a dog, and so the
majority, in their anxiety to move forward, decided to go on
without him. "But I could not endure the idea of abandoning
even a dog," related Lincoln. "Pulling off shoes and socks I
waded across the stream and triumphantly returned with the
shivering animal under my arm. His frantic leaps of joy and
other evidences of a dog's gratitude amply repaid me for all
the exposure I had undergone."