The trees bow their heads in sorrow,
While their giant branches wave,
With the requiems of the forest,
To the dead in a soldier's grave.
The pitying rain falls softly,
In grief for a nation's brave,
Who died 'neath the scourge of treason
And rest in a lonely grave.
So, under the willow and cypress
We lay our dead away,
And cover their graves with blossoms,
But the debt we never can pay.
All nature is bathed in tears,
On our sad Memorial day,
When we crown the valour of heroes
With flowers from the garments of May.
The Romance of the Life of
Lincoln
By the slow passing of years humanity attains what is called the
"historical perspective," but it is still a mooted question as to how
many years are necessary.
We think of Lincoln as a great leader, and it is difficult to imagine
him as a lover. He was at the helm of "the Ship of State" in the most
fearful storm it ever passed through; he struck off the shackles of a
fettered people, and was crowned with martyrdom; yet in spite of his
greatness, he loved like other men.
There is no record for Lincoln's earlier years of the boyish love
which comes to many men in their school days. The great passion of his
life came to him in manhood but with no whit of its sweetness gone.
Sweet Anne Rutledge! There are those who remember her well, and to
this day in speaking of her, their eyes fill with tears. A lady who
knew her says: "Miss Rutledge had auburn hair, blue eyes, and a fair
complexion. She was pretty, rather slender, and good-hearted, beloved
by all who knew her."
Before Lincoln loved her, she had a sad experience with another man.
About the time that he came to New Salem, a young man named John
McNeil drifted in from one of the Eastern States. He worked hard, was
plucky and industrious, and soon accumulated a little property. He met
Anne Rutledge when she was but seventeen and still in school, and he
began to pay her especial attention which at last culminated in their
engagement.
He was about going back to New York for a visit and leaving he told
Anne that his name was not McNeil, but McNamar--that he had changed
his name so that his dependent family might not follow him and settle
down upon him before he was able to support them. Now that he was in
a position to aid his parents, brothers, and sisters, he was going
back to do it and upon his return would make Anne his wife.
For a long time she did not hear from him at all, and gossip was rife
in New Salem. His letters became more formal and less frequent and
finally ceased altogether. The girl's proud spirit compelled her to
hold her head high amid the impertinent questions of the neighbors.
Lincoln had heard of the strange conduct of McNeil and concluding that
there was now no tie between Miss Rutledge and her quondam lover, he
began his own siege in earnest. Anne consented at last to marry him
provided he gave her time to write to McNamar and obtain a release
from the pledge which she felt was still binding upon her.
She wrote, but there was no answer and at last she definitely accepted
Lincoln.
It was necessary for him to complete his law studies, and after that,
he said, "Nothing on God's footstool shall keep us apart."
He worked happily but a sore conflict seemed to be raging in Anne's
tender heart and conscience, and finally the strain told upon her to
such an extent that when she was attacked by a fever, she had little
strength to resist it.
The summer waned and Anne's life ebbed with it. At the very end of her
illness, when all visitors were forbidden, she insisted upon seeing
Lincoln. He went to her--and closed the door between them and the
world. It was his last hour with her. When he came out, his face was
white with the agony of parting.
A few days later, she died and Lincoln was almost insane with grief.
He walked for hours in the woods, refused to eat, would speak to no
one, and there settled upon him that profound melancholy which came
back, time and again, during the after years. To one friend he said:
"I cannot bear to think that the rain and storms will beat upon her
grave."
When the days were dark and stormy he was constantly watched, as his
friends feared he would take his own life. Finally, he was persuaded
to go away to the house of a friend who lived at some distance, and
here he remained until he was ready to face the world again.
A few weeks after Anne's burial, McNamar returned to New Salem. On his
arrival he met Lincoln at the post-office and both were sorely
distressed. He made no explanation of his absence, and shortly seemed
to forget about Miss Rutledge, but her grave was in Lincoln's heart
until the bullet of the assassin struck him down.
In October of 1833, Lincoln met Miss Mary Owens, and admired her
though not extravagantly. From all accounts, she was an unusual woman.
She was tall, full in figure, with blue eyes and dark hair; she was
well educated and quite popular in the little community. She was away
for a time, but returned to New Salem in 1836, and Lincoln at once
began to call upon her, enjoying her wit and beauty. At that time she
was about twenty-eight years old.
One day Miss Owens was out walking with a lady friend and when they
came to the foot of a steep hill, Lincoln joined them. He walked
behind with Miss Owens, and talked with her, quite oblivious to the
fact that her friend was carrying a heavy baby. When they reached the
summit, Miss Owens said laughingly: "You would not make a good
husband, Abe."
They sat on the fence and a wordy discussion followed. Both were angry
when they parted, and the breach was not healed for some time. It was
poor policy to quarrel, since some time before he had proposed to Miss
Owens, and she had asked for time in which to consider it before
giving a final answer. His letters to her are not what one would call
"love-letters." One begins in this way:
"MARY:--I have been sick ever since my arrival, or I should
have written sooner. It is but little difference, however,
as I have very little even yet to write. And more, the
longer I can avoid the mortification of looking in the
post-office for your letter, and not finding it, the better.
You see I am mad about that old letter yet. I don't like
very well to risk you again. I'll try you once more,
anyhow."
The remainder of the letter deals with political matters and is signed
simply "Your Friend Lincoln."
In another letter written the following year he says to her:
"I am often thinking about what we said of your coming to
live at Springfield. I am afraid you would not be satisfied.
There is a great deal of flourishing about in carriages
here, which it would be your doom to see without sharing it.
You would have to be poor without the means of hiding your
poverty. Do you believe you could bear that patiently?
"Whatever woman may cast her lot with mine, should any ever
do so, it is my intention to do all in my power to make her
happy and contented; and there is nothing I can imagine that
would make me more unhappy than to fail in the effort.
"I know I should be much happier with you than the way I am,
provided I saw no signs of discontent in you. What you have
said to me may have been in the way of jest, or I may have
misunderstood it.
"If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise I much wish
you would think seriously before you decide. For my part, I
have already decided.
"What I have said I will most positively abide by, provided
you wish it. My opinion is that you would better not do it.
You have not been accustomed to hardship, and it may be more
severe than you now imagine.
"I know you are capable of thinking correctly upon any
subject and if you deliberate maturely upon this before you
decide, then I am willing to abide by your decision."
Matters went on in this way for about three months; then they met
again, seemingly without making any progress. On the day they parted,
Lincoln wrote her another letter, evidently to make his own position
clear and put the burden of decision upon her.
"If you feel yourself in any degree bound to me [he said], I
am now willing to release you, provided you wish it; while,
on the other hand, I am willing and even anxious, to bind
you faster, if I can be convinced that it will in any
considerable degree add to your happiness. This, indeed, is
the whole question with me. Nothing would make me more
miserable than to believe you miserable--nothing more happy
than to know you were so."
In spite of his evident sincerity, it is not surprising to learn that
a little later, Miss Owens definitely refused him. In April, of the
following year, Lincoln wrote to his friend, Mrs. L. H. Browning,
giving a full account of this grotesque courtship:
"I finally was forced to give it up [he wrote] at which I
very unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond
endurance.
"I was mortified it seemed to me in a hundred different
ways. My vanity was deeply wounded by the reflection that I
had so long been too stupid to discover her intentions, and
at the same time never doubting that I understood them
perfectly; and also, that she, whom I had taught myself to
believe nobody else would have, had actually rejected me,
with all my fancied greatness.
"And then to cap the whole, I then, for the first time,
began to suspect that I was really a little in love with
her. But let it all go. I'll try and outlive it. Others have
been made fools of by the girls; but this can never with
truth be said of me. I most emphatically in this instance
made a fool of myself. I have now come to the conclusion
never again to think of marrying, and for this reason I can
never be satisfied with any one who would be blockhead
enough to have me!"
The gist of the matter seems to be that at heart Lincoln hesitated at
matrimony, as other men have done, both before and since his time. In
his letter to Mrs. Browning he speaks of his efforts to "put off the
evil day for a time, which I really dreaded as much, perhaps more,
than an Irishman does the halter!"
But in 1839 Miss Mary Todd came to live with her sister, Mrs. Ninian
Edwards, at Springfield. She was in her twenty-first year, and is
described as "of average height and compactly built." She had a
well-rounded face, rich dark brown hair, and bluish grey eyes. No
picture of her fails to show the full, well-developed chin, which,
more than any other feature is an evidence of determination. She
was strong, proud, passionate, gifted with a keen sense of the
ridiculous, well educated, and swayed only by her own imperious will.
Lincoln was attracted at once, and strangely enough, Stephen A.
Douglas crossed his wooing. For a time the two men were rivals, the
pursuit waxing more furious day by day. Some one asked Miss Todd which
of them she intended to marry, and she answered laughingly: "The one
who has the best chance of becoming President!"
She is said, however, to have refused the "Little Giant" on account of
his lax morality and after that the coast was clear for Lincoln. Miss
Todd's sister tells us that "he was charmed by Mary's wit and
fascinated by her quick sagacity, her will, her nature, and culture."
"I have happened in the room," she says, "where they were sitting,
often and often, and Mary led the conversation. Lincoln would listen,
and gaze on her as if drawn by some superior power--irresistibly so;
he listened, but scarcely ever said a word."
The affair naturally culminated in an engagement, and the course of
love was running smoothly, when a distracting element appeared in the
shape of Miss Matilda Edwards, the sister of Mrs. Edwards's husband.
She was young and fair, and Lincoln was pleased with her appearance.
For a time he tried to go on as before, but his feelings were too
strong to be concealed. Mr. Edwards endeavoured to get his sister to
marry Lincoln's friend, Speed, but she refused both Speed and Douglas.
It is said that Lincoln once went to Miss Todd's house, intending to
break the engagement, but his real love proved too strong to allow him
to do it.
His friend, Speed, thus describes the conclusion of this episode.
"Well, old fellow," I said, "did you do as you intended?"
"Yes, I did," responded Lincoln thoughtfully, "and when I told Mary I
did not love her, she, wringing her hands, said something about the
deceiver being himself deceived."
"What else did you say?"
"To tell you the truth, Speed, it was too much for me. I found the
tears trickling down my own cheeks. I caught her in my arms and kissed
her."
"And that's how you broke the engagement. Your conduct was tantamount
to a renewal of it!"
And indeed this was true, and the lovers again considered the time of
marriage.
There is a story by Herndon to the effect that a wedding was arranged
for the first day of January, 1841, and then when the hour came
Lincoln did not appear, and was found wandering alone in the woods
plunged in the deepest melancholy--a melancholy bordering upon
insanity.
This story, however, has no foundation; in fact, most competent
witnesses agree that no such marriage date was fixed, although some
date may have been considered.
It is certain, however, that the relations between Lincoln and Miss
Todd were broken off for a time. He did go to Kentucky for a while,
but this trip certainly was not due to insanity. Lincoln was never so
mindless as some of his biographers would have us believe, and the
breaking of the engagement was due to perfectly natural causes--the
difference in temperament of the lovers, and Lincoln's inclination to
procrastinate. After a time the strained relations gradually improved.
They met occasionally in the parlor of a friend, Mrs. Francis, and it
was through Miss Todd that the duel with Shields came about.
She wielded a ready and a sarcastic pen, and safely hidden behind a
pseudonym and the promise of the editor, she wrote a series of
satirical articles for the local paper, entitled: "Letters from Lost
Townships." In one of these she touched up Mr. Shields, the Auditor of
State, to such good purpose that believing that Lincoln had written
the article, he challenged him to a duel. Lincoln accepted the
challenge and chose "cavalry broadswords" as the weapons, but the
intervention of friends prevented any fighting, although he always
spoke of the affair as his "duel."
As a result of this altercation with Shields, Miss Todd and the future
President came again into close friendship, and a marriage was decided
upon.
The license was secured, the minister sent for, and on November 4,
1842, they became man and wife.
It is not surprising that more or less unhappiness obtained in their
married life, for Mrs. Lincoln was a woman of strong character, proud,
fiery, and determined. Her husband was subject to strange moods and
impulses, and the great task which God had committed to him made him
less amenable to family cares.
That married life which began at the Globe Tavern was destined to end
at the White House, after years of vicissitude and serious national
trouble. Children were born unto them, and all but the eldest died.
Great responsibilities were laid upon Lincoln and even though he met
them bravely it was inevitable that his family should also suffer.
Upon the face of the Commander-in-chief rested nearly always a mighty
sadness, except when it was occasionally illumined by his wonderful
smile, or when the light of his sublime faith banished the clouds.
Storm and stress, suffering and heartache, reverses and defeat were
the portion of the Leader, and when Victory at last perched upon the
National standard, her beautiful feet were all drabbled in blood, and
the most terrible war on the world's records passed down into history.
In the hour of triumph, with his great purpose nobly fulfilled, death
came to the great Captain.
The United Republic is his monument, and that rugged, yet gracious
figure, hallowed by martyrdom, stands before the eyes of his
countrymen forever serene and calm, while his memory lingers like
a benediction in the hearts of both friend and foe.