[Illustration: House of Thomas Lincoln 107]
House near Farmington, Coles County, Illinois, in which Thomas Lincoln
died. Photographed in 1886.
After a fortnight of rough and fatiguing travel the colony of Indiana
emigrants reached a point in Illinois five miles north-west of the town
of Decatur in Macon county. John Hanks, son of that Joseph Hanks in
whose shop at Elizabethtown Thomas Lincoln had learned what he knew
of the carpenter's art, met and sheltered them until they were safely
housed on a piece of land which he had selected for them five miles
further westward. He had preceded them over a year, and had in the
meantime hewed out a few timbers to be used in the construction of their
cabin. The place he had selected was on a bluff overlooking the Sangamon
river,--for these early settlers must always be in sight of a running
stream,--well supplied with timber. It was a charming and picturesque
site, and all hands set resolutely to work to prepare the new abode.
One felled the trees; one hewed the timbers for the cabin; while another
cleared the ground of its accumulated growth of underbrush. All was
bustle and activity. Even old Thomas Lincoln, infused with the spirit of
the hour, was spurred to unwonted exertion. What part of the work fell
to his lot our only chronicler, John Hanks, fails to note; but it is
conjectured from the old gentleman's experience in the art of building
that his services corresponded to those of the more modern supervising
architect. With the aid of the oxen and a plow John and Abe broke
up fifteen acres of sod, and "Abe and myself," observes Hanks in a
matter-of-fact way, "split rails enough to fence the place in." As
they swung their axes, or with wedge and maul split out the rails, how
strange to them the thought would have seemed that those self-same rails
were destined to make one of them immortal. If such a vision flashed
before the mind of either he made no sign of it, but each kept steadily
on in his simple, unromantic task.
Abe had now attained his majority and began to throw from his shoulders
the vexations of parental restraint. He had done his duty to his father,
and felt able to begin life on his own account. As he steps out into the
broad and inviting world we take him up for consideration as a man.
At the same time we dispense with further notice of his father, Thomas
Lincoln. In the son are we alone interested. The remaining years of his
life marked no change in the old gentleman's nature. He still listened
to the glowing descriptions of prosperity in the adjoining counties,
and before his death moved three times in search of better times and a
healthy location. In 1851 we find him living on forty acres of land on
Goose Nest prairie, in Coles county, Illinois. The land bore the
usual incumbrance--a mortgage for two hundred dollars, which his son
afterwards paid. On the 17th of January, after suffering for many weeks
from a disorder of the kidneys, he passed away at the ripe old age--as
his son tells us--of "seventy-three years and eleven days." For a long
time after beginning life on his own account Abe remained in sight
of the parental abode. He worked at odd jobs in the neighborhood, or
wherever the demand for his services called him. As late as 1831 he was
still in the same parts, and John Hanks is authority for the statement
that he "made three thousand rails for Major Warnick" walking daily
three miles to his work. During the intervals of leisure he read the few
books obtainable, and continued the practice of extemporaneous speaking
to the usual audience of undemonstrative stumps and voiceless trees.
His first attempt at public speaking after landing in Illinois is thus
described to me by John Hanks, whose language I incorporate: "After Abe
got to Decatur, or rather to Macon county, a man by the name of Posey
came into our neighborhood and made a speech. It was a bad one, and I
said Abe could beat it. I turned down a box and Abe made his speech.
The other man was a candidate--Abe wasn't. Abe beat him to death, his
subject being the navigation of the Sangamon river. The man, after Abe's
speech was through, took him aside and asked him where he had learned
so much and how he could do so well. Abe replied, stating his manner
and method of reading, and what he had read. The man encouraged him to
persevere."
For the first time we are now favored with the appearance on the scene
of a very important personage--one destined to exert no little
influence in shaping Lincoln's fortunes. It is Denton Offut, a brisk
and venturesome business man, whose operations extended up and down
the Sangamon river for many miles. Having heard glowing reports of John
Hanks' successful experience as a boatman in Kentucky he had come down
the river to engage the latter's services to take a boatload of stock
and provisions to New Orleans. "He wanted me to go badly," observes
Hanks, "but I waited awhile before answering. I hunted up Abe, and I
introduced him and John Johnston, his step-brother, to Offut. After some
talk we at last made an engagement with Offut at fifty cents a day and
sixty dollars to make the trip to New Orleans. Abe and I came down the
Sangamon river in a canoe in March, 1831; landed at what is now called
Jamestown, five miles east of Springfield, then known as Judy's Ferry."
Here Johnston joined them, and, leaving their canoe in charge of one
Uriah Mann, they walked to Springfield, where after some inquiry they
found the genial and enterprising Offut regaling himself with the good
cheer dispensed at "The Buckhorn" inn. This hostelry, kept by Andrew
Elliot, was the leading place of its kind in the then unpretentious
village of Springfield. The figure of a buck's head painted on a sign
swinging in front of the house gave rise to its name. Offut had agreed
with Hanks to have a boat ready for him and his two companions at the
mouth of Spring creek on their arrival, but too many deep potations with
the new-comers who daily thronged about the "Buckhorn" had interfered
with the execution of his plans, and the boat still remained in the
womb of the future. Offut met the three expectant navigators on their
arrival, and deep were his regrets over his failure to provide the boat.
The interview resulted in the trio engaging to make the boat themselves.
From what was known as "Congress land" they obtained an abundance of
timber, and by the aid of the machinery at Kirkpatrick's mill they
soon had the requisite material for their vessel. While the work of
construction was going on a shanty was built in which they were lodged.
Lincoln was elected cook, a distinction he never underestimated for a
moment. Within four weeks the boat was ready to launch. Offut was sent
for, and was present when she slid into the water. It was the occasion
of much political chat and buncombe, in which the Whig party and Jackson
alike were, strangely enough, lauded to the skies. It is difficult
to account for the unanimous approval of such strikingly antagonistic
ideas, unless it be admitted that Offut must have brought with him some
substantial reminder of the hospitality on draught at the "Buckhorn"
inn. Many disputes arose, we are told, in which Lincoln took part and
found a good field for practice and debate.
A travelling juggler halted long enough in Sangamontown, where the boat
was launched, to give an exhibition of his art and dexterity in the loft
of Jacob Carman's house. In Lincoln's low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat the
magician cooked eggs. As explanatory of the delay in passing up his hat
Lincoln drolly observed, "It was out of respect for the eggs, not care
for my hat."
Having loaded the vessel with pork in barrels, corn, and hogs, these
sturdy boatmen swung out into the stream. On April 19 they reached
the town of New Salem, a place destined to be an important spot in the
career of Lincoln. There they met with their first serious delay. The
boat stranded on Rutledge's mill-dam and hung helplessly over it a day
and a night. "We unloaded the boat," narrated one of the crew to explain
how they obtained relief from their embarrassing situation; "that is,
we transferred the goods from our boat to a borrowed one. We then rolled
the barrels forward; Lincoln bored a hole in the end [projecting] over
the dam; the water which had leaked in ran out and we slid over." Offut
was profoundly impressed with this exhibition of Lincoln's ingenuity. In
his enthusiasm he declared to the crowd who covered the hill and who
had been watching Lincoln's operation that he would build a steamboat to
plow up and down the Sangamon, and that Lincoln should be her Captain.
She would have rollers for shoals and dams, runners for ice, and with
Lincoln in charge, "By thunder, she'd have to go!"
After release from their embarrassing, not to say perilous, position the
boat and her crew floated away from New Salem and passed on to a point
known as Blue Banks, where as the historian of the voyage says: "We
had to load some hogs bought of Squire Godbey. We tried to drive
them aboard, but could not. They would run back past us. Lincoln then
suggested that we sew their eyes shut. Thinking to try it, we caught
them, Abe holding their heads and I their tails while Offut sewed up
their eyes. Still they wouldn't drive. At last, becoming tired, we
carried them to the boat. Abe received them and cut open their eyes,
Johnston and I handing them to him." After thus disposing of the
hog problem they again swung loose and floated down-stream. From the
Sangamon they passed to the Illinois. At Beardstown their unique craft,
with its "sails made of planks and cloth," excited the amusement and
laughter of those who saw them from the shore. Once on the bosom of the
broad Mississippi they glided past Alton, St. Louis, and Cairo in
rapid succession, tied up for a day at Memphis, and made brief stops at
Vicksburg and Natchez. Early in May they reached New Orleans, where they
lingered a month, disposing of their cargo and viewing the sights which
the Crescent City afforded.
In New Orleans, for the first time Lincoln beheld the true horrors of
human slavery. He saw "negroes in chains--whipped and scourged." Against
this inhumanity his sense of right and justice rebelled, and his mind
and conscience were awakened to a realization of what he had often heard
and read. No doubt, as one of his companions has said, "Slavery ran the
iron into him then and there." One morning in their rambles over the
city the trio passed a slave auction. A vigorous and comely mulatto girl
was being sold. She underwent a thorough examination at the hands of the
bidders; they pinched her flesh and made her trot up and down the room
like a horse, to show how she moved, and in order, as the auctioneer
said, that "bidders might satisfy themselves" whether the article they
were offering to buy was sound or not. The whole thing was so
revolting that Lincoln moved away from the scene with a deep feeling
of "unconquerable hate." Bidding his companions follow him he said, "By
God, boys, let's get away from this. If ever I get a chance to hit that
thing [meaning slavery], I'll hit it hard." This incident was furnished
me in 1865, by John Hanks. I have also heard Mr. Lincoln refer to it
himself.
In June the entire party, including Offut, boarded a steamboat going up
the river. At St. Louis they disembarked, Offut remaining behind
while Lincoln, Hanks, and Johnston started across Illinois on foot. At
Edwardsville they separated, Hanks going to Springfield, while Lincoln
and his stepbrother followed the road to Coles county, to which point
old Thomas Lincoln had meanwhile removed. Here Abe did not tarry long,
probably not over a month, but long enough to dispose most effectually
of one Daniel Needham, a famous wrestler who had challenged the returned
boatman to a test of strength. The contest took place at a locality
known as "Wabash Point." Abe threw his antagonist twice with comparative
ease, and thereby demonstrated such marked strength and agility as to
render him forever popular with the boys of that neighborhood.
In August the waters of the Sangamon river washed Lincoln in to
New Salem. This once sprightly and thriving village is no longer in
existence. Not a building, scarcely a stone, is left to mark the place
where it once stood. To reach it now the traveller must ascend a bluff
a hundred feet above the general level of the surrounding country. The
brow of the ridge, two hundred and fifty feet broad where it overlooks
the river, widens gradually as it extends westwardly to the forest and
ultimately to broad pastures. Skirting the base of the bluff is the
Sangamon river, which, coming around a sudden bend from the south-east,
strikes the rocky hill and is turned abruptly north. Here is an old
mill, driven by water-power, and reaching across the river is the
mill-dam on which Offut's vessel hung stranded in April, 1831. As the
river rolled her turbid waters over the dam, plunging them into the
whirl and eddy beneath, the roar of waters, like low, continuous,
distant thunder, could be distinctly heard through the village day and
night.
The country in almost every direction is diversified by alternate
stretches of hills and level lands, with streams between each struggling
to reach the river. The hills are bearded with timber--oak, hickory,
walnut, ash, and elm. Below them are stretches of rich alluvial bottom
land, and the eye ranges over a vast expanse of foliage, the monotony
of which is relieved by the alternating swells and depressions of the
landscape. Between peak and peak, through its bed of limestone, sand,
and clay, sometimes kissing the feet of one bluff and then hugging the
other, rolls the Sangamon river. The village of New Salem, which once
stood on the ridge, was laid out in 1828; it became a trading place, and
in 1836 contained twenty houses and a hundred inhabitants. In the days
of land offices and stage-coaches it was a sprightly village with a busy
market. Its people were progressive and industrious. Propitious winds
filled the sails of its commerce, prosperity smiled graciously on
its every enterprise, and the outside world encouraged its social
pretensions. It had its day of glory, but, singularly enough,
cotemporaneous with the departure of Lincoln from its midst it went
into a rapid decline. A few crumbling stones here and there are all that
attest its former existence. "How it vanished," observes one writer,
"like a mist in the morning, to what distant places its inhabitants
dispersed, and what became of the abodes they left behind, shall be
questions for the local historian."
Lincoln's return to New Salem in August, 1831, was, within a few days,
contemporaneous with the reappearance of Offut, who made the gratifying
announcement that he had purchased a stock of goods which were to follow
him from Beardstown. He had again retained the services of Lincoln
to assist him when his merchandise should come to hand. The tall
stranger--destined to be a stranger in New Salem no longer--pending the
arrival of his employer's goods, lounged about the village with nothing
to do. Leisure never sat heavily on him. To him there was nothing
uncongenial in it, and he might very properly have been dubbed at the
time a "loafer." He assured those with whom he came in contact that he
was a piece of floating driftwood; that after the winter of deep snow,
he had come down the river with the freshet; borne along by the swelling
waters, and aimlessly floating about, he had accidentally lodged at
New Salem. Looking back over his history we are forced to conclude that
Providence or chance, or whatever power is responsible for it, could not
have assigned him to a more favorable refuge.
His introduction to the citizens of New Salem, as Mentor Graham* the
school-teacher tells us, was in the capacity of clerk of an election
board. Graham furnishes ample testimony of the facility, fairness, and
honesty which characterized the new clerk's work, and both teacher and
clerk were soon bound together by the warmest of ties. During the day,
when votes were coming in slowly, Lincoln began to entertain the crowd
at the polls with a few attempts at story-telling. My cousin, J. R.
Herndon, was present and enjoyed this feature of the election with the
keenest relish. He never forgot some of Lincoln's yarns, and was fond of
repeating them in after years. The recital of a few stories by Lincoln
easily established him in the good graces of all New Salem. Perhaps he
did not know it at the time, but he had used the weapon nearest at hand
and had won.
* Nicolay and Hay in the Century make the mistake of
spelling this man's name "Menton" Graham. In all the letters
and papers from him he signs himself "Mentor" in every
case.--J. W. W.
** "In the afternoon, as things were dragging a little,
Lincoln the new man, began to spin out a stock of Indiana
yarns. One that amused me more than any other he called the
lizard story. 'The meeting-house,'" he said, "was in the
woods and quite a distance from any other house. It was only
used once a month. The preacher--an old line Baptist--was
dressed in coarse linen pantaloons, and shirt of the same
material. The pants, manufactured after the old fashion,
with, baggy legs and a flap in front, were made to attach to
his frame without the aid of suspenders. A single button
held his shirt in position, and that was at the collar. He
rose up in the pulpit and with a loud voice announced his
text thus: 'I am the Christ, whom I shall represent to-day.'
About this time a little blue lizard ran up underneath his
roomy pantaloons. The old preacher, not wishing to interrupt
the steady flow of his sermon, slapped away on his legs,
expecting to arrest the intruder; but his efforts were
unavailing, and the little fellow kept on ascending higher
and higher. Continuing the sermon, the preacher slyly
loosened the central button which graced the waist-band of
his pantaloons and with a kick off came that easy-fitting
garment. But meanwhile Mr. Lizard had passed the equatorial
line of waist-band and was calmly exploring that part of the
preacher's anatomy which lay underneath the back of his
shirt. Things were now growing interesting, but the sermon
was still grinding on. The next movement on the preacher's
part was for the collar button, and with one sweep of his
arm off came the tow linen shirt. The congregation sat for
an instant as if dazed; at length one old lady in the rear
of the room rose up and glancing at the excited object in
the pulpit, shouted at the top of her voice: 'If you
represent Christ then I'm done with the Bible.'"--J. R.
Herndon, MS., July 2, 1865.
A few days after the election Lincoln found employment with one Dr.
Nelson, who after the style of dignitaries of later days started with
his family and effects in his "private" conveyance--which in this
instance was a flat-boat--for Texas. Lincoln was hired to pilot the
vessel through to the Illinois river. Arriving at Beardstown the pilot
was discharged, and returned on foot across the sand and hills to New
Salem. In the meantime Offut's long expected goods had arrived, and
Lincoln was placed in charge. Offut relied in no slight degree on the
business capacity of his clerk. In his effusive way he praised him
beyond reason. He boasted of his skill as a business man and his
wonderful intellectual acquirements. As for physical strength and
fearlessness of danger, he challenged New Salem and the entire world to
produce his equal. In keeping with his widely known spirit of enterprise
Offut rented the Rutledge and Cameron mill, which stood at the foot
of the hill, and thus added another iron to keep company with the
half-dozen already in the fire. As a further test of his business
ability Lincoln was placed in charge of this also. William G. Greene was
hired to assist him, and between the two a life-long friendship sprang
up. They slept in the store, and so strong was the intimacy between them
that "when one turned over the other had to do likewise." At the head of
these varied enterprises was Offut, the most progressive man by all
odds in the village. He was certainly an odd character, if we accept the
judgment of his cotemporaries. By some he is given the character of a
clear-headed, brisk man of affairs. By others he is variously described
as "wild, noisy, and reckless," or "windy, rattle-brained, unsteady, and
improvident." Despite the unenviable traits ascribed to him he was good
at heart and a generous friend of Lincoln. His boast that the latter
could outrun, whip, or throw down any man in Sangamon county was soon
tested, as we shall presently see, for, as another has truthfully
expressed it, "honors such as Offut accorded to Abe were to be won
before they were worn at New Salem." In the neighborhood of the village,
or rather a few miles to the south-west, lay a strip of timber called
Clary's Grove. The boys who lived there were a terror to the entire
region--seemingly a necessary product of frontier civilization. They
were friendly and good-natured; they could trench a pond, dig a bog,
build a house; they could pray and fight, make a village or create
a state. They would do almost anything for sport or fun, love or
necessity. Though rude and rough, though life's forces ran over the edge
of the bowl, foaming and sparkling in pure deviltry for deviltry's sake,
yet place before them a poor man who needed their aid, a lame or sick
man, a defenceless woman, a widow, or an orphaned child, they melted
into sympathy and charity at once. They gave all they had, and willingly
toiled or played cards for more. Though there never was under the sun a
more generous parcel of rowdies, a stranger's introduction was likely to
be the most unpleasant part of his acquaintance with them. They conceded
leadership to one Jack Armstrong, a hardy, strong, and well-developed
specimen of physical manhood, and under him they were in the habit of
"cleaning out" New Salem whenever his order went forth to do so.
Offut and "Bill" Clary--the latter skeptical of Lincoln's strength and
agility--ended a heated discussion in the store one day over the new
clerk's ability to meet the tactics of Clary's Grove, by a bet of ten
dollars that Jack Armstrong was, in the language of the day, "a better
man than Lincoln." The new clerk strongly opposed this sort of an
introduction, but after much entreaty from Offut, at last consented to
make his bow to the social lions of the town in this unusual way. He was
now six feet four inches high, and weighed, as his friend and confidant,
William Greene, tells us with impressive precision, "two hundred and
fourteen pounds." The contest was to be a friendly one and fairly
conducted. All New Salem adjourned to the scene of the wrestle. Money,
whiskey, knives, and all manner of property were staked on the result.
It is unnecessary to go into the details of the encounter. Everyone
knows how it ended; how at last the tall and angular rail-splitter,
enraged at the suspicion of foul tactics, and profiting by his height
and the length of his arms, fairly lifted the great bully by the throat
and shook him like a rag; how by this act he established himself solidly
in the esteem of all New Salem, and secured the respectful admiration
and friendship of the very man whom he had so thoroughly vanquished.*
* Mr. Lincoln's remarkable strength resulted not so much
from muscular power as from the toughness of his sinews. He
could not only lift from the ground enormous weight, but
could throw a cannon-ball or a maul farther than anyone else
in New Salem. I heard him explain once how he was enabled
thus to excel others. He did not attribute it to a greater
proportion of physical strength, but contended that because
of the unusual length of his arms the ball or projectile had
a greater swing and therefore acquired more force and
momentum than in the hands of an average man.
From this time forward Jack Armstrong, his wife Hannah, and all the
other Armstrongs became his warm and trusted friends. None stood readier
than they to rally to his support, none more willing to lend a helping
hand. Lincoln appreciated their friendship and support, and in after
years proved his gratitude by saving one member of the family from the
gallows.
The business done over Offut's counter gave his clerk frequent intervals
of rest, so that, if so inclined, an abundance of time for study
was always at his disposal. Lincoln had long before realized the
deficiencies of his education, and resolved, now that the conditions
were favorable, to atone for early neglect by a course of study. Nothing
was more apparent to him than his limited knowledge of language, and
the proper way of expressing his ideas. Moreover, it may be said that
he appreciated his inefficiency in a rhetorical sense, and therefore
determined to overcome all these obstacles by mastering the intricacies
of grammatical construction. Acting on the advice of Mentor Graham he
hunted up one Vaner, who was the reputed owner of Kirkham's Grammar,
and after a walk of several miles returned to the store with the coveted
volume under his arm. With zealous perseverance he at once applied
himself to the book. Sometimes he would stretch out at full length on
the counter, his head propped up on a stack of calico prints, studying
it; or he would steal away to the shade of some inviting tree, and there
spend hours ar a time in a determined effort to fix in his mind the
arbitrary rule that "adverbs qualify verbs, adjectives, and other
adverbs." From the vapidity of grammar it was now and then a great
relaxation to turn to the more agreeable subject of mathematics; and he
might often have been seen lying face downwards, stretched out over six
feet of grass, figuring out on scraps of paper some problem given for
solution by a quizzical store lounger, or endeavoring to prove that,
"multiplying the denominator of a fraction divides it, while dividing
the denominator multiplies it." Rather a poor prospect one is forced to
admit for a successful man of business.
At this point in my narrative I am pained to drop from further notice
our buoyant and effusive friend Offut. His business ventures failing
to yield the extensive returns he predicted, and too many of his
obligations maturing at the same time, he was forced to pay the penalty
of commercial delinquency and went to the wall. He soon disappeared from
the village, and the inhabitants thereof never knew whither he went. In
the significant language of Lincoln he "petered out." As late as 1873 I
received a letter from Dr. James Hall, a physician living at St. Dennis,
near Baltimore, Maryland, who, referring to the disappearance of Offut,
relates the following reminiscence: "Of what consequence to know or
learn more of Offut I cannot imagine; but be assured he turned up after
leaving New Salem. On meeting the name it seemed familiar, but I could
not locate him. Finally I fished up from memory that some twenty-five
years ago one "Denton Offut" appeared in Baltimore, hailing from
Kentucky, advertising himself in the city papers as a veterinary surgeon
and horse tamer, professing to have a secret to whisper in the horse's
ear, or a secret manner of whispering in his ear, which he could
communicate to others, and by which the most refractory and vicious
horse could be quieted and controlled. For this secret he charged five
dollars, binding the recipient by oath not to divulge it. I know several
persons, young fancy horsemen, who paid for the trick. Offut advertised
himself not only through the press, but by his strange attire. He
appeared in the streets on horseback and on foot, in plain citizens'
dress of black, but with a broad sash across his right shoulder, of
various colored ribbons, crossed on his left hip under a large
rosette of the same material, the whole rendering his appearance
most ludicrously conspicuous. Having occasion to purchase a horse I
encountered him at several of our stables and was strongly urged to
avail myself of his secret. So much for Offut; but were he living in
'61, I doubt not Mr. Lincoln would have heard of him."
The early spring of 1832 brought to Springfield and New Salem a most
joyful announcement. It was the news of the coming of a steamboat down
the Sangamon river--proof incontestable that the stream was navigable.
The enterprise was undertaken and carried through by Captain Vincent
Bogue, of Springfield, who had gone to Cincinnati to procure a vessel
and thus settle the much-mooted question of the river's navigability.
When, therefore, he notified the people of his town that the steamboat
_Talisman_ would put out from Cincinnati for Springfield, we can well
imagine what great excitement and unbounded enthusiasm followed the
announcement. Springfield, New Salem, and all the other towns along the
now interesting Sangamon* were to be connected by water with the outside
world.
*The final syllable of this name was then pronounced to
rhyme with "raw." In later days the letter "n" was added--
probably for euphony's sake.
Public meetings, with the accompaniment of long subscription lists,
were held; the merchants of Springfield advertised the arrival of goods
"direct from the East per steamer _Talisman_;" the mails were promised
as often as once a week from the same direction; all the land adjoining
each enterprising and aspiring village along the river was subdivided
into town lots--in fact, the whole region began to feel the stimulating
effects of what, in later days, would have been called a "boom." I
remember the occasion well, for two reasons. It was my first sight of
a steamboat, and also the first time I ever saw Mr. Lincoln--although
I never became acquainted with him till his second race for the
Legislature in 1834. In response to the suggestion of Captain
Bogue, made from Cincinnati, a number of citizens--among the number
Lincoln--had gone down the river to Beardstown to meet the vessel as
she emerged from the Illinois. These were armed with axes having long
handles, to cut away, as Bogue had recommended, "branches of trees
hanging over from the banks." After having passed New Salem, I and other
boys on horseback followed the boat, riding along the river's bank as
far as Bogue's mill, where she tied up. There we went aboard, and lost
in boyish wonder, feasted our eyes on the splendor of her interior
decorations. The _Sangamon Journal_ of that period contains numerous
poetical efforts celebrating the _Talisman's_ arrival. A few lines under
date of April 5, 1832, unsigned, but supposed to have been the product
of a local poet--one Oliphant*--were sung to the tune of "Clar de
Kitchen." I cannot refrain from inflicting a stanza or two of this ode
on the reader:
* E. P. Oliphant, a lawyer.
"O, Captain Bogue he gave the load,
And Captain Bogue he showed the road;
And we came up with a right good will,
And tied our boat up to his mill.
Now we are up the Sangamo,
And here we'll have a grand hurra,
So fill your glasses to the brim,
Of whiskey, brandy, wine, and gin.
Illinois suckers, young and raw,
Were strung along the Sangamo,
To see a boat come up by steam
They surely thought it was a dream."
On its arrival at Springfield, or as near Springfield as the river
ran, the crew of the boat were given a reception and dance in the
court-house. The cream of the town's society attended to pay their
respects to the newly arrived guests. The captain in charge of the
boat--not Captain Bogue, but a vainly dressed fellow from the East--was
accompanied by a woman, more gaudily attired than himself, whom he
introduced as his wife. Of course the most considerate attention was
shown them both, until later in the evening, when it became apparent
that the gallant officer and his fair partner had imbibed too
freely--for in those days we had plenty of good cheer--and were becoming
unpleasantly demonstrative in their actions. This breach of good manners
openly offended the high-toned nature of Springfield's fair ladies; but
not more than the lamentable fact, which they learned on the following
day, that the captain's partner was not his wife after all, but a woman
of doubtful reputation whom he had brought with him from some place
further east. But to return to the _Talisman_. That now interesting
vessel lay for a week longer at Bogue's mill, when the receding waters
admonished her officers that unless they purposed spending the remainder
of the year there they must head her down-stream. In this emergency
recourse was had to my cousin Rowan Herndon, who had had no little
experience as a boatman, and who recommended the employment of Lincoln
as a skilful assistant. These two inland navigators undertook therefore
the contract of piloting the vessel--which had now become elephantine
in proportions--through the uncertain channel of the Sangamon to the
Illinois river. The average speed was four miles a day. At New Salem
safe passage over the mill-dam was deemed impossible unless the same
could be lowered or a portion removed.*
* The affair at New Salem is thus described by Oliphant in
the poem before referred to:
To this, Cameron and Rutledge, owners of the mill, entered their most
strenuous protest. The boat's officers responded that under the Federal
Constitution and laws no one had the right to dam up or in any way
obstruct a navigable stream, and they argued that, as they had just
demonstrated that the Sangamon was navigable (?), they proposed to
remove enough of the obstruction to let the boat through. Rowan Herndon,
describing it to me in 1865, said: "When we struck the dam she hung. We
then backed off and threw the anchor over. We tore away part of the
dam and raising steam ran her over on the first trial." The entire
proceeding stirred up no little feeling, in which mill owners, boat
officers, and passengers took part. The effect the return trip of the
_Talisman_ had on those who believed in the successful navigation of
the Sangamon is shrewdly indicated by the pilot, who with laconic
complacency adds: "As soon as she was over, the company that chartered
her was done with her." Lincoln and Herndon, in charge of the vessel,
piloted her through to Beardstown. There they were paid forty dollars
each, according to contract, and bidding adieu to the _Talisman's_
officers and crew, set out on foot for New Salem again. A few months
later the Talisman caught fire at the wharf in St. Louis and went up in
flames. The experiment of establishing a steamboat line to Springfield
proved an unfortunate venture for its projector, Captain Bogue. Finding
himself unable to meet his rapidly maturing obligations, incurred in
aid of the enterprise, it is presumed that he left the country, for the
Journal of that period is filled with notices of attachment proceedings
brought by vigilant creditors who had levied on his goods.
"And when we came to Salem dam,
Up we went against it jam:
We tried to cross with all our might,
But found we couldn't and staid all night."