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WHY LINCOLN LAUGHED
* * * * *
BOOKS BY RUSSELL H. CONWELL
WHY LINCOLN LAUGHED
EFFECTIVE PRAYER
ACRES OF DIAMONDS
HOW A SOLDIER MAY SUCCEED AFTER THE WAR OR
THE CORPORAL WITH THE BOOK
OBSERVATION: EVERY MAN HIS OWN UNIVERSITY
WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH YOUR WILL POWER
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
ESTABLISHED 1817
* * * * *
[Illustration: ABRAHAM LINCOLN]
WHY LINCOLN LAUGHED
by
RUSSELL H. CONWELL
Author of "Acres of Diamonds"
Harper & Brothers Publishers
New York and London
MCMXXII
WHY LINCOLN LAUGHED
Copyright, 1922, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
A-W
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
FOREWORD vii
I. WHEN LINCOLN WAS LAUGHED AT 1
II. PRESIDENT AND PILGRIM 24
III. LINCOLN READS ARTEMUS WARD ALOUD 38
IV. SOME LINCOLN ANECDOTES 51
V. WHAT MADE HIM LAUGH 64
VI. HUMOR IN THE POLITICAL SITUATION 82
VII. WHY LINCOLN LOVED LAUGHTER 115
VIII. LINCOLN AND JOHN BROWN 127
FOREWORD
Abraham Lincoln wrote to his law partner, William Henry Herndon, that "the
physical side of Niagara Falls is really a very small part of that world's
wonder. Its power to excite reflection and emotion is its great charm."
That statement might fittingly be applied to Lincoln himself. One who
lived in his time, and who has read the thousand books they say have been
written about him in the half century since his death, may still be
dissatisfied with every description of his personality and with every
analysis of his character. He was human, and yet in some mysterious degree
superhuman. Nothing in philosophy, magic, superstition, or religion
furnishes a satisfactory explanation to the thoughtful devotee for the
inspiration he gave out or for the transfiguring glow which at times
seemed to illumine his homely frame and awkward gestures.
The libraries are stocked with books about Lincoln, written by historians,
poets, statesmen, relatives, and political associates. Why cumber the
shelf with another sketch?
The answer to that reasonable question is in the expressed hope that great
thinkers and sincere humanitarians may not give up the task of attempting
to set before the people the true Lincoln. One turns away from every
volume, saying, "I am not yet acquainted with that great man." Hence,
books like this simple tale may help to keep the attention of readers and
writers upon this powerful character until at last some clear and
satisfactory portrayal may be had by the interested readers among all
nations.
Neither bronze nor canvas nor marble can give the true image. Perhaps the
more exact the portrait or statue in respect to his physical appearance
the less it will exhibit the real personality. All pictures of Abraham
Lincoln fail to represent the man as he was. The appearance and the
reality are at irreconcilable variance.
Heredity may be a large factor in the making of some great men, and
education may be the chief cause for the influence of other great men. But
there are only a few great characters in whose lives both of those
advantages are lost to sight in the view of their achievements.
Genius is often defined with complacent assurance as the ability and
disposition to do hard work. That is frequently the truth; but it is not
always the truth. Abraham Lincoln did much of many kinds of hard work, but
that does not account for his extraordinary genius. He had the least to
boast of in his family inheritance. His school education was of the most
meager kind, and he had more than his share of hard luck. His most
difficult task was to overcome his awkward manners and ungainly physique.
His life, therefore, presents a problem worthy the attention of
philanthropic scientists.
Can he be successfully imitated? Why did his laugh vibrate so far, and why
was his humor so inimitable? If the suggestions made in this book will aid
the investigator in finding an answer to these questions it will justify
the venturesomeness of this volume in appearing upon the shelf with such a
great company of the works of greater authors.
RUSSELL H. CONWELL.
PHILADELPHIA, _January, 1922_.
WHY LINCOLN LAUGHED
Chapter I: When Lincoln Was Laughed At
Lincoln loved laughter; he loved to laugh himself and he liked to hear
others laugh. All who knew him, all who have written of him, from John
Hay, years ago, to Harvey O'Higgins in his recent work, tell how, in the
darkest moments our country has ever known, Lincoln would find time to
illustrate his arguments and make his points by narrating some amusing
story. His humor never failed him, and through its help he was able to
bear his great burden.
I first met Lincoln at the White House during the Civil War. To-day it
seems almost impossible that I shook his hand, heard his voice, and
watched him as he laughed at one of his own stories and at the writings of
Artemus Ward, of which he was so fond. Yet, as I remember it, I did not
feel at that time that I was in the presence of a personality so
extraordinary that it would fascinate men for centuries to come. I was a
young man, and it was war time; perhaps that is the reason. On the
contrary, he seemed a very simple man, as all great men are--I might
almost say ordinary, throwing his long leg over the arm of the chair and
using such commonplace, homely language. Indeed, it was hard to be awed in
the presence of Lincoln; he seemed so approachable, so human, simple, and
genial.
Did he use his humor to disarm opposition, to gain good will, or to throw
a mantle around his own melancholy thoughts? Did he believe, as Mark Twain
said, that "Everything human is pathetic; the secret source of humor is
not joy, but sorrow?" I am sure I cannot say. I only know that humor to
Lincoln seemed to be a safety valve without which he would have collapsed
under the crushing burden which he carried during the Civil War.
Until he was twenty-four and was admitted to the bar, he was a quiet,
serious, brooding young fellow, but apparently he discovered the
effectiveness of humor, for he began using it when he was arguing before
the court. Some of his contemporaries say that he was humorous in the
early part of his life, but that, as time went on and he gained confidence
through success, he used humor less and less in his public utterances.
This is partly true, for there is no trace of humor in his presidential
addresses. But that he was humorous in his daily life and that he
continued to read and laugh over the many jokes he read is too obvious to
deny. You cannot think of Lincoln without thinking at the same time of
that very American trait which he possessed and which seems to spring from
and within the soil of the land--homely humor.
One day when I was at the White House in conversation with Lincoln a man
bustled in self-importantly and whispered something to him. As the man
left the room Lincoln turned to me and smiled.
"He tells me that twelve thousand of Lee's soldiers have just been
captured," Lincoln said. "But that doesn't mean anything; he's the biggest
liar in Washington. You can't believe a word he says. He reminds me of an
old fisherman I used to know who got such a reputation for stretching the
truth that he bought a pair of scales and insisted on weighing every fish
in the presence of witnesses.
"One day a baby was born next door, and the doctor borrowed the
fisherman's scales to weigh the baby. It weighed forty-seven pounds."
Lincoln threw back his head and laughed; so did I. It was a good story.
Now what do you think of this? Only recently I picked up a newspaper and
read that same Lincoln anecdote, and it was headed, "A New Story."
It was in connection with a death sentence that I first went to call upon
President Lincoln. This was in December, 1864. I was a captain then in a
Massachusetts regiment brigaded with other regiments for the work of the
North Carolina coast defense, under command of Gen. Benjamin F. Butler. A
young soldier and boyhood playmate of mine from Vermont had been sentenced
by court martial to be shot for sending communications to the enemy. What
had actually happened was this. The fighting at that time in our part of
the country was desultory--a matter of skirmishes only. As must inevitably
happen, even between hostile bodies of men speaking the same language, a
certain amount of "fraternizing" (although that word was not used then)
went on between the outposts and pickets of the opposing forces. In some
cases the pickets faced one another on opposite sides of a narrow stream.
Often this would continue for days or weeks, the same men on the same
posts, and something very like friendship--the friendship of respectful
enemies--would spring up between individuals in the two camps. They would
sometimes go so far as to exchange little delicacies, tobacco and the
like, across the line, No Man's Land, as it was called in the last war. In
some places the practice actually sprang up of whittling little toy boats
and sailing them across a stream, carrying a tiny freight. This act was
usually reciprocated to the best of his pitiful ability by Johnny Reb on
the opposite bank.
The custom served to while away the tedious hours of picket duty, and it
is doubtful if any of these young fellows thought of their acts as
constituting a serious military offense. But such in fact it was; and
when my young friend was caught red-handed in the act of sending a
Northern newspaper into the Rebel lines he was straightway brought to
trial on the terrible charge of corresponding with the enemy. He was found
guilty and sentenced to be shot.
When the time for the execution of this sentence had nearly arrived I
determined, as a last resort, to go and lay the case before the President
in person, for it was evident, from the way matters had gone, that no
mercy could be hoped for from any lesser tribunal. Fortunately, I was able
to secure a few days' leave of absence. I made the trip up to Hampton
Roads by way of the old Dismal Swamp Canal. Hampton Roads was by this time
under undisputed control of the Union forces, naval and military, and
Fortress Monroe was, in fact, General Butler's headquarters.
From this point it was a simple, if somewhat tedious, matter to get to
Washington. But for one young officer the trip went all too quickly. The
nearer loomed the nation's capital and the culmination of his momentous
errand the more he became amazed at his own temerity, and it required the
constant thought of a gray-haired mother, soon to be broken hearted by
sorrow and disgrace, to hold him steadfast to his purpose.
I had seen Lincoln only once in my life, and that was merely as one of the
audience in Cooper Union, in New York, when he delivered his great speech
on abolition. That had taken place on February 17, 1860, nearly five years
before--long enough to make many changes in men and nations--yet the
thought of that tall, awkward orator with his total lack of sophistication
and his great wealth of human sympathy did much to hearten me for the
coming interview. Unconsciously, as the miles jolted past in my journey to
Washington, my mind slipped back over those five tremendous years and I
seemed to live again the events, half pitiful, but wholly amazing, of
that great meeting in the great auditorium of old Cooper Union.
At that time I was a school-teacher from the Hampshire highlands of the
Berkshire Hills, and a neighbor of William Cullen Bryant. Through his
kindness, my brother, who was also a teacher, and myself received an
invitation to hear this speech by a then little-known lawyer from the
West. We were told at the hotel that the Cooper Union lectures were
usually discussions on matters of practical education, and we therefore
used our tickets of admission more out of deference to Mr. Bryant for his
kindness than from any interest in the debate.
When we approached the entrance to the building, however, we were soon
aware that something unusual was about to happen. On the corner of the
street near by we were accosted by a crowd of young roughs who demanded of
us whether or not we were "nigger men." We thought that the roughs meant
to ask if we were black men, and answered decidedly, "No!" What the mob
meant to ask was, were we in favor of freeing the negroes. Acting,
therefore, upon the innocent answer, they thrust into our hands two dry
onions, with the withered tops still adhering to the bulbs, while the
ragged crowd yelled, "Keep 'em under yer jacket and when yer hear the five
whistles throw them at the feller speakin'."
My brother and I took the onions, unconscious of the meaning of such
strange missiles, and entered the hall with the crowd. There was great
excitement, and yet we could not understand why, for no one seemed to know
even the name of the speaker.
"Who is going to speak?" was the question asked all round us, which we
asked also, although we had heard the unfamiliar name of Lincoln.
In one part of the hall we heard several vociferous answers: "Beecher!
Beecher!" and some of the crowd seemed satisfied that the great preacher
was to be the orator of the evening. Two burly policemen pushed into the
corner from which the noisiest tumult came, and we began to surmise that
those onions were "concealed weapons" and that the best policy was to be
sure to keep them concealed. Many descriptions of that audience have been
given by men from various viewpoints, but few have emphasized the
important fact that when the people entered the hall the large majority
were bitterly opposed to the abolitionists' cause. One-third of the
audience was seemingly intent on mobbing the speaker, for some of the men
carried missiles more offensive than onions.
Mark Twain sagaciously wrote that the trouble with old men's memories is
that they remember so many things "that ain't so." That warning may often
be useful, even to those who are the most confident that their memories
are infallible, but I should like to say, and quite modestly, that I still
have a clear vision of that startling occasion and can testify to what I
saw, heard, and felt in that hall on that memorable evening.
I had previously read and studied the great models of eloquence, and was
then in New York, using my carefully hoarded pennies to hear Henry Ward
Beecher, Dr. R. S. Stone, Doctor Storrs, Doctor Bellows, Archbishop
McCloskey, and other orators of current fame. I had studied much for the
purpose of teaching my classes, from the great models, from Cicero to
Daniel Webster, and I had found my ideal in Edward Everett. But those two
hours in Cooper Union; like a sudden cyclone, were destined to shatter all
my carefully built theories. After nearly sixty-two years of bewilderment
I am still asking, "What was it that made that speech on that night an
event of such world-wide importance?" It was not the physical man; it was
not in what he said. Let us with open judgment meditate on the facts.
The persons in the audience, and their city, as well, were antagonistic to
Lincoln's party associates. The negro-haters had seemingly pre-empted the
hall. Stories of negro brutality had been published in the papers of that
week. Lincoln was regarded as an adventurer from the "wild and woolly
West." He was expected to be an extremist. He was crude, unpolished,
having no reputation in the East as a scholar. He was not an orator and
had the reputation of being only a homely teller of grocery-store yarns.
His voice was of a poor quality, grinding the ears sharply. He seemed to
be a ludicrous scarecrow rival of the great gentleman, scholar, and
statesman, William H. Seward. Even Lincoln's own party in New York City
bowed religiously to Seward, the idol of New York State. The Quakers and
the adherents of the pro-slavery party were conscientiously opposed to
war, especially against a civil war.
We now know that Lincoln's speech had been written in Illinois. As I saw
him, on its delivery, he himself was trebly chained to his manuscript, by
his own modest timidity, by the dictation of his party managers, and by
the fact that when he spoke his written speech was already set up in type
for the next morning's papers.
In the chair on the platform as presiding officer sat the venerable poet
of the New England mountains and the writer of keen political editorials.
The minds of the intelligent auditors began to repeat "Thanatopsis" or
"The Fringed Gentian" as soon as they saw the noble old man. His culture,
age, reputation, dignified bearing, and faultless attire seemed in
disparaging contrast to the appearance of the young visitor beside him. In
addition to Mr. Bryant, the stage setting included, on the other side of
the slender guest, a very ponderous fat man, whose proportions, in their
contrasting effect upon the speaker of the evening, made his thin form so
tall as to bring to mind Lincoln's story of the man "so tall they laid
him out in a rope walk."
Lincoln himself was seated in a half-round armchair. His awkward legs were
tied in a kind of a knot in the rungs of the chair. His tall hat, with his
manuscript in it, was near him on the floor. The black fur of the hat was
rubbed into rough streaks. One of his trousers legs was caught on the back
of his boot. His coat was too large. His head was bowed and he looked down
at the floor without lifting his eyes.
Somebody whispered in one of the back seats, "Let's go home," and was
answered, "No, not yet; there'll be fun here soon!"
The entrance of the stranger speaker was greeted with neither decided nor
hearty applause. In fact, the greeting for Mr. Bryant was far more
enthusiastic. But there was a chilling formality in the effect of the
whole of Mr. Bryant's introduction. Nothing worth hearing was expected of
the lank and uncouth stranger--that was the impression made upon me. And
when young Lincoln made an awkward gesture in trying to bow his thanks to
Mr. Bryant, the audience began to smirk and giggle. Lincoln was evidently
disturbed and felt painfully out of place. He seemed to be fearfully
lacking in self-control and appeared to feel that he had made a ridiculous
mistake in accepting such an invitation to such a place. One singular
proof of Lincoln's nervousness was in the fact that he had forgotten to
take from the top of his ear a long, black lead pencil, which occasionally
threatened to shoot out at the audience.
When I mentioned the pencil to Lincoln nearly five years later, he said
that his absent-mindedness on that occasion recalled to him the story of
an old Englishman who was so absent-minded that when he went to bed he put
his clothes carefully into the bed and threw himself over the back of his
chair.
When Mr. Bryant's introduction was concluded, Lincoln hesitated. He
attempted to rise, and caught the toe of his boot under the rung of his
chair. He ran his long fingers through his hair, which left one long tuft
sticking up from the back of his head like an Indian's feather. He looked
pale, and he unrolled his manuscript with trembling fingers. He began to
read in a low, hollow voice that trembled from uncertainty and
nervousness--so low, in fact, that the crowd at the rear of the hall could
not hear, and shouted: "Louder! Louder!"
At this the speaker's voice became a little stronger, and with this added
strength came added confidence, so much so that there came suddenly a
slight climax. The speaker looked up from his manuscript as though to note
the effect of his words. But his eyes quickly dropped again to the paper
in his shaking hands. The applause was fitful, and from the corner where
the hoodlums were assembled came several distinct hisses.
When the audience finally began to make out what he was endeavoring to say
about the signers of the Declaration of Independence and their opposition
to the extension of human slavery, there was for a time respectful
silence.
How long the painful recital might have been permitted to continue no one
can tell. The crowd, even that portion inclined to favor Lincoln's views,
was growing increasingly restless. Half an hour had passed. The ordeal
could not go on much longer. Suddenly a leaf from the speaker's manuscript
accidentally and without his knowledge dropped to the floor. The moment he
missed the leaf he turned a little paler than he had been and hesitated
awkwardly.
For a moment the audience felt keenly the embarrassment of the situation.
But the pause was brief. With an honest gesture of impatience and a
movement forward as if he were about to leap into the audience, Lincoln
lifted his voice, swung out his long arms, and, as my brother remarked,
"let himself go."
Disregarding his written speech,[1] Lincoln launched into that part of the
subject that was nearest his heart. In a voice that no longer was hollow
or sepulchral, but rich and ringing, he denounced the institution of
slavery. Yet he spoke of the South in the most affectionate terms. He said
he loved the South, since "he was born there," but that he loved the Union
more for what it had done united and what it was destined still to do
united.
[1] Charles Sumner said, in one of his great speeches in Fanueil Hall,
Boston, that if the speech Lincoln carefully wrote had not been
circulated, or if he had actually delivered the speech which he wrote,
the change of direction in the car of progress would have led to
delays and disasters "out beyond the limits of human calculation."
Many of the great historians like Hay, Brockett, McClure, and Miss
Tarbell have overlooked or thrown aside the most wonderful portion of
that speech where the disgusted orator lost his place because of a
misplaced leaf of the manuscript from which he was reading.
Wave after wave of telling eloquence rolled forth from this uncouth, gaunt
figure and literally dashed itself against the hard, resisting minds of
that prejudiced audience. Already the feeble wits were engulfed in the
overwhelming verbal torrents that came now like avalanches, and little by
little even the most biased minds began to relent under the mystic
persuasiveness of his voice and the unanswerableness of his logic, until
nearly everybody in that throbbing and excited audience was convinced that
slavery was one of the blackest crimes of which man could be found guilty.
And even before the last words of his impassioned eloquence had passed his
lips the audience was on its feet, and those most bitterly opposed to him
politically arose too and applauded him.
Naturally, no verbatim report of that address can be recalled after sixty
years. But the impression it made almost surpasses belief when told to
those who were not there. There is no clearer descriptive term which could
be applied to the speaker than to state, as some did, that "the orator
was transfigured." No one thought of his ill-fitting new suit, of his old
hat, of his protruding wrists or the disheveled hair, of his long legs,
his bony face, or the one-sided necktie. The natural Abraham Lincoln had
disappeared and an angel spake in his place. Nothing but language which
seems extravagant will tell the accurate truth.
All manner of theories were advanced by those who heard the speech to
account for the gigantic mystery of eloquent power which he exhibited. One
said it was mesmerism; another that it was magnetism; while the
superstitious said there was "a distinct halo about his head" at one place
in the speech. No analysis of the speech as he wrote it, nor any
recollection of the words, shows anything remarkable in language, figures,
or ideas. The subtle, magnetic, spiritual force which emanated from that
inspired speaker revealed to his audience an altogether different man from
the one who began to read a different speech. He did not approach the
delicate sweetness of Mr. Bryant's words of introduction, or reach the
imaginative scenes and noble company which characterized Beecher's
addresses. Lincoln was less cutting than Wendell Phillips and had no
definite style like Everett or Gough. As an orator he imitated no one, and
surely no one could imitate him. Of the four Ohio voters who changed their
votes in the Republican convention and made Lincoln's nomination sure, two
heard that Cooper Union speech and claimed sturdily that they knew "old
Abe" was right, but could not tell why.
Thus it appears throughout Lincoln's public life. He was larger than his
task, wider than his party, ahead of his time as an inspired prophet, and
he seemed to be a spiritual force without material limitations. He began
to grow at his death, and is conquering now in lands he never saw and
rules over nations which cannot pronounce his name. Such individual
influence is next to the divine, and is of the same nature. Can we find a
measure for such a man?
These facts and these thoughts were in my mind as I traveled to Washington
to intercede for my condemned comrade. Such was the man to whom I was
going. But it was to Lincoln the commander-in-chief, and not to Lincoln
the impassioned orator, that I must make my plea.