THE NEW MOTHER.
When the new Mrs. Lincoln entered the humble log-cabin which was to be
her future home, it may well be imagined that her heart sank within her
at the primitive accommodations, or rather, lack of accommodations.
“How do you like it?” asked Thomas Lincoln, who was much more easily
satisfied than his wife.
“Not at all at present. There are no doors or windows. There is not even
a plank floor.”
“We have got along without them,” said her husband.
“We can’t get along without them any longer. You are a carpenter, and
can easily provide them. I will put in my furniture, and after awhile we
will have things more comfortable.”
“I don’t think we need the bureau. You say it cost forty dollars. You
had better sell it. It is sinful extravagance to have so much money in
furniture.”
“I can’t consent to that,” said Mrs. Lincoln decidedly. “I have nothing
that is too good for us. I will see that you and the children live more
comfortably in future.”
Abe and Nancy looked on with interest while the bureau and the other
possessions of their new mother were taken from the wagon by their
father and their uncle Ralph. They began to think they were going to
live in city style. In particular they admired the bureau which had cost
forty dollars. Why, their cabin had not cost that. They felt something
like the country minister of sixty years since, to whom his parishioners
presented a carpet for the “fore room.” When it was spread on the floor,
he gazed at it admiringly and ejaculated, “What, all this and heaven
too! This is too much!”
Mrs. Lincoln was quite in earnest, and set her husband to work the next
day at the improvements she had specified. When after a time they were
completed; when the earthen floor was succeeded by one of boards; when
two windows had been set in the sides of the cabin, and a door closed
up the entrance; when the primitive bed and bedstead had been superseded
by the newcomer’s comfortable bedstead and bedding, and the three-legged
stools had been removed to give place to chairs, the three children were
very happy.
And indeed it was a happy day for Thomas Lincoln and his young family
when his second wife took charge of his household. She was kind-hearted
and energetic, and though she had three children of her own, she was
never found wanting in care or affection for her husband’s children. She
took a special interest in young Abe. She read him better than his
father, and saw that there was that in him which it would pay to
develop.
To begin with, she rigged him out in new clothes. His ragged condition
had excited her sympathy, and she rightly judged that neat attire helps
a boy’s or girl’s self-respect. I have no doubt that Abe, though he
never had a weakness for fine clothes, surveyed himself complacently
when for the first time he saw himself respectably dressed.
This is the description of Abe’s step-mother given many years after by
Mrs. Chapman, the daughter of Dennis Hanks:
“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.”
It may be mentioned here that this good lady lived long enough to see
the neglected boy whom she so kindly took in hand elected to the highest
place in the gift of his countrymen.
It was not long before Mrs. Lincoln began to broach her plans for the
benefit of her step-son.
“Abe,” she said one day, “have you ever been to school?”
“Yes, ma’am. I went to school a little while in Kentucky.”
“You didn’t learn much, I suppose?”
“Not much; I can read and write a little.”
“That’s a good beginning. In this country, Abe, you will never amount to
much unless you get an education. Would you like to go to school?”
“Yes,” answered the boy earnestly.
“I will speak to your father about it. Is there any school near here?”
“Yes, Mr. Dorsey keeps school about a mile and a half from here, near
the Little Pigeon Creek meeting-house.”
“You and Nancy and Dennis must go there.” Mrs. Lincoln broached the
subject to her husband.
“Abe ought to go to school, Thomas,” she said, “and so ought the other
children.”
“I don’t know as I can spare him,” said his father. “I need his help in
the shop and on the farm.”
“He can find time out of school hours. The boy must have an education.”
“I agree to that, wife. It shall be as you say.”
In Mr. Dorsey’s school Abe’s studies were elementary. His time was given
to reading, writing, and ciphering. The school-house was about as
primitive as the Lincoln cabin before the improvements were made on it.
It was built of unhewn logs, and holes stuffed with greased paper
supplied the place of windows. It was low-studded, being barely six feet
high. The scholars studied in classes, and Abe’s ambition was excited,
so that he soon came to be looked upon as one of the foremost scholars.
A year or two later, in the same humble school-house, a new teacher
named Andrew Crawford wielded the ferule. He was, it may be inferred, a
better scholar than Mr. Dorsey, and was able to carry his pupils
further.
Abe was now in his fifteenth year, and was growing at an alarming rate.
He was already nearly six feet in height, and must have presented a
singular appearance in the rustic garb in which he presented himself at
this temple of learning. I quote Mr. Lamon’s description of his physical
appearance and dress:
“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-wolsey
shirt, and a cap made of the skin of an opposum 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 ‘shin-bone--sharp, blue, and narrow.’ ‘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.’”
It impresses us rather curiously to learn that the new teacher Crawford
undertook to teach “manners” to the rough brood that was under his
charge. It was certainly a desirable accomplishment, but the teaching
must have been attended with some difficulties.
For the amusement of my young readers I will try to describe one of
these lessons. Mr. Crawford wished the boys to learn how to enter a room
and pay their respects to the assembled company.
“Abe, it is your turn,” he says.
Abe Lincoln, understanding what is meant, rose from his seat, and
retires from the room. A moment later a knock is heard at the door. A
scholar, specially deputed to do so--we will suppose Nat
Grigsby--advances to the door and opens it.
Before him stands Abe--tall, awkward, with the lower part of his limbs
exposed.
Nat bows, and, taking him by the arm, leads him from bench to bench,
presenting him to his fellow-pupils, as though he were a guest going the
rounds in a drawing-room. Abe, who was never without a sense of fun, no
doubt stole timorous glances askance at his rustic garb as he strode
here and there, bowing politely to the boys and girls whom he knew so
well. Yet it is possible that this exercise may have made it less
awkward for him in later days to attend to his social duties when events
brought him prominently before the country.
So far from laughing at Master Crawford’s instruction in manners, I am
disposed to think very favorably of it. He must on the whole have been a
sensible man, and no doubt had a considerable influence over the rough
boys who submitted willingly to what possibly struck them as ludicrous.
I doubt, however, with all his pains, whether he succeeded in making Abe
Lincoln graceful or courtly. On the whole, he was rather unpromising
material; being long, lank, and awkward. Yet this tall, gawky boy was
laying the foundation of a noble manhood. He was making the most of his
slender advantages, not dreaming what greatness the Future had in store
for him.