CHAPTER II.

THOMAS LINCOLN was something of a waterman. In the frequent changes of

occupation, which had hitherto made his life so barren of good results,

he could not resist the temptation to the career of a flat-boatman. He

had accordingly made one, or perhaps two trips to New Orleans, in the

company and employment of Isaac Bush, who was probably a near relative

of Sally Bush. It was therefore very natural, that when, in the fall of

1816, he finally determined to emigrate, he should attempt to transport

his goods by water. He built himself a boat, which seems to have been

none of the best, and launched it on the Rolling Fork, at the mouth of

Knob Creek, a half-mile from his cabin. Some of his personal property,

including carpenter's tools, he put on board, and the rest he traded for

four hundred gallons of whiskey. With this crazy boat and this singular

cargo, he put out into the stream alone, and floating with the current

down the Rolling Fork, and then down Salt River, reached the Ohio

without any mishap. Here his craft proved somewhat rickety when

contending with the difficulties of the larger stream, or perhaps there

was a lack of force in the management of her, or perhaps the single

navigator had consoled himself during the lonely voyage by too frequent

applications to a portion of his cargo: at all events, the boat

capsized, and the lading went to the bottom. He fished up a few of the

tools "and most of the whiskey," and, righting the little boat, again

floated down to a landing at Thompson's Ferry, two and a half miles west

of Troy, in Perry County, Indiana. Here he sold his treacherous boat,

and, leaving his remaining property in the care of a settler named

Posey, trudged off on foot to select "a location" in the wilderness. He

did not go far, but found a place that he thought would suit him only

sixteen miles distant from the river. He then turned about, and walked

all the way back to Knob Creek, in Kentucky, where he took a fresh

start with his wife and her children. Of the latter there were only

two,--Nancy (or Sarah), nine years of age, and Abraham, seven. Mrs.

Lincoln had given birth to another son some years before, but he had

died when only three days old. After leaving Kentucky, she had no more

children.

This time Lincoln loaded what little he had left upon two horses, and

"packed through to Posey's." Besides clothing and bedding, they carried

such cooking utensils as would be needed by the way, and would be

indispensable when they reached their destination. The stock was not

large. It consisted of "one oven and lid, one skillet and lid, and some

tin-ware." They camped out during the nights, and of course cooked their

own food. Lincoln's skill as a hunter must now have stood him in good

stead.

Where he got the horses used upon this occasion, it is impossible to

say; but they were likely borrowed from his brother-in-law, Krume, of

Breckinridge County, who owned such stock, and subsequently moved Sarah

Johnston's goods to Indiana, after her marriage with Lincoln.

When they got to Posey's, Lincoln hired a wagon, and, loading on it the

whiskey and other things he had stored there, went on toward the place

which has since become famous as the "Lincoln Farm." He was now making

his way through an almost untrodden wilderness. There was no road,

and for a part of the distance not even a foot-trail. He was slightly

assisted by a path of a few miles in length, which had been "blazed out"

by an earlier settler named Hoskins. But he was obliged to suffer long

delays, and cut out a passage for the wagon with his axe. At length,

after many detentions and difficulties he reached the point where he

intended to make his future home. It was situated between the forks

of Big Pigeon and Little Pigeon Creeks, a mile and a half east of

Gentryville, a village which grew up afterwards, and now numbers about

three hundred inhabitants. The whole country was covered with a dense

forest of oaks, beeches, walnuts, sugar-maples, and nearly all the

varieties of trees that flourish in North America. The woods were

usually open, and devoid of underbrush; the trees were of the largest

growth, and beneath the deep shades they afforded was spread out a rich

greensward. The natural grazing was very good, and hogs found abundant

sustenance in the prodigious quantity of mast. There was occasionally

a little glade or prairie set down in the midst of this vast expanse

of forest. One of these, not far from the Lincoln place, was a famous

resort for the deer, and the hunters knew it well for its numerous

"licks." Upon this prairie the militia "musters" were had at a later

day, and from it the south fork of the Pigeon came finally to be known

as the "Prairie Fork."

Lincoln laid off his curtilage on a gentle hillock having a slope on

every side. The spot was very beautiful, and the soil was excellent. The

selection was wise in every respect but one. There was no water near,

except what was collected in holes in the ground after a rain; but it

was very foul, and had to be strained before using. At a later period we

find Abraham and his step-sister carrying water from a spring situated a

mile away. Dennis Hanks asserts that Tom Lincoln "riddled his land like

a honeycomb," in search of good water, and was at last sorely tempted to

employ a Yankee, who came around with a divining-rod, and declared that

for the small consideration of five dollars in cash, he would make his

rod point to a cool, flowing spring beneath the surface.

Here Lincoln built "a half-faced camp,"--a cabin enclosed on three sides

and open on the fourth. It was built, not of logs, but of poles, and was

therefore denominated a "camp," to distinguish it from a "cabin." It was

about fourteen feet square, and had no floor. It was no larger than the

first house he lived in at Elizabethtown, and on the whole not as good

a shelter. But Lincoln was now under the influence of a transient access

of ambition, and the camp was merely preliminary to something better.

He lived in it, however, for a whole year, before he attained to the

dignity of a residence in a cabin. "In the mean time he cleaned some

land, and raised a small crop of corn and vegetables."

In the fall of 1817, Thomas and Betsy Sparrow came out from Kentucky,

and took up their abode in the old camp which the Lincolns had just

deserted for the cabin. Betsy was the aunt who had raised Nancy Hanks.

She had done the same in part for our friend Dennis Hanks, who was the

offspring of another sister, and she now brought him with her. Dennis

thus became the constant companion of young Abraham; and all the other

members of that family, as originally settled in Indiana, being dead,

Dennis remains a most important witness as to this period of Mr.

Lincoln's life.

Lincoln's second house was a "rough, rough log" one: the timbers were

not hewed; and until after the arrival of Sally Bush, in 1819, it had

neither floor, door, nor window. It stood about forty yards from what

Dennis Hanks calls that "darned little half-faced camp," which was now

the dwelling of the Sparrows. It was "right in the bush,"--in the heart

of a virgin wilderness. There were only seven or eight older settlers in

the neighborhood of the two Pigeon Creeks. Lincoln had had some previous

acquaintance with one of them,--a Mr. Thomas Carter; and it is highly

probable that nothing but this trivial circumstance induced him to

settle here.1

1 The principal authorities for this part of our narrative

are necessarily Dennis and John Hanks; but their statements

have been carefully collated with those of other persons,

both in Kentucky and Indiana.

The nearest town was Troy, situated on the Ohio, about half a mile

from the mouth of Anderson Creek. Gentryville had as yet no existence.

Travelling was on horseback or on foot, and the only resort of commerce

was to the pack-horse or the canoe. But a prodigious immigration was

now sweeping into this inviting country. Harrison's victories over

the Indians had opened it up to the peaceful settler; and Indiana

was admitted into the Union in 1816, with a population of sixty-five

thousand. The county in which Thomas Lincoln settled was Perry, with

the county-seat at Troy; but he soon found himself in the new county of

Spencer, with the court-house at Rockport, twenty miles south of him,

and the thriving village of Gentryville within a mile and a half of his

door.

A post-office was established at Gentryville in 1824 or 1825. Dennis

Hanks helped to hew the logs used to build the first storeroom. The

following letter from Mr. David Turnham, now of Dale, Spencer County,

presents some interesting and perfectly authentic information regarding

the village and the settlements around it in those early times:--

"Yours of the 5th inst. is at hand. As you wish me to answer several

questions, I will give you a few items of the early settlement of

Indiana.

"When my father came here in the spring of 1819, he settled in Spencer

County, within one mile of Thomas Lincoln, then a widower. The chance

for schooling was poor; but, such as it was, Abraham and myself attended

the same schools.

"We first had to go seven miles to mill; and then it was a hand-mill

that would grind from ten to fifteen bushels of corn in a day. There was

but little wheat grown at that time; and, when we did have wheat, we had

to grind it on the mill described, and use it without bolting, as there

were no bolts in the country. In the course of two or three years, a

man by the name of Huffman built a mill on Anderson River, about twelve

miles distant. Abe and I had to do the milling on horseback, frequently

going twice to get one grist. Then they began building horse-mills of a

little better quality than the hand-mills.

"The country was very rough, especially in the low lands, so thick with

bush that a man could scarcely get through on foot. These places were

called Roughs. The country abounded in game, such as bears, deer,

turkeys, and the smaller game.

"About the time Huffman built his mill, there was a road laid out from

Corydon to Evansville, running by Mr. Lincoln's farm, and through what

is now Gentryville. Corydon was then the State capital.

"About the year 1823, there was another road laid out from Rockport to

Bloomington, crossing the aforesaid at right angles, where Gentryville

now stands. James Gentry entered the land; and in about a year Gideon

Romine brought goods there, and shortly after succeeded in getting a

post-office, by the name of Gentryville Post-office. Then followed the

laying out of lots, and the selling of them, and a few were improved.

But for some cause the lots all fell back to the original owner. The

lots were sold in 1824 or 1825. Romine kept goods there a short time,

and sold out to Gentry, but the place kept on increasing slowly. William

Jones came in with a store, that made it improve a little faster, but

Gentry bought him out. Jones bought a tract of land one-half mile from

Gentryville, moved to it, went into business there, and drew nearly all

the custom. Gentry saw that it was ruining his town: he compromised with

Jones, and got him back to Gentryville; and about the year 1847 or 1848

there was another survey of lots, which remains.

"This is as good a history of the rise of Gentryville as I can give,

after consulting several of the old settlers.

"At that time there were a great many deer-licks; and Abe and myself

would go to those licks sometimes, and watch of nights to kill deer,

though Abe was not so fond of a gun as I was. There were ten or twelve

of these licks in a small prairie on the creek, lying between Mr.

Lincoln's and Mr. Wood's (the man you call Moore). This gave it the name

of Prairie Fork of Pigeon Creek.

"The people in the first settling of this country were very sociable,

kind, and accommodating; but there was more drunkenness and stealing

on a small scale, more immorality, less religion, less well-placed

confidence."

The steps taken by Lincoln to complete his title to the land upon which

he settled are thus recited by the Commissioner of the General Land

Office:--

"In reply to the letter of Mr. W. H. Herndon, who is writing the

biography of the late President, dated June 19, 1865, herewith returned,

I have the honor to state, pursuant to the Secretary's reference, that

on the 15th of October, 1817, Mr. Thomas Lincoln, then of Perry County,

Indiana, entered under the old credit system,--

"1. The South-West Quarter of Section 82, in Township 4, South of Range

5 West, lying in Spencer County, Indiana.

"2. Afterwards the said Thomas Lincoln relinquished to the United States

the East half of said South-West Quarter; and the amount paid thereon

was passed to his credit to complete payment of the West half of said

South-West Quarter of Section 32, in Township 4, South of Range 5 West;

and accordingly a patent was issued to said Thomas Lincoln for the

latter tract. The patent was dated June 6, 1827, and was signed by John

Quincy Adams, then President of the United States, and countersigned by

George Graham, then Commissioner of the General Land Office." 1

1 The patent was issued to Thomas Lincoln alias Linckhern

the other half he never paid, and finally lost the whole of

the land.

It will be observed, that, although Lincoln squatted upon the land in

the fall of 1816, he did not enter it until October of the next year;

and that the patent was not issued to him until June, 1827, but a little

more than a year before he left it altogether. Beginning by entering a

full quarter section, he was afterwards content with eighty acres, and

took eleven years to make the necessary payments upon that. It is very

probable that the money which finally secured the patent was furnished

by Gentry or Aaron Grigsby, and the title passed out of Lincoln in the

course of the transaction. Dennis Hanks says, "He settled on a piece of

government land,--eighty acres. This land he afterwards bought under

the Two-Dollar Act; was to pay for it in instalments; one-half he paid."

For two years Lincoln continued to live along in the old way. He did not

like to farm, and he never got much of his land under cultivation. His

principal crop was corn; and this, with the game which a rifleman so

expert would easily take from the woods around him, supplied his table.

It does not appear that he employed any of his mechanical skill in

completing and furnishing his own cabin. It has already been stated that

the latter had no window, door, or floor. But the furniture--if it may

be called furniture--was even worse than the house. Three-legged stools

served for chairs. A bedstead was made of poles stuck in the cracks of

the logs in one corner of the cabin, while the other end rested in the

crotch of a forked stick sunk in the earthen floor. On these were laid

some boards, and on the boards a "shake-down" of leaves covered with

skins and old petticoats. The table was a hewed puncheon, supported by

four legs. They had a few pewter and tin dishes to eat from, but the

most minute inventory of their effects makes no mention of knives or

forks. Their cooking utensils were a Dutch oven and a skillet. Abraham

slept in the loft, to which he ascended by means of pins driven into

holes in the wall.

In the summer of 1818, the Pigeon-Creek settlements were visited by a

fearful disease, called, in common parlance, "the milk-sickness." It

swept off the cattle which gave the milk, as well as the human beings

who drank it. It seems to have prevailed in the neighborhood from 1818

to 1829; for it is given as one of the reasons for Thomas Lincoln's

removal to Illinois at the latter date. But in the year first mentioned

its ravages were especially awful. Its most immediate effects were

severe retchings and vomitings; and, while the deaths from it were

not necessarily sudden, the proportion of those who finally died

was uncommonly large.1 Among the number who were attacked by it, and

lingered on for some time in the midst of great sufferings, were Thomas

and Betsy Sparrow and Mrs. Nancy Lincoln.

1 The peculiar disease which carried off so many of

Abraham's family, and induced the removal of the remainder

to Illinois, deserves more than a passing allusion. The

following, regarding its nature and treatment, is from the

pen of an eminent physician of Danville, Illinois:--

Ward H. Lamon, Esq.

Dear Sir,--Your favor of the 17th inst. has been received.

You request me to present you with my theory in relation to

the origin of the disease called "milk-sickness," and also a

"general statement of the best treatment of the disease,"

and the proportion of fatal cases.

I have quite a number of cases of the so-called disease in

Danville, Ill., and its vicinity; but perhaps you are not

aware, that, between the great majority of the medical

faculty in this region of country and myself, there is quite

a discrepancy of opinion. They believe in the existence of

the disease in Vermilion County; while, on the contrary, I

am firmly of opinion, that, instead of genuine milk-

sickness, it is only a modified form of malarial fever with

which we here have to contend. Though sceptical of its

existence in this part of the country, we have too much

evidence from different intelligent sources to doubt, for a

moment, that, in many parts of the West and South-west,

there is a distinct malady, witnessed more than fifty years

ago, and different from every other heretofore recognized in

any system of Nosology.

In the opinion of medical men, as well as in that of the

people in general, where milk-sickness prevails, cattle,

sheep, and horses contract the disease by feeding on wild

pasture-lands; and, when those pastures have been enclosed

and cultivated, the cause entirely disappears. This has also

been the observation of the farmers and physicians of

Vermilion County, Illinois. From this it might be inferred

that the disease had a vegetable origin. But it appears that

it prevails as early in the season as March and April in

some localities; and I am informed that, in an early day,

say thirty-five or forty years ago, it showed itself in the

winter-time in this county. This seems to argue that it may

be produced by water holding some mineral substance in

solution. Even in this case, however, some vegetable

producing the disease may have been gathered and preserved

with the hay on which the cattle were fed at the time; for

in that early day the farmers were in the habit of cutting

wild grass for their stock. On the whole, I am inclined to

attribute the cause to a vegetable origin.

The symptoms of what is called milk-sickness in this county--

and they are similar to those described by authors who have

written on the disease in other sections of the Western

country--are a whitish coat on the tongue, burning

sensation of the stomach severe vomiting, obstinate

constipation of the bowels, coolness of the extremities,

great restlessness and jactitation, pulse rather small,

somewhat more frequent than natural, and slightly corded. In

the course of the disease, the coat on the tongue becomes

brownish and dark, the countenance dejected, and the

prostration of the patient is great. A fatal termination may

take place in sixty hours, or life may be prolonged for a

period of fourteen days. These are the symptoms of the acute

form of the disease. Sometimes it runs into the chronic

form, or it may assume that form from the commencement; and,

after months or years, the patient may finally die, or

recover only a partial degree of health.

The treatment which I have found most successful is pills

composed of calomel and opium, given at intervals of two,

three, or four hours, so as to bring the patient pretty

strongly under the influence of opium by the time the second

or third dose had been administered; some effervescing

mixture, pro re nata; injections; castor oil, when the

stomach will retain it; blisters to the stomach; brandy or

good whiskey freely administered throughout the disease; and

quinine after the bowels have been moved.

Under the above treatment, modified according to the

circumstances, I would not expect to lose more than one case

in eight or ten, as the disease manifests itself in this

county....

As ever, Theo. Lemon.

It was now found expedient to remove the Sparrows from the wretched

"half-faced camp," through which the cold autumn winds could sweep

almost unobstructed, to the cabin of the Lincolns, which in truth was

then very little better. Many in the neighborhood had already died, and

Thomas Lincoln had made all their coffins out of "green lumber cut

with a whip-saw." In the mean time the Sparrows and Nancy were growing

alarmingly worse. There was no physician in the county,--not even

a pretender to the science of medicine; and the nearest regular

practitioner was located at Yellow Banks, Ky., over thirty miles

distant. It is not probable that they ever secured his services. They

would have been too costly, and none of the persons who witnessed and

describe these scenes speak of his having been there. At length, in the

first days of October, the Sparrows died; and Thomas Lincoln sawed up

his green lumber, and made rough boxes to enclose the mortal remains of

his wife's two best and oldest friends. A day or two after, on the 5th

of October, 1818, Nancy Hanks Lincoln rested from her troubles. Thomas

Lincoln took to his green wood again, and made a box for Nancy. There

were about twenty persons at her funeral. They took her to the summit

of a deeply-wooded knoll, about half a mile south-east of the cabin, and

laid her beside the Sparrows. If there were any burial ceremonies,

they were of the briefest. But it happened that a few months later an

itinerant preacher, named David Elkin, whom the Lincolns had known in

Kentucky, wandered into the settlement; and he either volunteered or was

employed to preach a sermon, which should commemorate the many virtues

and pass in silence the few frailties of the poor woman who slept in

the forest. Many years later the bodies of Levi Hall and his wife, Nancy

Hanks, were deposited in the same earth with that of Mrs. Lincoln. The

graves of two or three children belonging to a neighbor's family are

also near theirs. They are all crumbled in, sunken, and covered with

wild vines in deep and tangled mats. The great trees were originally cut

away to make a small cleared space for this primitive graveyard; but the

young dogwoods have sprung up unopposed in great luxuriance, and in many

instances the names of pilgrims to the burial-place of the great Abraham

Lincoln's mother are carved in their bark. With this exception, the spot

is wholly unmarked. Her grave never had a stone, nor even a board, at

its head or its foot; and the neighbors still dispute as to which one of

those unsightly hollows contains the ashes of Nancy Lincoln.

Thirteen months after the burial of Nancy Hanks, and nine or ten months

after the solemnities conducted by Elkin, Thomas Lincoln appeared at

Elizabethtown, Ky., in search of another wife. Sally Bush had married

Johnston, the jailer, in the spring of the same year in which Lincoln

had married Nancy Hanks. She had then rejected him for a better match,

but was now a widow. In 1814 many persons in and about Elizabethtown had

died of a disease which the people called the "cold plague," and among

them the jailer. Both parties being free again, Lincoln came back, very

unexpectedly to Mrs. Johnston, and opened his suit in an exceedingly

abrupt manner. "Well, Miss Johnston," said he, "I have no wife, and you

have no husband. I came a purpose to marry you: I knowed you from a gal,

and you knowed me from a boy. I have no time to lose; and, if you are

willin', let it be done straight off." To this she replied, "Tommy, I

know you well, and have no objection to marrying you; but I cannot do

it straight off, as I owe some debts that must first be paid." "The next

morning," says Hon. Samuel Haycraft, the clerk of the courts and the

gentleman who reports this quaint courtship, "I issued his license, and

they were married _straight_ off on that day, and left, and I never saw

her or Tom Lincoln since." From the death of her husband to that day,

she had been living, "an honest, poor widow," "in a round log-cabin,"

which stood in an "alley" just below Mr. Haycraft's house. Dennis Hanks

says that it was only "on the earnest solicitation of her friends" that

Mrs. Johnston consented to marry Lincoln. They all liked Lincoln, and it

was with a member of her family that he had made several voyages to New

Orleans. Mr. Helm, who at that time was doing business in his uncle's

store at Elizabethtown, remarks that "life among the Hankses, the

Lincolns, and the Enlows was a long ways below life among the Bushes."

Sally was the best and the proudest of the Bushes; but, nevertheless,

she appears to have maintained some intercourse with the Lincolns as

long as they remained in Kentucky. She had a particular kindness for

little Abe, and had him with her on several occasions at Helm's store,

where, strange to say, he sat on a nail-keg, and ate a lump of sugar,

"just like any other boy."

Mrs. Johnston has been denominated a "poor widow;" but she possessed

goods, which, in the eyes of Tom Lincoln, were of almost unparalleled

magnificence. Among other things, she had a bureau that cost forty

dollars; and he informed her, on their arrival in Indiana, that, in his

deliberate opinion, it was little less than sinful to be the owner of

such a thing. He demanded that she should turn it into cash, which

she positively refused to do. She had quite a lot of other articles,

however, which he thought well enough in their way, and some of which

were sadly needed in his miserable cabin in the wilds of Indiana. Dennis

Hanks speaks with great rapture of the "large supply of household goods"

which she brought out with her. There was "one fine bureau, one table,

one set of chairs, one large clothes-chest, cooking utensils, knives,

forks, bedding, and other articles." It was a glorious day for little

Abe and Sarah and Dennis when this wondrous collection of rich furniture

arrived in the Pigeon Creek settlement. But all this wealth required

extraordinary means of transportation; and Lincoln had recourse to

his brother-in-law, Ralph Krume, who lived just over the line, in

Breckinridge County. Krume came with a four-horse team, and moved Mrs.

Johnston, now Mrs. Lincoln, with her family and effects, to the home of

her new husband in Indiana. When she got there, Mrs. Lincoln was much

"surprised" at the contrast between the glowing representations which

her husband had made to her before leaving Kentucky and the real poverty

and meanness of the place. She had evidently been given to understand

that the bridegroom had reformed his old Kentucky ways, and was now an

industrious and prosperous farmer. She was scarcely able to restrain

the expression of her astonishment and discontent; but, though sadly

overreached in a bad bargain, her lofty pride and her high sense of

Christian duty saved her from hopeless and useless repinings.

On the contrary, she set about mending what was amiss with all her

strength and energy. Her own goods furnished the cabin with tolerable

decency. She made Lincoln put down a floor, and hang windows and doors.

It was in the depth of winter; and the children, as they nestled in the

warm beds she provided them, enjoying the strange luxury of security

from the cold winds of December, must have thanked her from the bottoms

of their newly-comforted hearts. She had brought a son and two daughters

of her own,--John, Sarah, and Matilda; but Abe and his sister Nancy

(whose name was speedily changed to Sarah), the ragged and hapless

little strangers to her blood, were given an equal place in her

affections. They were half naked, and she clad them from the stores of

clothing she had laid up for her own. They were dirty, and she washed

them; they had been ill-used, and she treated them with motherly

tenderness. In her own modest language, she "made them look a little

more human." "In fact," says Dennis Hanks, "in a few weeks all had

changed; and where every thing was wanting, now all was snug and

comfortable. She was a woman of great energy of remarkable good sense,

very industrious and saving, and also very neat and tidy in her person

and manners, and knew exactly how to manage children. She took an

especial liking to young Abe. Her love for him was warmly returned, and

continued to the day of his death. But few children loved their parents

as he loved his step-mother. She soon dressed him up in entire new

clothes, _and from that time on he appeared to lead a new life_. He was

encouraged by her to study, and any wish on his part was gratified when

it could be done. The two sets of children got along finely together, as

if they had all been the children of the same parents. Mrs. Lincoln soon

discovered that young Abe was a boy of uncommon natural talents, and

that, if rightly trained, a bright future was before him, and she did

all in her power to develop those talents." When, in after years, Mr.

Lincoln spoke of his "saintly mother," and of his "angel of a mother,"

he referred to this noble woman,1 who first made him feel "like a human

being,"--whose goodness first touched his childish heart, and taught him

that blows and taunts and degradation were not to be his only portion in

the world.2

1 The author has many times heard him make the application.

While he seldom, if ever, spoke of his own mother, he loved

to dwell on the beautiful character of Sally Bush.

2 The following description of her personal appearance is

from the pen of her granddaughter, the daughter of Dennis

Hanks:--

"When I landed in Indiana," says Mrs. Lincoln, "Abe was

about nine years old, and the country was wild and

desolate. It is certain enough that her presence took away

much that was desolate in his lot. She clothed him decently,

and had him sent to school as soon as there was a school to

send him to. But, notwithstanding her determination to do

the best for him, his advantages in this respect were very

limited. He had already had a few days', or perhaps a few

weeks' experience, under the discipline of Riney and Hazel,

in Kentucky; and, as he was naturally quick in the

acquisition of any sort of knowledge, it is likely that by

this time he could read and write a little. He was now to

have the benefit of a few months more of public instruction;

but the poverty of the family, and the necessity for his

being made to work at home in the shop and on the farm, or

abroad as a hired boy, made his attendance at school, for

any great length of time, a thing impossible. Accordingly,

all his school-days added together would not make a single

year in the aggregate.

"His wife, my grandmother, is a very tall woman; straight as

an Indian, fair complexion, and was, when I first remember

her, very handsome, sprightly, talkative, and proud; wore

her hair curled till gray; is kind-hearted and very

charitable, and also very industrious."--Mrs. H. A, Chapman.

Abraham began his irregular attendance at the nearest school very soon

after he fell under the care of the second Mrs. Lincoln. It was probably

in the winter of 1819, she having come out in the December of that year.

It has been seen that she was as much impressed by his mental precocity

as by the good qualities of his heart.

Hazel Dorsey was his first master.1 He presided in a small house near

the Little Pigeon Creek meeting-house, a mile and a half from the

Lincoln cabin. It was built of unhewn logs, and had "holes for windows,"

in which "greased paper" served for glass. The roof was just high enough

for a man to stand erect. Here he was taught reading, writing, and

ciphering. They spelled in classes, and "trapped" up and down. These

juvenile contests were very exciting to the participants; and it is said

by the survivors, that Abe was even then the equal, if not the superior,

of any scholar in his class.

1 The account of the schools is taken from the Grigsbys,

Turnham, and others, who attended them along with Abe, as

well as from the members of his own family.

The next teacher was Andrew Crawford. Mrs. Gentry says he began

pedagogue in the neighborhood in the winter of 1822-3, whilst most of

his other scholars are unable to fix an exact date. He "kept" in the

same little schoolhouse which had been the scene of Dorsey's labors, and

the windows were still adorned with the greased leaves of old copybooks

that had come down from Dorsey's time. Abe was now in his fifteenth

year, and began to exhibit symptoms of gallantry toward the weaker sex,

as we shall presently discover. He was growing at a tremendous rate, and

two years later attained his full height of six feet four inches. He was

long, wiry, and strong; while his big feet and hands, and the length

of his legs and arms, were out of all proportion to his small trunk and

head. His complexion was very swarthy, and Mrs. Gentry says that his

skin was shrivelled and yellow even then. He wore low shoes, buckskin

breeches, linsey-woolsey shirt, and a cap made of the skin of an opossum

or a coon. The breeches clung close to his thighs and legs, but failed

by a large space to meet the tops of his shoes. Twelve inches remained

uncovered, and exposed that much of "shinbone, sharp, blue, and

narrow."1 "He would always come to school thus, good-humoredly and

laughing," says his old friend, Nat Grigsby. "He was always in good

health, never was sick, had an excellent constitution, and took care of

it."

1 "They had no woollen clothing in the family until about

the year 1824."--Dennis Hanks.

Crawford taught "manners." This was a feature of backwoods education to

which Dorsey had not aspired, and Crawford had doubtless introduced

it as a refinement which would put to shame the humbler efforts of his

predecessor. One of the scholars was required to retire, and re-enter as

a polite gentleman is supposed to enter a drawing-room. He was received

at the door by another scholar, and conducted from bench to bench, until

he had been introduced to all the "young ladies and gentlemen" in the

room. Abe went through the ordeal countless times. If he took a serious

view of the business, it must have put him to exquisite torture; for he

was conscious that he was not a perfect type of manly beauty, with his

long legs and blue shins, his small head, his great ears, and shrivelled

skin. If, however, it struck him as at all funny, it must have filled

him with unspeakable mirth, and given rise to many antic tricks and sly

jokes, as he was gravely led about, shamefaced and gawky, under the very

eye of the precise Crawford, to be introduced to the boys and girls of

his most ancient acquaintance.

But, though Crawford inculcated manners, he by no means neglected

spelling. Abe was a good speller, and liked to use his knowledge,

not only to secure honors for himself, but to help his less fortunate

schoolmates out of their troubles, and he was exceedingly ingenious

in the selection of expedients for conveying prohibited hints. One day

Crawford gave out the difficult word _defied_. A large class was on the

floor, but they all provokingly failed to spell it. D-e-f-i-d-e, said

one; d-e-f-y-d-e, said another; d-e-f-y-d,--d-e-f-y-e-d, cried another

and another. But it was all wrong: it was shameful, that, among all

these big boys and girls, nobody could spell "_defied_;" Crawford's

wrath gathered in clouds over his terrible brow. He made the helpless

culprits shake with fear. He declared he would keep the whole class in

all day and all night, if "_defied_" was not spelled. There was among

them a Miss Roby, a girl fifteen years of age, whom we must suppose to

have been pretty, for Abe was evidently half in love with her. "I saw

Lincoln at the window," says she: "he had his finger in his _eye_, and

a smile on his face; I instantly took the hint, that I must change the

letter _y_ into an _i_. Hence I spelled the word,--the class let out. I

felt grateful to Lincoln for this simple thing."

Nat Grigsby tells us, with unnecessary particularity, that "essays and

poetry were not taught in this school." "Abe took it (them) up on

his own account." He first wrote short sentences against "cruelty to

animals," and at last came forward with a regular "composition" on the

subject. He was very much annoyed and pained by the conduct of the boys,

who were in the habit of catching terrapins, and putting coals of fire

on their backs. "He would chide us," says Nat, "tell us it was wrong,

and would write against it."

The third and last school to which Abe went was taught by a Mr. Swaney,

in 1826. To get there, he had to travel four and a half miles; and this

going back and forth so great a distance occupied entirely too much

of his time. His attendance was therefore only at odd times, and was

speedily broken off altogether. The schoolhouse was much like the other

one near the Pigeon Creek meeting-house, except that it had two chimneys

instead of one. The course of instruction was precisely the same as

under Dorsey and Crawford, save that Swaney, like Dorsey, omitted the

great department of "manners." "Here," says John Hoskins, the son of the

settler who had "blazed out" the trail for Tom Lincoln, "we would choose

up, and spell as in old times every Friday night." Hoskins himself tore

down "the old schoolhouse" long since, and built a stable with the logs.

He is now half sorry for his haste, and reverently presented Mr. Herndon

a piece of the wood as a precious memento of his old friend Abe. An

oak-tree, blackened and killed by the smoke that issued from the two

chimneys, spreads its naked arms over the spot where the schoolhouse

stood. Among its roots is a fine, large spring, over whose limpid waters

Abe often bent to drink, and laughed at the reflection of his own homely

face.

Abe never went to school again in Indiana or elsewhere. Mr. Turnham

tells us, that he had excelled all his masters, and it was "no use"

for him to attempt to learn any thing from them. But he continued

his studies at home, or wherever he was hired out to work, with a

perseverance which showed that he could scarcely live without some

species of mental excitement. He was by no means fond of the hard manual

labor to which his own necessities and those of his family

compelled him. Many of his acquaintances state this fact with strong

emphasis,--among them Dennis Hanks and Mrs. Lincoln. His neighbor, John

Romine, declares that Abe was "awful lazy. He worked for me; was always

reading and thinking; used to get mad at him. He worked for me in 1829,

pulling fodder. I say Abe was awful lazy: he would laugh and talk and

crack jokes and tell stories all the time; didn't love work, but did

dearly love his pay. He worked for me frequently, a few days only at a

time.... Lincoln said to me one day, that his father taught him to work,

but never learned him to love it."

1 Whenever Mrs. Sarah Lincoln speaks, we follow her

implicitly. Regarding Abe's habits and conduct at home, her

statement is a very full one. It is, however, confirmed and

supplemented by all the other members of the family who were

alive in 1866.

Abe loved to lie under a shade-tree, or up in the loft of the cabin, and

read, cipher, and scribble. At night he sat by the chimney "jamb," and

ciphered, by the light of the fire, on the wooden fire-shovel. When

the shovel was fairly covered, he would shave it off with Tom Lincoln's

drawing-knife, and begin again. In the daytime he used boards for

the same purpose, out of doors, and went through the shaving process

everlastingly. His step-mother1 repeats often, that "he read every book

he could lay his hand on." She says, "Abe read diligently.... He read

every book he could lay his hands on; and, when he came across a passage

that struck him, he would write it down on boards if he had no paper,

and keep it there until he did get paper. Then he would re-write it,

look at it, repeat it. He had a copy-book, a kind of scrapbook, in which

he put down all things, and thus preserved them."

John Hanks came out from Kentucky when Abe was fourteen years of age,

and lived four years with the Lincolns. We cannot describe some of Abe's

habits better than John has described them for us: "When Lincoln--Abe

and I--returned to the house from work, he would go to the cupboard,

snatch a piece of corn-bread, take down a book, sit down on a chair,

cock his legs up high as his head, and read. He and I worked barefooted,

grubbed it, ploughed, mowed, and cradled together; ploughed corn,

gathered it, and shucked corn. Abraham read constantly when he had an

opportunity."

Among the books upon which Abe "laid his hands" were "Æsop's Fables,"

"Robinson Crusoe," Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," a "History of the

United States," and Weems's "Life of Washington." All these he read

many times, and transferred extracts from them to the boards and the

scrapbook. He had procured the scrap-book because most of his literature

was borrowed, and he thought it profitable to take copious notes from

the books before he returned them. David Turnham had bought a volume of

"The Revised Statutes of Indiana;" but, as he was "acting constable" at

the time, he could not lend it to Abe. But Abe was not to be baffled in

his purpose of going through and through every book in the neighborhood;

and so, says Mr. Turnham, "he used to come to my house and sit and read

it." 1 Dennis Hanks would fain have us believe that he himself was

the purchaser of this book, and that he had stood as a sort of first

preceptor to Abe in the science of law. "I had like to forgot," writes

Dennis, with his usual modesty, "How did Abe get his knowledge of law?

This is the fact about it. I bought the 'Statute of Indiana,' and from

that he learned the principles of law, and also myself. Every man should

become acquainted of the principles of law." The Bible, according to

Mrs. Lincoln, was not one of his studies: "he sought more congenial

books." At that time he neither talked nor read upon religious subjects.

If he had any opinions about them, he kept them to himself.

1 He also read at Turnham's house Scott's Lessons and

Sindbad the Sailor.

Abraham borrowed Weems's "Life of Washington" from his neighbor, old

Josiah Crawford,--not Andrew Crawford, the school-teacher, as some of

his biographers have it. The "Life" was read with great avidity in the

intervals of work, and, when not in use, was carefully deposited on a

shelf, made of a clapboard laid on two pins. But just behind the shelf

there was a great crack between the logs of the wall; and one night,

while Abe was dreaming in the loft, a storm came up, and the rain,

blown through the opening, soaked his precious book from cover to cover.

Crawford was a sour and churlish fellow at best, and flatly refused to

take the damaged book back again. He said, that, if Abe had no money to

pay for it, he could work it out. Of course, there was no alternative;

and Abe was obliged to discharge the debt by "pulling fodder" three

days, at twenty-five cents a day. Crawford afterwards paid dearly for

his churlishness.

[Illustration: Mrs. Sarah Lincoln, Mother of the President. 061]

At home, with his step-mother and the children, he was the most

agreeable fellow in the world. "He was always ready to do every thing

for everybody." When he was not doing some special act of kindness, he

told stories or "cracked jokes." "He was as full of his yarns in Indiana

as ever he was in Illinois." Dennis Hanks was a clever hand at the same

business, and so was old Tom Lincoln. Among them they must have made

things very lively, during the long winter evenings, for John Johnston

and the good old lady and the girls.

Mrs. Lincoln was never able to speak of Abe's conduct to her without

tears. In her interview with Mr. Herndon, when the sands of her life had

nearly run out, she spoke with deep emotion of her own son, but said

she thought that Abe was kinder, better, truer, than the other. Even the

mother's instinct was lost as she looked back over those long years of

poverty and privation in the Indiana cabin, when Abe's grateful love

softened the rigors of her lot, and his great heart and giant frame were

always at her command. "Abe was a poor boy," said she; "and I can say

what scarcely one woman--a mother--can say in a thousand. Abe never gave

me a cross word or look, and never refused, in fact or appearance, to

do any thing I requested him. I never gave him a cross word in all

my life.... His mind and mine--what little I had--seemed to run

together.... He was here after he was elected President." (At this point

the aged speaker turned away to weep, and then, wiping her eyes with her

apron, went on with the story). "He was dutiful to me always. I think

he loved me truly. I had a son, John, who was raised with Abe. Both were

good boys; but I must say, both now being dead, that Abe was the best

boy I ever saw, or expect to see. I wish I had died when my husband

died. I did not want Abe to run for President; did not want him elected;

was afraid somehow,--felt in my heart; and when he came down to see me,

after he was elected President, I still felt that something told me that

something would befall Abe, and that I should see him no more."

Is there any thing in the language we speak more touching than that

simple plaint of the woman whom we must regard as Abraham Lincoln's

mother? The apprehension in her "heart" was well grounded. She "saw him

no more." When Mr. Herndon rose to depart, her eyes again filled with

tears; and, wringing his hands as if loath to part with one who talked

so much of her beloved Abe, she said, "Good-by, my good son's friend.

Farewell."

Abe had a very retentive memory. He frequently amused his young

companions by repeating to them long passages from the books he had been

reading. On Monday mornings he would mount a stump, and deliver, with a

wonderful approach to exactness, the sermon he had heard the day before.

His taste for public speaking appeared to be natural and irresistible.

His step-sister, Matilda Johnston, says he was an indefatigable

"preacher." "When father and mother would go to church, Abe would take

down the Bible, read a verse, give out a hymn, and we would sing. Abe

was about fifteen years of age. He preached, and we would do the crying.

Sometimes he would join in the chorus of tears. One day my brother, John

Johnston, caught a land terrapin, brought it to the place where Abe was

preaching, threw it against the tree, and crushed the shell. It suffered

much,--quivered all over. Abe then preached against cruelty to animals,

contending that an ant's life was as sweet to it as ours to us."

But this practice of "preaching" and political speaking, into which Abe

had fallen, at length became a great nuisance to old, Tom. It distracted

everybody, and sadly interfered with the work. If Abe had confined his

discourses to Sunday preaching, while the old folks were away, it would

not have been so objectionable. But he knew his power, liked to please

everybody, and would be sure to set up as an orator wherever he found

the greatest number of people together. When it was announced that Abe

had taken the "stump" in the harvest-field, there was an end of work.

The hands flocked around him, and listened to his curious speeches with

infinite delight. "The sight of such a thing amused all," says Mrs.

Lincoln; though she admits that her husband was compelled to break it

up with the strong hand; and poor Abe was many times dragged from the

platform, and hustled off to his work in no gentle manner.1

1 We are told by Col. Chapman that Abe's father habitually

treated him with great barbarity. Dennis Hanks insists that

he loved him sincerely, but admits that he now and then

knocked him from the fence for merely answering traveller's

questions about the roads.

Abe worked occasionally with Tom Lincoln in the shop; but he did it

reluctantly, and never intended to learn even so much of the trade as

Lincoln was able to teach him. The rough work turned out at that shop

was far beneath his ambition, and he had made up his mind to lead a life

as wholly unlike his father's as he could possibly make it. He therefore

refused to be a carpenter. But he could not afford to be idle; and, as

soon as he was able to earn wages, he was hired out among the neighbors.

He worked for many of them a few months at a time, and seemed perfectly

willing to transfer his services wherever they were wanted, so that his

father had no excuse for persecuting him with entreaties about learning

to make tables and cupboards.

Abe was now becoming a man, and was, in fact, already taller than any

man in the neighborhood. He was a universal favorite, and his wit and

humor made him heartily welcome at every cabin between the two Pigeon

Creeks. Any family was glad when "Abe Linkern" was hired to work with

them; for he did his work well, and made them all merry while he was

about it. The women were especially pleased, for Abe was not above doing

any kind of "chores" for them. He was always ready to make a fire, carry

water, or nurse a baby. But what manner of people were these amongst

whom he passed the most critical part of his life? We must know them if

we desire to know him.

There lived in the neighborhood of Gentryville a Mrs. Elizabeth

Crawford, wife to the now celebrated Josiah with the sour temper and the

blue nose. Abe was very fond of her, and inclined to "let himself

out" in her company. She fortunately possessed a rare memory, and Mr.

Herndon's rich collection of manuscripts was made richer still by her

contributions. We have from her a great mass of valuable, and sometimes

extremely amusing, information. Among it is the following graphic,

although rude, account of the Pigeon Creek people in general:--

"You wish me to tell you how the people used to go to meeting,--how far

they went. At that time we thought it nothing to go eight or ten miles.

The old ladies did not stop for the want of a shawl, or cloak, or

riding-dress, or two horses, in the winter-time; but they would put on

their husbands' old overcoats, and wrap up their little ones, and take

one or two of them up on their beasts, and their husbands would walk,

and they would go to church, and stay in the neighborhood until the next

day, and then go home. The old men would start out of their fields from

their work, or out of the woods from hunting, with their guns on their

shoulders, and go to church. Some of them dressed in deer-skin pants and

moccasins, hunting-shirts with a rope or leather strap around them. They

would come in laughing, shake hands all around, sit down and talk about

their game they had killed, or some other work they had done, and smoke

their pipes together with the old ladies. If in warm weather, they would

kindle up a little fire out in the meeting-house yard, to light

their pipes. If in winter-time, they would hold church in some of the

neighbors' houses. At such times they were always treated with the

utmost of kindness: a bottle of whiskey, a pitcher of water, sugar and

glass, were set out, or a basket of apples, or turnips, or some pies and

cakes. Apples were scarce them times. Sometimes potatoes were used as a

treat. (I must tell you that the first treat I ever received in old Mr.

Linkern's house, that was our President's father's house, was a plate

of potatoes, washed and pared very nicely, and handed round. It was

something new to me, for I never had seen a raw potato eaten before. I

looked to see how they made use of them. They took off a potato, and ate

them like apples.) Thus they spent the time till time for preaching to

commence, then they would all take their seats: the preacher would take

his stand, draw his coat, open his shirt-collar, commence service by

singing and prayer; take his text and preach till the sweat would roll

off in great drops. Shaking hands and singing then ended the service.

The people seemed to enjoy religion more in them days than they do now.

They were glad to see each other, and enjoyed themselves better than

they do now."

Society about Gentryville was little different from that of any other

backwoods settlement of the same day. The houses were scattered far

apart; but the inhabitants would travel long distances to a log-rolling,

a house-raising, a wedding, or any thing else that might be turned into

a fast and furious frolic. On such occasions the young women carried

their shoes in their hands, and only put them on when about to join the

company. The ladies drank whiskey-toddy, while the men took it straight;

and both sexes danced the live-long night, barefooted, on puncheon

floors.

The fair sex wore "cornfield bonnets, scoop-shaped, flaring in front,

and long though narrow behind." Shoes were the mode when entering

the ball-room; but it was not at all fashionable to scuff them out by

walking or dancing in them. "Four yards of linsey-woolsey, a yard in

width, made a dress for any woman." The waist was short, and terminated

just under the arms, whilst the skirt was long and narrow. "Crimps and

puckering frills" it had none. The coats of the men were home-made;

the materials, jeans or linsey-woolsey. The waists were short, like the

frocks of the women, and the long "claw-hammer" tail was split up to the

waist. This, however, was company dress, and the hunting-shirt did duty

for every day. The breeches were of buck-skin or jeans; the cap was of

coon-skin; and the shoes of leather tanned at home. If no member of the

family could make shoes, the leather was taken to some one who could,

and the customer paid the maker a fair price in some other sort of

labor.

The state of agriculture was what it always is where there is no market,

either to sell or buy; where the implements are few and primitive, and

where there are no regular mechanics. The Pigeon Creek farmer "tickled"

two acres of ground in a day with his old shovel-plough, and got but

half a crop. He cut one acre with his sickle, while the modern machine

lays down in neat rows ten. With his flail and horse tramping, he

threshed out fifteen bushels of wheat; while the machine of to-day,

with a few more hands, would turn out three hundred and fifty. He

"fanned" and "cleaned with a sheet." When he wanted flour, he took

his team and went to a "horse-mill," where he spent a whole day in

converting fifteen bushels of grain.1

1 "Size of the fields from ten, twelve, sixteen, twenty.

Raised corn mostly; some wheat,--enough for a cake on

Sunday morning. Hogs and venison hams were legal tender, and

coon-skins also. We raised sheep and cattle, but they did

not fetch much. Cows and calves were only worth six dollars;

corn, ten cents; wheat, twenty-five cents at that time."--

Dennis Hanks.

The minds of these people were filled with superstitions, which most

persons imagine to be, at least, as antiquated as witch-burning. They

firmly believed in witches and all kind of witch-doings. They sent for

wizards to cure sick cattle. They shot the image of the witch with a

silver ball, to break the spell she was supposed to have laid on a human

being. If a dog ran directly across a man's path whilst he was hunting,

it was terrible "luck," unless he instantly hooked his two little

fingers together, and pulled with all his might, until the dog was out

of sight. There were wizards who took charmed twigs in their hands, and

made them point to springs of water and all kinds of treasure beneath

the earth's surface. There were "faith doctors," who cured diseases by

performing mysterious ceremonies and muttering cabalistic words. If a

bird alighted in a window, one of the family would speedily die. If

a horse breathed on a child, the child would have the whooping-cough.

Every thing must be done at certain "times and seasons," else it would

be attended with "bad luck." They must cut trees for rails in the early

part of the day, and in "the light of the moon." They must make fence in

"the light of the moon;" otherwise, the fence would sink. Potatoes and

other roots were to be planted in the "dark of the moon," but trees,

and plants which bore their fruits above ground, must be "put out in the

light of the moon." The moon exerted a fearful influence, either kindly

or malignant, as the good old rules were observed or not. It was even

required to make soap "in the light of the moon," and, moreover, it must

be stirred only one way, and by one person. Nothing of importance was to

be begun on Friday. All enterprises inaugurated on that day went fatally

amiss. A horse-colt could be begotten only "in the dark of the moon,"

and animals treated otherwise than "according to the signs in the

almanac" were nearly sure to die.

Such were the people among whom Abe grew to manhood. With their sons and

daughters he went to school. Upon their farms he earned his daily bread

by daily toil. From their conversation he formed his earliest opinions

of men and things, the world over. Many of their peculiarities became

his; and many of their thoughts and feelings concerning a multitude of

subjects were assimilated with his own, and helped to create that unique

character, which, in the eyes of a great host of the American people,

was only less curious and amusing than it was noble and august.

His most intimate companions were of course, for a long time, the

members of his own family. The reader already knows something of Thomas

Lincoln, and that pre-eminently good woman, Sally Bush. The latter, we

know, washed, clothed, loved, and encouraged Abe in well-doing, from

the moment he fell in her way. How much he owed to her goodness and

affection, he was himself never able to estimate. That it was a great

debt, fondly acknowledged and cheerfully repaid as far as in him lay,

there can be no doubt. His own sister, the child of Nancy Hanks, was

warmly attached to him. Her face somewhat resembled his. In repose it

had the gravity which they both, perhaps, inherited from their mother;

but it was capable of being lighted almost into beauty by one of Abe's

ridiculous stories or rapturous sallies of humor. She was a modest,

plain, industrious girl, and is kindly remembered by all who knew her.

She was married to Aaron Grigsby at eighteen, and a year after died in

child-bed. Like Abe, she occasionally worked out at the houses of the

neighbors, and at one time was employed in Mrs. Crawford's kitchen,

while her brother was a laborer on the same farm. She lies buried, not

with her mother, but in the yard of the old Pigeon Creek meeting-house.

It is especially pleasing to read the encomiums lavished upon her memory

by the Grigsbys; for between the Grigsbys on one side, and Abe and his

step-brother on the other, there once subsisted a fierce feud.

[Illustration: Dennis Hanks 070]

As we have already learned from Dennis Hanks, the two families--the

Johnstons and the Lincolns--"got along finely together." The

affectionate relations between Abe and his two step-sisters were the

subject of common remark throughout the neighborhood. One of them

married Dennis Hanks, and the other Levi Hall, or, as he is better

known, Squire Hall,--a cousin of Abe. Both these women (the latter now

Mrs. Moore) furnished Mr. Herndon very valuable memoirs of Abe's life

whilst he dwelt under the same roof with them; and they have given

an account of him which shows that the ties between them were of the

strongest and tenderest kind. But what is most remarkable in their

statements is, that they never opened their lips without telling how

worthy of everybody's love their mother was, and how Abe revered her

as much as they did. They were interesting girls, and became exemplary

women.

John D. Johnston, the only son of Mrs. Lincoln, was not the best boy,

and did not grow to be the best man, in all the Pigeon Creek region. He

had no positive vice, except idleness, and no special virtue but good

temper. He was not a fortunate man; never made money; was always needy,

and always clamoring for the aid of his friends. Mr. Lincoln, all

through John's life, had much trouble to keep him on his legs, and

succeeded indifferently in all his attempts. In a subsequent chapter

a letter will be given from him, which indirectly portrays his

step-brother's character much better than it can be done here. But, as

youths, the intimacy between them was very close; and in another place

it will appear that Abe undertook his second voyage to New Orleans only

on condition that John would go along.

But the most constant of his companions was his jolly cousin, Dennis

Hanks. Of all the contributors to Mr. Herndon's store of information,

good, bad, and indifferent, concerning this period of Mr. Lincoln's

life, Dennis is the most amusing, insinuating, and prolific. He would

have it distinctly understood that the well of his memory is the only

proper source whence any thing like truth may be drawn.1 He has covered

countless sheets of paper devoted to indiscriminate laudations of Abe

and all his kindred. But in all this he does not neglect to say a word

for himself.

1 The following random selections from his writings leave us

no room to doubt Dennis's opinion of his own value:--

"William, let in, don't keep any thing back, for I am in for

the whole hog sure; for I know nobody can do any for you

much, for all they know is from me at last. Every thing you

see is from my notes,--this you can tell yourself.

"I have in my possession a little book, the private life of

A. Lincoln, comprising a full life of his early years, and a

succinct record of his career as statesman and President, by

O. J. Victor, author of Lives of Garibaldi, Winfield Scott,

John Paul Jones, &c., New York, Beadle and Company,

publishers, No. 118 Williams Street. Now, sir, I find a

great many things pertaining to Abe Lincoln's life that is

not true. If you would like to have the book, I will mail it

to you. I will say this much to you: if you don't have my

name very frequently in your book, it won't go at all; for I

have been East for two months, have seen a great many

persons in that time, stating to them that there would be a

book, 'The Life of A. Lincoln,' published, giving a full

account of the family, from England to this country. Now,

William, if there be any thing you want to know, let me

know: I will give you all the information I can.

"I have seen a letter that you wrote to my daughter, Harriet

Chapman, of inquiry about some things. I thought you were

informed all about them. I don't know what she has stated to

you about your questions; but you had better consult me

about them.

"Billy, it seems to me, from the letters that you write to

me asking questions, that you ask the same questions over

several times. How is this? Do you forget, or are you like

the lawyer, trying to make me cross my path, or not? Now, I

will. Look below for the answer."

At one place, "his cousin, Dennis Hanks," is said to have taught Abe

to read and write. At another, he is represented as the benevolent

purchaser of the volumes from which Abe (and Dennis too) derived a

wonderfully clear and accurate conception of the science of law. In all

studies their minds advanced _pari passu_. Whenever any differences are

noted (and they are few and slight), Dennis is a step ahead, benignantly

extending a helping hand to the lagging pupil behind. But Dennis's heart

is big and kind: he defames no one; he is merely a harmless romancer. In

the gallery of family portraits painted by Dennis, every face looks down

upon us with the serenity of innocence and virtue. There is no spot on

the fame of any one of them. No family could have a more vigorous or

chivalrous defender than he, or one who repelled with greater scorn any

rumor to their discredit. That Enlow story! Dennis almost scorned to

confute it; but, when he did get at it, he settled it by a magnificent

exercise of inventive genius. He knew "this Abe Enlow" well, he said,

and he had been dead precisely fifty-five years. But, whenever the truth

can be told without damage to the character of a Lincoln or a Hanks,

Dennis will tell it candidly enough, provided there is no temptation

to magnify himself. His testimony, however, has been sparingly used

throughout these pages; and no statement has been taken from him unless

it was more or less directly corroborated by some one else. The

better part of his evidence Mr. Herndon took the precaution of reading

carefully to John Hanks, who pronounced it substantially true; and that

circumstance gives it undeniable value.

When Thomas and Betsy Sparrow died in the fall of 1818, Dennis was taken

from the "little half-faced camp," and became one of the Lincoln family.

Until Thomas Lincoln's second marriage, Dennis, Abe, and Sarah were all

three poor, ragged, and miserable together. After that, Dennis got along

better, as well as the rest. He was a lively, volatile, sympathetic

fellow, and Abe liked him well from the beginning. They fished, hunted,

and worked in company; loafed at the grocery, where Dennis got drunk,

and Abe told stories; talked politics with Col. Jones; "swapped jokes"

with Baldwin the blacksmith; and faithfully attended the sittings of the

nearest justice of the peace, where both had opportunities to correct

and annotate the law they thought they had learned from the "Statute of

Indiana." Dennis was kind, genial, lazy, brimming over with humor,

and full of amusing anecdotes. He revelled in song, from the vulgarest

ballad to the loftiest hymn of devotion; from "The turbaned Turk, that

scorns the world," to the holiest lines of Doctor Watts. These qualities

marked him wherever he went; and in excessive good-nature, and in the

ease with which he passed from the extreme of rigor to the extreme of

laxity, he was distinguished above the others of his name.

There was one Hanks, however, who was not like Dennis, or any other

Hanks we know any thing about: this was "old John," as he is familiarly

called in Illinois,--a sober, honest, truthful man, with none of the wit

and none of the questionable accomplishments of Dennis. He was the son

of Joseph, the carpenter with whom Tom Lincoln learned the trade. He

went to Indiana to live with the Lincolns when Abe was fourteen years

of age, and remained there four years. He then returned to Kentucky, and

subsequently went to Illinois, where he was speedily joined by the old

friends he had left in Indiana. When Abe separated from the family, and

went in search of individual fortune, it was in company with "old John."

Together they split the rails that did so much to make Abe President;

and "old John" set the ball in motion by carrying a part of them into

the Decatur Convention on his own broad shoulders. John had no education

whatever, except that of the muscles and the heart. He could neither

read nor write; but his character was pure and respectable, and Lincoln

esteemed him as a man, and loved him as a friend and relative.

About six years after the death of the first Mrs. Lincoln, Levi Hall and

his wife and family came to Indiana, and settled near the Lincolns. Mrs.

Hall was Nancy Hanks, the mother of our friend Dennis, and the aunt of

Nancy Hanks, the mother of Abraham Lincoln. She had numerous children

by her husband. One of them, Levi, as already mentioned, married one of

Abe's step-sisters, while Dennis, his half-brother, married the

other one. The father and mother of the Halls speedily died of the

milk-sickness, but Levi was for many years a constant companion of Abe

and Dennis.

In 1825 Abraham was employed by James Taylor, who lived at the mouth of

Anderson's Creek. He was paid six dollars a month, and remained for nine

months. His principal business was the management of a ferry-boat which

Mr. Taylor had plying across the Ohio, as well as Anderson's Creek. But,

in addition to this, he was required to do all sorts of farm-work, and

even to perform some menial services about the house. He was hostler,

ploughman, ferryman, out of doors, and man-of-all-work within doors.

He ground corn with a hand-mill, or "grated" it when too young to be

ground; rose early, built fires, put on the water in the kitchen,

"fixed around generally," and had things prepared for cooking before the

mistress of the house was stirring. He slept up stairs with young

Green Taylor, who says that he usually read "till near midnight,"

notwithstanding the necessity for being out of his bed before day. Green

was somewhat disposed to ill-use the poor hired boy, and once struck him

with an ear of hard corn, and cut a deep gash over his eye. He makes no

comment upon this generous act, except that "Abe got mad," but did not

thrash him.

Abe was a hand much in demand in "hog-killing time." He butchered not

only for Mr. Taylor, but for John Woods, John Duthan, Stephen McDaniels,

and others. At this he earned thirty-one cents a day, as it was

considered "rough work."

For a long time there was only one person in the neighborhood for whom

Abe felt a decided dislike; and that was Josiah Crawford, who had made

him "pull fodder," to pay for the Weems's "Washington." On that score

he was "hurt" and "mad," and often declared "he would have revenge." But

being a poor boy,--a circumstance of which Crawford had already taken

shameful advantage to extort three days' labor,--he was glad to get

work any place, and frequently "hired to his old adversary." Abe's first

business in his employ was daubing his cabin, which was built of logs,

unhewed, and with the bark on. In the loft of this house, thus finished

by his own hands, he slept for many weeks at a time. He spent his

evenings as he did at home,--writing on wooden shovels or boards with "a

coal, or keel, from the branch." This family was rich in the possession

of several books, which Abe read through time and again, according to

his usual custom. One of them was the "Kentucky Preceptor," from which

Mrs. Crawford insists that he "learned his school orations, speeches,

and pieces to write." She tells us also that "Abe was a sensitive lad,

never coming where he was not wanted;" that he always lifted his hat,

and bowed, when he made his appearance; and that "he was tender and

kind," like his sister, who was at the same time her maid-of-all-work.

His pay was twenty-five cents a day; "and, when he missed time, he would

not charge for it." This latter remark of good Mrs. Crawford reveals the

fact that her husband was in the habit of docking Abe on his miserable

wages whenever he happened to lose a few minutes from steady work.

The time came, however, when Abe got his "revenge" for all this

petty brutality. Crawford was as ugly as he was surly. His nose was a

monstrosity,--long and crooked, with a huge, misshapen "stub" at the

end, surmounted by a host of pimples, and the whole as "blue" as the

usual state of Mr. Crawford's spirits. Upon this member Abe levelled his

attack in rhyme, song, and "chronicle;" and, though he could not reduce

the nose, he gave it a fame as wide as to the Wabash and the Ohio. It is

not improbable that he learned the art of making the doggerel rhymes

in which he celebrated Crawford's nose from the study of Crawford's own

"Kentucky Preceptor." At all events, his sallies upon this single topic

achieved him great reputation as a "poet" and a wit, and caused Crawford

intolerable anguish.

It is likely that Abe was reconciled to his situation in this family by

the presence of his sister, and the opportunity it gave him of being in

the company of Mrs. Crawford, for whom he had a genuine attachment; for

she was nothing that her husband was, and every thing that he was not.

According to her account, he split rails, ploughed, threshed, and did

whatever else he was ordered to do; but she distinctly affirms that "Abe

was no hand to pitch into his work like killing snakes." He went about

it "calmly," and generally took the opportunity to throw "Crawford"

down two or three times "before they went to the field." It is fair to

presume, that, when Abe managed to inveigle his disagreeable employer

into a tussle, he hoisted him high and threw him hard, for he felt

that he had no reason to be careful of his bones. After meals Abe "hung

about," lingered long to gossip and joke with the women; and these

pleasant, stolen conferences were generally broken up with the

exclamation, "Well, this won't buy the child a coat!" and the

long-legged hired boy would stride away to join his master.

In the mean time Abe had become, not only the longest, but the

strongest, man in the settlement. Some of his feats almost surpass

belief, and those who beheld them with their own eyes stood literally

amazed. Richardson, a neighbor, declares that he could carry a load to

which the strength of "three ordinary men" would scarcely be equal. He

saw him quietly pick up and walk away with "a chicken-house, made of

poles pinned together, and covered, that weighed at least six hundred,

if not much more." At another time the Richardsons were building a

corn-crib: Abe was there; and, seeing three or four men preparing

"sticks" upon which to carry some huge posts, he relieved them of all

further trouble by shouldering the posts, single-handed, and walking

away with them to the place where they were wanted. "He could strike

with a mall," says old Mr. Wood, "a heavier blow than any man.... He

could sink an axe deeper into wood than any man I ever saw."

For hunting purposes, the Pigeon Creek region was one of the most

inviting on earth. The uplands were all covered with an original growth

of majestic forest trees,1 whilst on the hillsides, and wherever an

opening in the woods permitted the access of sunlight, there were beds

of fragrant and beautiful wild-flowers, presenting, in contrast with the

dense green around them, the most brilliant and agreeable effects. Here

the game had vast and secluded ranges, which, until very recently, had

heard the report of no white man's gun. In Abe's time, the squirrels,

rabbits, partridges, and other varieties of smaller game, were so

abundant as to be a nuisance. They devastated grain-fields and gardens;

and while they were seldom shot for the table, the settlers frequently

devised the most cunning means of destroying them in great quantities,

in order to save the growing crops. Wild turkeys and deer were the

principal reliance for food; but besides these were the bears, the

wild-cats, and the panthers.1 The scream of the latter, the most

ferocious and bloodthirsty of the cat kind, hastened Abe's homeward

steps on many a dark night, as he came late from Dave Turnham's, "Uncle"

Wood's, or the Gentryville grocery. That terrific cry appeals not only

to the natural fear of the monster's teeth and claws, but, heard in the

solitude of night and the forest, it awakens a feeling of superstitious

horror, that chills the heart of the bravest.

"Now about the timber: it was black walnut and black oak,

hickory and jack oak, elm and white oak, undergrowth,

logwood in abundance, grape-vines and shoe-make bushes, and

milk-sick plenty. All my relations died of that disease on

Little Pigeon Creek, Spencer County."--Dennis Hanks.

Everybody about Abe made hunting a part of his business.2 Tom Lincoln

and Dennis Hanks doubtless regaled him continually with wonderful

stories of their luck and prowess; but he was no hunter himself, and

did not care to learn. It is true, that, when a mere child, he made a

fortunate shot at a flock of wild turkeys, through a crack in the wall

of the "half-faced cabin;"3 and that, when grown up, he went for coons

occasionally with Richardson, or watched deer-licks with Turnham; but

a true and hearty sportsman he never was. As practised on this wild

border, it was a solitary, unsociable way of spending time, which did

not suit his nature; and, besides, it required more exertion than he was

willing to make without due compensation. It could not be said that Abe

was indolent; for he was alert, brisk, active, about every thing that

he made up his mind to do. His step was very quick; and, when he had

a sufficient object in view, he strode out on his long, muscular legs,

swinging his bony arms as he moved along, with an energy that put miles

behind him before a lazy fellow like Dennis Hanks or John Johnston could

make up his mind to start. But, when he felt that he had time to spare,

he preferred to give it to reading or to "talk;" and, of the two, he

would take the latter, provided he could find a person who had something

new or racy to say. He liked excessively to hear his own voice, when it

was promoting fun and good fellowship; but he was also a most rare and

attentive listener. Hunting was entirely too "still" an occupation for

him.

1 "No Indians there when I first went to Indiana: I say, no,

none. I say this: bear, deer, turkey, and coon, wild-cats,

and other things, and frogs."--Dennis Hanks.

2 "You say, What were some of the customs? I suppose you

mean take us all together. One thing I can tell you about:

we had to work very hard cleaning ground for to keep body

and soul together; and every spare time we had we picked up

our rifle, and brought in a fine deer or turkey; and in the

winter-time we went a coon-hunting, for coon-skins were at

that time considered legal tender, and deer-skins' and hams.

I tell you, Billy, I enjoyed myself better then than I ever

have since."--Dennis Hanks.

3 "No doubt about the A. Lincoln's killing the turkey. He

done it with his father's rifle, made by William Lutes, of

Bullitt County, Kentucky. I have killed a hundred deer with

her myself; turkeys too numerous to mention."--Dennis

Hanks.

All manner of rustic sports were in vogue among the Pigeon Creek boys.

Abe was especially formidable as a wrestler; and, from about 1828

onward, there was no man, far or near, that would give him a match.

"Cat," "throwing the mall," "hopping and half-hammon" (whatsoever that

may mean), and "four-corner bull-pen" were likewise athletic games in

high honor.1

1 "You ask, What sort of plays? What we called them at that

time were 'bull-pen,' 'corner and cat,' 'hopping and half-

hammon;' playing at night 'old Sister Feby.' This I know,

for I took a hand myself; and, wrestling, we could throw

down anybody."--Dennis Hanks.

All sorts of frolics and all kinds of popular gatherings, whether for

work or amusement, possessed irresistible attractions for Abe. He

loved to see and be seen, to make sport and to enjoy it. It was a most

important part of his education that he got at the corn-shuckings, the

log-rollings, the shooting-matches, and the gay and jolly weddings

of those early border times. He was the only man or boy within a wide

compass who had learning enough to furnish the literature for such

occasions; and those who failed to employ his talents to grace or

commemorate the festivities they set on foot were sure to be stung by

some coarse but humorous lampoon from his pen. In the social way, he

would not suffer himself to be slighted with impunity; and, if there

were any who did not enjoy his wit, they might content themselves

with being the subjects of it. Unless he received some very pointed

intimation that his presence was not wanted, he was among the first

and earliest at all the neighborhood routs; and when his tall, singular

figure was seen towering amongst the hunting-shirts, it was considered

due notice that the fun was about to commence. "Abe Linkhern," as he

was generally called, made things lively wherever he went: and, if

Crawford's blue nose happened to have been carried to the assembly,

it quickly subsided, on his arrival, into some obscure corner; for the

implacable "Linkhern" was apt to make it the subject of a jest that

would set the company in a roar. But when a party was made up, and Abe

left out, as sometimes happened through the influence of Crawford, he

sulked, fumed, "got mad," nursed his anger into rage, and then broke out

in songs or "chronicles," which were frequently very bitter, sometimes

passably humorous, and invariably vulgar.

At an early age he began to attend the "preachings" roundabout, but

principally at the Pigeon Creek church, with a view to catching whatever

might be ludicrous in the preacher's air or matter, and making it the

subject of mimicry as soon as he could collect an audience of idle boys

and men to hear him. A pious stranger, passing that way on a Sunday

morning, was invited to preach for the Pigeon Creek congregation; but

he banged the boards of the old pulpit, and bellowed and groaned so

wonderfully, that Abe could hardly contain his mirth. This memorable

sermon was a great favorite with him; and he frequently reproduced it

with nasal tones, rolling eyes, and all manner of droll aggravations, to

the great delight of Nat Grigsby and the wild fellows whom Nat was able

to assemble. None that heard him, not even Nat himself (who was any

thing but dull), was ever able to show wherein Abe's absurd version

really departed from the original.

The importance of Gentryville, as a "centre of business," soon began to

possess the imaginations of the dwellers between the two Pigeon Creeks.

Why might it not be a great place of trade? Mr. Gentry was a most

generous patron; it was advantageously situated where two roads crossed;

it already had a blacksmith's shop, a grocery, and a store. Jones, it is

true, had once moved away in a sulk, but Mr. Gentry's fine diplomacy had

quickly brought him back, with all his goods and talents unreservedly

devoted to the "improvement of the town;" and now, since there was

literally nothing left to cloud the prospects of the "point," brisk

times were expected in the near future.

Dennis Hanks, John Johnston, Abe, and the other boys in the

neighborhood, loitered much about the store, the grocery, and the

blacksmith's shop, at Gentryville. Dennis ingenuously remarks,

"Sometimes we spent a little time at grog, pushing weights, wrestling,

telling stories." The time that Abe "spent at grog" was, in truth, a

"little time." He never liked ardent spirits at any period of his life;

but "he did take his dram as others did."1 He was a natural politician,

intensely ambitious, and anxious to be popular. For this reason, and

this alone, he drank with his friends, although very temperately. If he

could have avoided it without giving offence, he would gladly have done

so. But he coveted the applause of his pot companions, and, because he

could not get it otherwise, made a faint pretence of enjoying his liquor

as they did. The "people" drank, and Abe was always for doing whatever

the "people" did. All his life he held that whatsoever was popular--the

habit or the sentiment of the masses--could not be essentially wrong.

But, although a whiskey-jug was kept in every ordinarily respectable

household, Abe never tasted it at home. His step-mother thought he

carried his temperance to extremes.

1 The fact is proved by his most intimate acquaintances,

both at Gentryville and New Salem.

Jones, the great Jones, without whom it was generally agreed that

Gentryville must have gone into eclipse, but with whom, and

through whom, it was somehow to become a sort of metropolitan

cross-roads,--Jones was Abe's friend and mentor from the moment of their

acquaintance. Abe is even said to have "clerked for him;" that is, he

packed and unpacked boxes, ranged goods on the shelves, drew the liquids

in the cellar, or exhibited the stone and earthen ware to purchasers;

but in his service he was never promoted to keeping accounts, or even to

selling the finer goods across the counter.1 But Mr. Jones was very

fond of his "clerk,"--enjoyed his company, appreciated his humor, and

predicted something great for him. As he did not doubt that Abe would

one day be a man of considerable influence, he took pains to give him

correct views of the nature of American institutions. An ardent Jackson

man himself, he imparted to Abe the true faith, as delivered by that

great democratic apostle; and the traces of this teaching were

never wholly effaced from Mr. Lincoln's mind. Whilst he remained at

Gentryville, his politics accorded with Mr. Jones's; and, even after he

had turned Whig in Illinois, John Hanks tells us that he wanted to

whip a man for traducing Jackson. He was an eager reader of newspapers

whenever he could get them, and Mr. Jones carefully put into his hands

the kind he thought a raw youth should have. But Abe's appetite was not

to be satisfied by what Mr. Jones supplied; and he frequently borrowed

others from "Uncle Wood," who lived about a mile from the Lincoln cabin,

and for whom he sometimes worked.

1 "Lincoln drove a team, cut up pork, and sold goods for

Jones. Jones told me that Lincoln read all his books, and I

remember History of United States as one. Jones often said

to me, that Lincoln would make a great man one of these

days,--had said so long before, and to other people,--said

so as far back as 1828-9.'"--Dougherty.

What manner of man kept the Gentryville grocery, we are not informed.

Abe was often at his place, however, and would stay so long at nights,

"telling stories" and "cracking jokes," that Dennis Hanks, who was

ambitious in the same line, and probably jealous of Abe's overshadowing

success, "got mad at him," and "cussed him." When Dennis found himself

thrown in the shade, he immediately became virtuous, and wished to

retire early.

John Baldwin, the blacksmith, was one of Abe's special friends from

his boyhood onward. Baldwin was a story-teller and a joker of rare

accomplishments; and Abe, when a very little fellow, would slip off

to his shop and sit and listen to him by the hour. As he grew up, the

practice continued as of old, except that Abe soon began to exchange

anecdotes with his clever friend at the anvil. Dennis Hanks says Baldwin

was his "_particular_ friend," and that "Abe spent a great deal of his

leisure time with him." Statesmen, plenipotentiaries, famous commanders,

have many times made the White House at Washington ring with their

laughter over the quaint tales of John Baldwin, the blacksmith,

delivered second-hand by his inimitable friend Lincoln.

Abe and Dave Turnham had one day been threshing wheat,--probably for

Turnham's father,--and concluded to spend the evening at Gentryville.

They lingered there until late in the night, when, wending their way

along the road toward Lincoln's cabin, they espied something resembling

a man lying dead or insensible by the side of a mud-puddle. They

rolled the sleeper over, and found in him an old and quite respectable

acquaintance, hopelessly drunk. All efforts failed to rouse him to any

exertion on his own behalf. Abe's companions were disposed to let him

lie in the bed he had made for himself; but, as the night was cold and

dreary, he must have frozen to death had this inhuman proposition

been equally agreeable to everybody present. To Abe it seemed utterly

monstrous; and, seeing he was to have no help, he bent his mighty frame,

and, taking the big man in his long arms, carried him a great distance

to Dennis Hanks's cabin. There he built a fire, warmed, rubbed, and

nursed him through the entire night,--his companions of the road having

left him alone in his merciful task. The man often told John Hanks,

that it was mighty "clever in Abe to tote him to a warm fire that cold

night," and was very sure that Abe's strength and benevolence had saved

his life.

Abe was fond of music, but was himself wholly unable to produce three

harmonious notes together. He made various vain attempts to sing a

few lines of "Poor old Ned," but they were all equally ludicrous and

ineffectual. "Religious songs did not appear to suit him at all," says

Dennis Hanks; but of profane ballads and amorous ditties he knew the

words of a vast number. When Dennis got happy at the grocery, or passed

the bounds of propriety at a frolic, he was in the habit of raising a

charming carol in praise of the joys which enter into the Mussulman's

estate on earth,--of which he has vouchsafed us only three lines,--

"The turbaned Turk that scorns the world,

And struts about with his whiskers curled,

For no other man but himself to see."

It was a prime favorite of Abe's; and Dennis sang it with such

appropriate zest and feeling, that Abe never forgot a single word of it

while he lived.

Another was,--

"Hail Columbia, happy land!

If you ain't drunk, I'll be damned,"--

a song which Dennis thinks should be warbled only in the "fields;" and

tells us that they knew and enjoyed "all such [songs] as this." Dave

Turnham was also a musical genius, and had a "piece" beginning,--

"There was a Romish lady Brought up in popery,"

which Abe thought one of the best he ever heard, and insisted upon

Dave's singing it for the delectation of old Tom Lincoln, who relished

it quite as much as Abe did.1

1 "I recollect some more:--

'Come, thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing thy praise.'

'When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies!'

'How tedious and tasteless the hours.'

'Oh! to grace how great a debtor!'

Other little songs I won't say any thing about: they would

not look well in print; but I could give them."--Dennis

Hanks.

Mrs. Crawford says, that Abe did not attempt to sing much about the

house: he was probably afraid to indulge in such offensive gayeties in

the very habitation of the morose Crawford. According to Dennis Hanks,

his melody was not of the sort that hath power to charm the savage; and

he was naturally timid about trying it upon Crawford. But, when he was

freed from those chilling restraints, he put forth his best endeavors

to render "one [song] that was called 'William Riley,' and one that was

called 'John Anderson's Lamentations,' and one that was made about

Gen. Jackson and John Adams, at the time they were nominated for the

presidency."

The Jackson song indicated clearly enough Abe's steadiness in the

political views inculcated by Jones. Mrs. Crawford could recollect but a

single stanza of it:--

"Let auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind,

And Jackson be our President,

And Adams left behind."

In the text of "John Anderson's Lamentations,"--a most distressful lyric

to begin with,--Abe was popularly supposed to have interpolated some

lines of his own, which conclusively attested his genius for poetic

composition. At all events, he sang it as follows:--

"O sinners! poor sinners, take warning by me:

The fruits of transgression behold now, and see;

My soul is tormented, my body confined,

My friends and dear children left weeping behind.

"Much intoxication my ruin has been,

And my dear companion hath barbarously slain:

In yonder cold graveyard the body doth lie;

Whilst I am condemned, and shortly must die.

"Remember John Anderson's death, and reform

Before death overtakes you, and vengeance comes on.

My grief's overwhelming; in God I must trust:

I am justly condemned; my sentence is just.

"I am waiting the summons in eternity to be hurled;

Whilst my poor little orphans are cast on the world.

I hope my kind neighbors their guardeens will be,

And Heaven, kind Heaven, protect them and me."

In 1826 Abe's sister Nancy (or Sarah) was married to Aaron Grigsby; and

the festivities of the occasion were made memorable by a song entitled,

"Adam and Eve's Wedding Song," which many believed Abe had himself

composed. The conceits embodied in the doggerel were old before Abe was

born; but there is some intrinsic as well as extraneous evidence to

show that the doggerel itself was his. It was sung by the whole Lincoln

family, before Nancy's marriage and since, but by nobody else in the

neighborhood.

ADAM AND EVE'S WEDDING SONG.

When Adam was created, he dwelt in Eden's shade,

As Moses has recorded, and soon an Eve was made.

Ten thousand times ten thousand

Of creatures swarmed around

Before a bride was formed,

And yet no mate was found.

The Lord then was not willing

The man should be alone,

But caused a sleep upon him,

And took from him a bone,

And closed the flesh in that place of;

And then he took the same,

And of it made a woman,

And brought her to the man.

Then Adam he rejoiced

To see his loving bride,

A part of his own body,

The product of his side.

This woman was not taken

From Adam's feet, we see;

So he must not abuse her,

The meaning seems to be.

This woman was not taken

From Adam's head, we know;

To show she must not rule him,

'Tis evidently so.

This woman she was taken

From under Adam's arm;

So she must be protected

From injuries and harm.

"It was considered at that time," says Mr. Richardson, "that Abe was the

best penman in the neighborhood. One day, while he was on a visit at

my mother's, I asked him to write some copies for me. He very willingly

consented. He wrote several of them, but one of them I have never

forgotten, although a boy at the time. It was this:--

'Good boys who to their books apply

Will all be great men by and by.'"

Here are two original lines from Abe's own copy-book, probably the first

he ever had, and which must not be confounded with the famous scrap-book

in which his step-mother, lost in admiration of its contents, declares

he "entered all things:"--

"Abraham Lincoln, his hand and pen:

He will be good, but God knows when."

Again,--

"Abraham Lincoln is my name,

And with my pen I write the same:

I will be a good boy, but God knows when."

The same book contains the following, written at a later day, and with

nothing to indicate that any part of it was borrowed:--

"Time! what an empty vapor'tis!

And days how swift they are!

Swift as an Indian arrow,

Fly on like a shooting-star.

The present moment just is here,

Then slides away in haste,

That we can never say they're ours,

But only say they are past."

Abe wrote many "satires" and "chronicles," which are only remembered in

fragments by a few old persons in the neighborhood. Even if we had them

in full, they were most of them too indecent for publication. Such,

at least, was the character of "a piece" which is said to have been

"exceedingly humorous and witty," touching a church trial, wherein

Brother Harper and Sister Gordon were the parties seeking judgment. It

was very coarse, but it served admirably to raise a laugh in the grocery

at the expense of the church.

His chronicles were many, and on a great variety of subjects. They

were written, as his early admirers love to tell us, "in the scriptural

style;" but those we have betray a very limited acquaintance with the

model. In these "chapters" was celebrated every event of importance

that took place in the neighborhood: weddings, fights, Crawford's nose,

Sister Gordon's innocence, Brother Harper's wit, were all served up,

fresh and gross, for the amusement of the groundlings.

Charles and Reuben Grigsby were married about the same time, and, being

brothers, returned to their father's house with their brides upon the

same day. The infare, the feast, the dance, the ostentatious retirement

of the brides and grooms, were conducted in the old-fashioned way of all

new countries in the United States, but a way which was bad enough to

shock Squire Western himself. On this occasion Abe was not invited,

and was very "mad" in consequence. This indignation found vent in a

highly-spiced piece of descriptive writing, entitled "The Chronicles of

Reuben," which are still in existence.

But even "The Chronicles," venomous and highly successful as they were,

were totally insufficient to sate Abe's desire for vengeance on the

Grigsbys. They were important people about Gentryville, and the social

slight they had given him stung him bitterly. He therefore began on

"Billy" in rhyme, after disposing of Charles and Reuben "in scriptural

style." Mrs. Crawford attempted to repeat these verses to Mr. Herndon;

but the good old lady had not proceeded far, when she blushed very red,

and, saying that they were hardly decent, proposed to tell them to her

daughter, who would tell them to her husband, who would write them down

and send them to Mr. Herndon. They are probably much curtailed by Mrs.

Crawford's modesty, but still it is impossible to transcribe them. We

give what we can to show how the first steps of Abe's fame as a great

writer were won. It must be admitted that the literary taste of the

community in which these rhymes were popular could not have been very

high.

"I will tell you about Joel and Mary:

it is neither a joke or a story, for

Reuben and Charles has married two girls,

but Billy has married a boy."

"The girls he had tried on every side,

But none could he get to agree:

All was in vain; he went home again,

And, since that, he is married to Natty.

"So Billy and Natty agreed very well,

And mamma's well pleased at the match:

The egg it is laid, but Natty's afraid

The shell is so soft it never will hatch;

But Betsey she said, 'You cursed bald head,

My suitor you never can be;

Besides'"----

Abe dropped "The Chronicles" at a point on the road where he was sure

one of the Grigsbys would find them. The stratagem succeeded, and

that delicate "satire" produced the desired effect. The Grigsbys were

infuriated,--wild with a rage which would be satisfied only when Abe's

face should be pounded into a jelly, and a couple of his ribs cracked by

some member of the injured family. Honor, according to the Pigeon Creek

code, demanded that somebody should be "licked" in expiation of an

outrage so grievous,--if not Abe, then some friend of Abe's, whom he

would depute to stand the brunt in his stead. "Billy," the eldest of the

brothers, was selected to challenge him. Abe accepted generally; that

is, agreed that there should be a fight about the matter in question.

It was accordingly so ordered: the ground was selected a mile and a

half from Gentryville, a ring was marked out, and the bullies for twenty

miles around attended. The friends of both parties were present in

force, and excitement ran high. When the time arrived for the champions

to step into the ring, Abe displayed his chivalry in a manner that must

have struck the bystanders with admiration. He announced, that whereas

Billy was confessedly his inferior in size, shape, and talents, unable

to hit with pen or fist with any thing like his power, therefore he

would forego the advantage which the challenge gave him, and "turn over"

his stepbrother, John Johnston, to do battle in his behalf. If this near

relative should be sacrificed, he would abide the issue: he was

merely anxious to see a fair and honorable fight. This proposition was

considered highly meritorious, and the battle commenced on those general

terms. John started out with fine pluck and spirit; but in a little

while Billy got in some clever hits, and Abe began to exhibit symptoms

of great uneasiness. Another pass or two, and John flagged quite

decidedly, and it became evident that Abe was anxiously casting about

for some pretext to break the ring. At length, when John was fairly

down, and Billy on top, and all the spectators cheering, swearing,

and pressing up to the very edge of the ring, Abe cried out that "Bill

Boland showed foul play," and, bursting out of the crowd, seized Grigsby

by the heels, and flung him off. Having righted John, and cleared the

battle-ground of all opponents, "he swung a whiskey-bottle over his

head, and swore that he was the big buck of the lick." It seems that

nobody of the Grigsby faction, not one in that large assembly of

bullies, cared to encounter the sweep of Abe's tremendously long and

muscular arms; and so he remained master of the "lick." He was not

content, however, with a naked triumph, but vaunted himself in the most

offensive manner. He singled out the victorious but cheated Billy, and,

making sundry hostile demonstrations, declared that he could whip him

then and there. Billy meekly said "he did not doubt that," but that,

if Abe would make things even between them by fighting with pistols, he

would not be slow to grant him a meeting. But Abe replied that he was

not going "to fool away his life on a single shot;" and so Billy was

fain to put up with the poor satisfaction he had already received.

At Gentryville "they had exhibitions or speaking meetings." Some of

the questions they spoke on were, The Bee and the Ant, Water and Fire:

another was, Which had the most right to complain, the Negro or the

Indian? Another, "Which was the strongest, Wind or Water?"1 The views

which Abe then entertained on the Indian and the negro question would

be intensely interesting now. But just fancy him discoursing on wind and

water! What treasures of natural science, what sallies of humor, he

must have wasted upon that audience of bumpkins! A little farther on, we

shall see that Abe made pretensions to an acquaintance with the laws of

nature which was considered marvellous in that day and generation.

1 "Lincoln did write what is called 'The Book of

Chronicles,'--a satire on the Grigs-bys and Josiah

Crawford,--not the schoolmaster, but the man who loaned

Lincoln 'The Life of Washington.' The satire was good,

sharp, cutting: it hurt us then, but it is all over now.

There is no family in the land who, after this, loved

Lincoln so well, and who now look upon him as so great a

man. We all voted for him,--all that could,--children and

grandchildren, first, last, and always."--Nat Grigsby.

Dennis Hanks insists that Abe and he became learned men and expert

disputants, not by a course of judicious reading, but by attending

"speech-makings, gatherings," &c.

"How did Lincoln and yourself learn so much in Indiana under such

disadvantages?" said Mr. Herndon to Dennis, on one of his two oral

examinations. The question was artfully put; for it touched the jaunty

Dennis on the side of his vanity, and elicited a characteristic reply.

"We learned," said he, "by sight, scent, and hearing. We heard all that

was said, and talked over and over the questions heard; wore them

slick, greasy, and threadbare. Went to political and other speeches and

gatherings, as you do now: we would hear all sides and opinions, talk

them over, discuss them, agreeing or disagreeing. Abe, as I said before,

was originally a Democrat after the order of Jackson, so was his father,

so we all were.... He preached, made speeches, read for us, explained

to us, &c.... Abe was a cheerful boy, a witty boy, was humorous always;

sometimes would get sad, not very often.... Lincoln would frequently

make political and other speeches to the boys: he was calm, logical, and

clear always. He attended trials, went to court always, read the Revised

Statute of Indiana, dated 1824, heard law speeches, and listened to law

trials, &c. Lincoln was lazy, a very lazy man. He was always reading,

scribbling, writing, ciphering, writing poetry, and the like.... In

Gentryville, about one mile west of Thomas Lincoln's farm, Lincoln would

go and tell his jokes and stories, &c., and was so odd, original, and

humorous and witty, that all the people in town would gather around him.

He would keep them there till midnight. I would get tired, want to go

home, cuss Abe most heartily. Abe was a good talker, a good reader, and

was a kind of newsboy."

Boonville was the court-house town of Warrick County, and was situated

about fifteen miles from Gentryville. Thither Abe walked whenever he had

time to be present at the sittings of the court, where he could learn

something of public business, amuse himself profitably, and withal pick

up items of news and gossip, which made him an interesting personage

when he returned home. During one of these visits he watched, with

profound attention, the progress of a murder trial, in which a Mr.

John Breckenridge was counsel for the defence. At the conclusion of the

latter's speech, Abe, who had listened, literally entranced, accosted

the man of eloquence, and ventured to compliment him on the success of

his effort. "Breckenridge looked at the shabby boy" in amazement, and

passed on his way. But many years afterwards, in 1862, when Abe was

President, and Breckenridge a resident of Texas, probably needing

executive clemency, they met a second time; when Abe said, "It was the

best speech that I up to that time had ever heard. If I could, as I then

thought, make as good a speech as that, my soul would be satisfied."

It is a curious fact, that through all Abe's childhood and boyhood, when

he seemed to have as little prospect of the Presidency as any boy that

ever was born, he was in the habit of saying, and perhaps sincerely

believing, that that great prize would one day be his. When Mrs.

Crawford reproved him for "fooling," and bedevilling the girls in her

kitchen, and asked him "what he supposed would ever become of him," he

answered that "he was going to be President of the United States."1

1 He frequently made use of similar expressions to several

others.

Abe usually did the milling for the family, and had the neighbor

boy, Dave Turnham, for his companion. At first they had to go a long

distance, at least twelve or thirteen miles, to Hoffman's, on Anderson's

Creek; but after a while a Mr. Gordon (the husband of Sister Gordon,

about whom the "witty piece" was written) built a horse-mill within a

few miles of the Lincolns. Here Abe had come one day with a grist, and

Dave probably with him. He had duly hitched his "old mare," and started

her with great impatience; when, just as he was sounding another

"cluck," to stir up her imperturbable and lazy spirit, she let out with

her heels, and laid Abe sprawling and insensible on the ground. He was

taken up in that condition, and did not recover for many minutes; but

the first use made of returning sense was to finish the interrupted

"cluck." He and Mr. Herndon had many learned discussions in their quiet

little office, at Springfield, respecting this remarkable phenomenon,

involving so nice a question in "psychology."

Mr. William Wood, already referred to as "Uncle Wood," was a genuine

friend and even a patron of Abe's. He lived only about a mile and a half

from the Lincolns, and frequently had both old Tom and Abe to work for

him,--the one as a rough carpenter, and the other as a common laborer.

He says that Abe was in the habit of carrying "his pieces" to him for

criticism and encouragement. Mr. Wood took at least two newspapers,--one

of them devoted to politics, and one of them to temperance. Abe borrowed

them both, and, reading them faithfully over and over again, was

inspired with an ardent desire to write something on the subjects of

which they treated. He accordingly composed an article on temperance,

which Mr. Wood thought "excelled, for sound sense, any thing that the

paper contained." It was forwarded, through the agency of a Baptist

preacher, to an editor in Ohio, by whom it was published, to the

infinite gratification of Mr. Wood and his _protégé_. Abe then tried his

hand on "national politics," saying that "the American Government was

the best form of government for an intelligent people; that it ought to

be kept sound, and preserved forever; that general education should be

fostered and carried all over the country; that the Constitution should

be saved, the Union perpetuated, and the laws revered, respected, and

enforced." This article was consigned, like the other, to Mr. Wood, to

be ushered by him before the public. A lawyer named Pritchard chanced

to pass that way, and, being favored with a perusal of Abe's "piece,"

pithily and enthusiastically declared, "The world can't beat it." "He

begged for it," and it was published in some obscure paper; this new

success causing the author a most extraordinary access of pride and

happiness.

But in 1828 Abe had become very tired of his home. He was now nineteen

years of age, and becoming daily more restive under the restraints of

servitude which bound him. He was anxious to try the world for himself,

and make his way according to his own notions. "Abe came to my house one

day," says Mr. Wood, "and stood round about, timid and shy. I knew

he wanted _something_, and said to him, 'Abe, what's your case?'

He replied, 'Uncle, I want you to go to the river, and give me some

recommendation to some boat.' I remarked, 'Abe, your age is against you:

you are not twenty yet.' 'I know that, but I want a start,' said Abe. I

concluded not to go for the boy's good." Poor Abe! old Tom still had a

claim upon him, which even Uncle Wood would not help him to evade. He

must wait a few weary months more before he would be of age, and

could say he was his own man, and go his own way. Old Tom was a hard

taskmaster to him, and, no doubt, consumed the greater part, if not all,

of his wages.

In the beginning of March, 1828, Abe went to work for old Mr. Gentry,

the proprietor of Gentryville. Early in the next month, the old

gentleman furnished his son Allen with a boat, and a cargo of bacon and

other produce, with which he was to go on a trading expedition to New

Orleans, unless the stock was sooner exhausted. Abe, having been found

faithful and efficient, was employed to accompany the young man as a

"bow-hand," to work the "front oars." He was paid eight dollars per

month, and ate and slept on board. Returning, Gentry paid his passage on

the deck of a steamboat.

While this boat was loading at Gentry's Landing, near Rockport, on the

Ohio, Abe saw a great deal of the pretty Miss Roby, whom he had saved

from the wrath of Crawford the schoolmaster, when she failed to spell

"defied." She says, "Abe was then a long, thin, leggy, gawky boy, dried

up and shrivelled." This young lady subsequently became the wife of

Allen Gentry, Abe's companion in the projected voyage. She probably

felt a deep interest in the enterprise in hand, for the very boat itself

seems to have had attractions for her. "One evening," says she, "Abe and

I were sitting on the banks of the Ohio, or rather on the boat spoken

of: I said to Abe that the sun was going down. He said to me, 'That's

not so: it don't really go down; it seems so. The earth turns from west

to east, and the revolution of the earth carries us under as it were:

we do the sinking as you call it. The sun, as to us, is comparatively

still; the sun's sinking is only an appearance.' I replied, 'Abe, what

a fool you are!' I know now that I was the fool, not Lincoln. I am now

thoroughly satisfied that Abe knew the general laws of astronomy and the

movements of the heavenly bodies. He was better read then than the world

knows, or is likely to know exactly. No man could talk to me that

night as he did, unless he had known something of geography as well as

astronomy. He often and often commented or talked to me about what he

had read,--seemed to read it out of the book as he went along,--did

so to others. He was the learned boy among us unlearned folks. He took

great pains to explain; could do it so simply. He was diffident then

too." 1

The trip of Gentry and Lincoln was a very profitable one, and Mr.

Gentry, senior, was highly gratified by the result. Abe displayed his

genius for mercantile affairs by handsomely putting off on the innocent

folks along the river some counterfeit money which a shrewd fellow had

imposed upon Allen. Allen thought his father would be angry with him

for suffering himself to be cheated; but Abe consoled him with the

reflection that the "old man" wouldn't care how much bad money they took

in the course of business if they only brought the proper amount of good

money home.2

1 "When he appeared in company, the boys would gather and

cluster around him to hear him talk.... Mr. Lincoln was

figurative in his speeches, talks, and conversations. He

argued much from analogy, and explained things hard for us

to understand by stories, maxims, tales, and figures. He

would almost always point his lesson or idea by some story

that was plain and near us, that we might instantly see the

force and bearing of what he said."--Nat Grigsby.

2 "Gentry (Allen) was a great personal friend of Mr.

Lincoln. He was a Democrat, but voted for Lincoln,

sacrificing his party politics to his friendship. He says

that on that trip they sold some of their produce at a

certain landing, and by accident or fraud the bill was paid

in counterfeit money. Gentry was grieving about it; but

Lincoln said, 'Never mind, Allen: it will accidentally slip

out of our fingers before we get to New Orleans, and then

old Jim can't quarrel at us.' Sure enough, it all went off

like hot cakes. I was told this in Indiana by many people

about Rockport."--Herndon. It must be remembered that

counterfeit money was the principal currency along the river

at this period.

At Madame Bushane's plantation, six miles below Baton Rouge, they had

an adventure, which reads strangely enough in the life of the great

emancipator. The boat was tied up to the shore, in the dead hours of the

night, and Abe and Allen were fast asleep in the "cabin," in the stern,

when they were startled by footsteps on board. They knew instantly that

it was a gang of negroes come to rob, and perhaps to murder them. Allen,

thinking to frighten the intruders, cried out, "Bring the guns, Lincoln;

shoot them!" Abe came without a gun, but he fell among the negroes

with a huge bludgeon, and belabored them most cruelly. Not content with

beating them off the boat, he and Gentry followed them far back into the

country, and then, running back to their craft, hastily cut loose and

made rapid time down the river, fearing lest they should return in

greater numbers to take revenge. The victory was complete; but, in

winning it, Abe received a scar which he carried with him to his grave.

"When he was eighteen years old, he conceived the project of building a

little boat, and taking the produce of the Lincoln farm down the river

to market. He had learned the use of tools, and possessed considerable

mechanical talent, as will appear in some other acts of his life. Of the

voyage and its results, we have no knowledge; but an incident occurred

before starting which he related in later life to his Secretary of

State, Mr. Seward, that made a very marked and pleasant impression upon

his memory. As he stood at the landing, a steamer approached, coming

down the river. At the same time two passengers came to the river's bank

who wished to be taken out to the packet with their luggage. Looking

among the boats at the landing, they singled out Abraham's, and asked

him to scull them to the steamer. This he did; and, after seeing them

and their trunks on board, he had the pleasure of receiving upon the

bottom of his boat, before he shoved off, a silver half-dollar from each

of his passengers. 'I could scarcely believe my eyes,' said Mr. Lincoln,

in telling the story. 'You may think it was a very little thing,'

continued he, 'but it was a most important incident in my life. I could

scarcely believe that I, a poor boy, had earned a dollar in less than a

day. The world seemed wider and fairer to me. I was a more hopeful

and confident being from that time.'"1 If Mr. Lincoln ever made the

statement for which Mr. Seward is given as authority, he drew upon his

imagination for the facts. He may have sculled passengers to a steamer

when he was ferryman for Taylor, but he never made a trip like the one

described; never built a boat until he went to Illinois; nor did he

ever sell produce on his father's account, for the good reason that his

father had none to sell.

1 Holland's Life of Lincoln, p. 33.