Lincoln’s first love was Anna Rutledge, of New Salem, whose father was
keeper of the Rutledge tavern where “Abe” boarded. The girl had been
engaged to a young man named John McNeill, whom, we are informed, the
village community pronounced an adventurer and a man unworthy the girl’s
love. He left for the east, promising, however, to return within a year
and claim her as his wife, so the story reads. According to Mrs. William
Prewitt, a sister of Anna Rutledge, who is at present (1898) living,
the engagement was broken off before McNeill went away, so that she was
free to receive the attentions of “Abe” Lincoln. She finally promised
to become his wife in the spring of 1835, soon after his return from
Vandalia. But, unfortunately, circumstances did not permit of a marriage
then, Lincoln being barely able to support himself, not yet having been
admitted to the bar, and the girl, being but seventeen years old. It
was agreed that she should attend an academy at Jacksonville, Ill., and
Lincoln would devote himself to his law studies till the next spring,
when he would be admitted to the bar, and then they would be married.
New Salem was deeply interested in the young lovers and prophesied a
happy life for them; but fate willed it otherwise. Anna Rutledge became
seriously ill, with an attack of brain fever, and when it was seen that
her recovery was impossible Lincoln, her lover, was sent for. They
“passed an hour alone in an anguished parting,” and soon after (August
25, 1835,) Anna died.
The death of his sweetheart was a terrible blow to Lincoln. His
melancholy increased and darkened his mind and his imagination, and
tortured him with its black picture. One stormy night he was sitting
beside a friend of his, with his head bowed on his hand, while tears
trickled through his fingers. His friend begged him to try to control his
sorrow; to try to forget it. Lincoln replied: “I cannot; the thought of
the snow and rain on Ann’s grave fills me with indescribable grief.” For
many days Lincoln journeyed on foot to the cemetery where Anna Rutledge
lay buried, and there alone, in the “city of the dead,” wept for the
girl whom he had loved so well. Many years afterward, when he had married
and become great, he said to a friend who questioned him: “I really and
truly loved the girl and think often of her now.” After a pause he added:
“And I have loved the name of Rutledge to this day.”