CHAPTER IV

DOLLARS AND CENTS

The love of money never twined its sinister roots around the heart of

Abraham Lincoln. He was wholly free of any desire to amass riches, nor

could he understand why others should be eager to do so. The mere piling

up of possessions seemed to him unworthy of an able man’s ambition, and

the benevolence which manifests itself in grinding the faces of many

fellow-beings, so as to acquire a fortune for a few public benefactions,

hardly appealed to one whose humanity took the form of honest, kindly

abnegation toward all those with whom he came in contact. Pecuniary

rewards, therefore, occupied a minor place among his incentives to

action. In fact, when there was an end to be achieved, he became so

engrossed over the work which should bring it about that not much

attention was given to the pay. Although his faculties usually worked in

striking harmony with one another, the harmony of thrift, whereby a man

can perform a good action and, as the phrase goes, make a good thing out

of it at the same time, was foreign to his nature. He appears to have

been utterly lacking in the rather commonplace talent for transmuting

people’s necessities into comfortable revenues. His whimsical humor once

defined wealth to be “simply a superfluity of what we don’t need”; and

his frankness, at another time, led him to say: “I don’t know anything

about money. I never had enough of my own to fret me.”

How this condition came about, we have already, in a measure, seen. What

Lincoln learned of business, at the outset, from his luckless father,

from the ill-regulated Offut, and the dissipated Berry, did not carry

him far on the road to fortune. Indeed, he can hardly be said to have

made a fair start toward that delectable goal. To all appearances, the

stuff which passes, as Mowgli says, “from hand to hand and never grows

warmer,” was slow in coming his way; and what little did reach him

rarely remained long enough to allow a test for heat or cold. Where

money is concerned, some men are sponges, some are sieves.

One of this man’s first large coins that he earned for himself, by a

single piece of work, passed through his fingers with ominous celerity.

It happened in this way. While engaged on a voyage, during the youthful

river days,--he was about eighteen years old at the time,--Lincoln stood

near the water’s edge as a steamboat came in sight. Relating what

followed to some friends many years later, he explained that there were

usually no wharves for large boats along the shores of the Western

rivers, and that it was customary for passengers to board the vessels,

as best they could, in mid-stream.

“I was contemplating my new flatboat,” the speaker continued, “and

wondering whether I could make it stronger or improve it in any

particular, when two men came down to the shore in carriages with

trunks, and looking at the different boats singled out mine, and asked,

‘Who owns this?’ I answered, somewhat modestly, ‘I do.’ ‘Will you,’ said

one of them, ‘take us and our trunks out to the steamer?’ ‘Certainly,’

said I. I was very glad to have the chance of earning something. I

supposed that each of them would give me two or three bits. The trunks

were put on my flatboat, the passengers seated themselves on the trunks,

and I sculled them out to the steamboat. They got on board, and I lifted

up their heavy trunks, and put them on deck. The steamer was about to

put on steam again, when I called out that they had forgotten to pay me.

Each of them took from his pocket a silver half-dollar, and threw it on

the floor of my boat. I could scarcely believe my eyes as I picked up

the money. Gentlemen, you may think it was a very little thing, and in

these days it seems to me a trifle; but it was a most important incident

in my life. I could scarcely credit that I, a poor boy, had earned a

dollar in less than a day--that by honest work I had earned a dollar.

The world seemed wider and fairer before me. I was a more hopeful and

confident being from that time.”[iv-1]

But the sequel, as Lincoln told it on another occasion, sounds less

inspiring. For while playing with the coins after the steamboat had

departed, he dropped one of the pieces overboard. “I can see the

quivering and shining of that half-dollar yet,” the narrator

thoughtfully added, “as in the quick current it went down the stream,

and sank from my sight forever.”[iv-2]

This incident was typical of the brief but inglorious business career

which followed. In a certain sense Lincoln’s commercial life may be said

to have begun with the fiasco of the lost fare, and to have closed about

seven years thereafter, even more disastrously, as the reader will

remember, under the cloud of “the national debt.” During that period he

experienced, from all accounts, few if any of the joys found by the smug

trader in the give-and-take of barter.

Nor did he, while pursuing his next occupation as a surveyor, evince any

livelier appreciation of the opportunities for speculation which

presented themselves on every side. Promising town-sites or fertile

quarter-sections interested him only so far as they afforded the

employment whereby he earned his daily bread. For greed of land, like

greed of money, had no place in the man’s make-up. He regarded with

kindly toleration, however, the struggles of investors who scrambled

after title-deeds. Yet if their activities took a dishonest turn, his

contempt for the offenders was keener than that which Christian is said

to have visited upon the pupils of Mr. Gripeman. In the ancient allegory

those worthies were dismissed with a reprimand; but their successors, in

this latter-day narrative, did not, on certain occasions at least,

escape so easily.

“Land-sharks,” or “land-grabbers,” as they have been variously called,

should be rated among Lincoln’s pet aversions. From the time of his

admission to the bar, he lost no opportunity of exposing their

rascalities and of protecting their victims. Many a poor settler,

struggling to save the homestead from blackmailers, who too often

infested the government land-offices, would have fared badly if it had

not been for this man’s sympathetic help. What he managed to do for the

pioneers when so beset, took well-nigh as many forms as did the various

kinds of dangers which threatened them. These services, in fact, ranged

all the way from the giving of legal aid to the lending of a horse.

It is related that one spring morning, as some of the lawyers on the

Eighth Judicial Circuit were riding leisurely toward Springfield, from

the West, they were overtaken by a traveler who was hurrying in the same

direction. His desperate efforts to quicken the pace of the stumbling,

mud-flecked animal which he bestrode, and the appearance in the distance

of another horseman, evidently in pursuit, told their own story. Such a

scene was not unfamiliar to the little cavalcade of attorneys. They

recognized in the first rider a home-maker, racing against time, with

perhaps his final payment, to the land-office; and in the second, a

home-wrecker pushing forward, no less eagerly, to take advantage of a

possible default. For if by a certain hour the settler should fail to

reach his goal, the property on which he had spent much toil as well as

money would be forfeited, the claim would be reopened, and his pursuer,

or any one else, might become the owner. All this passed, like a flash,

through the mind of at least one lawyer in the little company that sat

their horses, curiously observing the race.

As the first rider came up with them, Lincoln called out: “John, is

this the day of your final entry, and have you the money?”

There was a look of despair in the man’s haggard face. Reining up his

spent beast, and gazing anxiously down the muddy road that still lay

before him, he answered: “Yes, I’ve got the money; but my horse can’t

make it.”

“Mine can,” said Lincoln. “Take him, and save your land. Take the

right-hand road a mile ahead of this, and get on the south road into

town. By this you will save a mile. Take care of the horse as well as

you can, but be sure to get there in time to save your land.”

This exchange having been rapidly effected, the settler pushed on, and

did reach Springfield in time to win the day. He had not been at the

land-office long when his benefactor appeared on the scene, for the

purpose of still further aiding him as an attorney. The proffered

services were gladly accepted, John’s title was perfected, and one more

homestead rested secure from the malevolence of the “sharks.” How many

of these scurvy creatures were gaffed by Lincoln is of course not known.

He was, as one friend expressed it, “a terror” to the whole breed; and

common report credited him with being more active in thwarting their

devices than any other lawyer throughout the State. Always on the side

of the settlers, he could not, it is said, be hired to take any of the

public-land cases against them. They appear to have been people of

little or no means, yet his ability, influence, and untiring

perseverance were at their command, without reserve. Homes trembled in

the balance; that was enough for him. And whether these pioneers paid

small fees or none at all, their cause never failed to enlist the

stalwart championship of Abraham Lincoln.[iv-3]

Nor was it among these unfortunates alone that we find the numerous

instances of those who enjoyed his protection free of charge. For

looking upon the law as a profession, not a trade, as a factor in the

administration of justice, not a mere money-getting business, he could

not bring himself to the point of increasing any poor client’s

embarrassments by demanding fees. In fact, as has been the case with

many a truly great lawyer, his skill was ever at the service of the

indigent and oppressed, without regard to compensation. Their plights,

not their depleted purses, concerned him. Taking such clients into his

affections, with all the sympathy of an older brother who had himself

trodden the stony path over which he was helping them, Lincoln found a

pleasure in the relationship that money could not buy. If the question

of pay were raised by some grateful but impoverished litigant, Portia’s

answer might readily have served:--

“He is well paid that is well satisfied;

And I, delivering you, am satisfied,

And therein do account myself well paid.”

This was Lincoln’s attitude of mind when he refused to make a charge for

saving Hannah Armstrong’s graceless son from the gallows. But his

liberality on that occasion should perhaps be credited to gratitude

rather than to humanity. Not so, however, his generous treatment of the

Revolutionary soldier’s widow. What he did for that chance client, in

winning her suit without pay and defraying all costs besides, must be

set down to pure benevolence. It reminds one of the spirit which

prompted Theophilus Parsons, with his fine scorn for money, in the

presence of distress, to decline fees from widows. How much further than

that Lincoln went along unmercenary lines has been variously related. A

few of the typical stories may be pertinent here.

Some time during 1843, Isaac Cogdal, the Rock Creek quarryman, was in

financial difficulties. He employed Mr. Lincoln to do the necessary

legal work and settled therefor with a promissory note. Not long after

this, the luckless client, while making a blast, had an accident whereby

he lost one of his arms. Meeting Lincoln some time after, on the steps

of the State House at Springfield, he stopped in response to the

lawyer’s kindly greeting. Cogdal’s sad face told its own tale, and a

sympathetic question as to how he was getting along, elicited the reply:

“Badly enough, I am both broken up in business, and crippled.” Then he

added, “I have been thinking about that note of yours.” “Well, you

needn’t think any more about it,” rejoined the attorney, laughing, as he

took out his wallet and handed him the paper. Much moved, Cogdal

protested, but Lincoln, with the remark, “If you had the money, I would

not take it,” hurried away.[iv-4]

Labors of a more serious character were at times hardly more profitable.

For instance, during the summer of 1841 Lincoln, together with his

partner, Stephen T. Logan, and Edward D. Baker, conducted the defense

of three brothers who were charged with murder. Two of the accused men,

William Trailor, from Warren County, and Henry Trailor, from Clary’s

Grove, accompanied by their friend Archibald Fisher, had come to visit

the third brother, Archibald Trailor, in Springfield. Shortly after

their arrival, Fisher mysteriously disappeared. A hue and cry ensued.

The missing man was known to have had money; the Trailors were known to

be in debt. While search-parties went in various directions to find

Fisher’s dead body, the brothers were placed under arrest. Then certain

police officers so played upon the fears of Henry, who was weak-minded,

that he made what purported to be a confession. His story set forth in

great detail how William and Archibald, after killing their friend, had

thrown the corpse into Spring Creek; but no sign of the remains could be

discovered by the eager investigators who dragged that stream. At the

examining trial, before two magistrates, many witnesses were introduced

by the prosecution. Henry Trailor repeated his narrative under oath, and

the prospect looked black, indeed, for his two brothers, when their

counsel showed by reputable evidence that Fisher, afflicted with

occasional aberration of mind, had in several previous instances

wandered away. This led to more intelligent inquiry, and Fisher was

traced to Warren, whither he had indeed walked in a demented condition.

The Trailors were, of course, promptly discharged. As William and “Arch”

rushed into each other’s arms, weeping like children, the court is said

to have become “like Bedlam.”

An outline of this remarkable case was sketched by Lincoln, in a letter

still extant, to his absent friend, Joshua F. Speed. It is from another

source, however, that we learn our most significant fact. An admiring

account of the affair has been preserved by a student in the Springfield

law-office. He relates that Lincoln--whatever the other attorneys may

have done--not only gave his services to these harassed men without

charge, but that he even defrayed some of their expenses from his own

pocket.[iv-5]

How much of this generosity was due to the old Clary’s Grove

associations may not now be determined. Certain it is that Lincoln found

difficulty in bringing himself to the point of making out bills against

those early neighbors. “He was always kind to his friends,” said one of

them, William McNeely, “and attended to some law business for

me--frequently gave me advice,--and I do not recollect of his ever

charging me anything for it.”[iv-6]

Another of these favored associates, Harvey L. Ross, appears to have had

a similar experience. Carrying the mails in pioneer days for his father,

Ossian M. Ross, who was postmaster at Havana, Illinois, he had become

well acquainted with the tall, good-natured young incumbent of the

post-office at New Salem. Lincoln took a fancy to this youthful

messenger, and they became good friends. So later, upon Ossian’s death,

when Harvey needed legal help, he called upon his former associate, in

practice by that time at Springfield. Young Ross had inherited from his

father’s estate a quarter-section of land with a defective title. This

could be made good only by the evidence of a man named Hagerty. Bringing

him to Lincoln’s office, one summer day, Harvey showed the papers and

told his story. After listening attentively, the attorney said: “I am

sorry to have to tell you that you are a little too late, for the court

has adjourned, and will not meet again for six months, and Judge Thomas

has gone home. He lives on a farm a mile east of town, but we will go

and see him, and see if he can do anything for you.”

Mindful of the warm August weather, Ross wished to hire a carriage; but

Lincoln answered, “No, I can walk if you can.” So after shedding his

coat, off he strode with a bandana handkerchief, which did frequent

duty, in one hand, the papers in the other. Client and witness followed

as best they could. Arriving at the judge’s residence, the party was

directed to a distant field, in which they found him busily engaged,

with his men, on a new corncrib. He stopped to hear Lincoln’s tactful

statement of their errand, sent for writing materials, examined Hagerty,

and signed the desired papers. The magistrate, like the attorney,--to

say nothing of the other participants in this little scene,--was

coatless, which led Lincoln to remark that they had been holding “a kind

of a shirt-sleeve court.” “Yes,” replied His Honor, “a shirt-sleeve

court in a corn-field.” The hint was not lost on our amiable counselor.

Upon his motion, all hands, including bench and bar, united their

strength to raise the heaviest logs--a service which Judge Thomas

gratefully accepted in lieu of fees. Court then stood adjourned, and

the visitors departed.

When they had returned to the office in Springfield, Ross, taking out

his pocket-book, said: “Now, Mr. Lincoln, how much shall I pay you for

this long walk through the hot sun and dust?”

As the lawyer applied the big handkerchief to his perspiring face, he

answered: “I guess I will not charge anything for that. I will let it go

on the old score.”

Recalling the many kindnesses already credited from this source to “the

old score,” Harvey--so runs the tale--could not control himself, and the

tears came into his eyes.[iv-7]

The lawyers among Lincoln’s friends were, at times, not more successful

in obtaining bills from him for services rendered. “You must not think

of offering me pay for this,” he wrote after submitting a legal opinion

which one of them had requested him to prepare.[iv-8] Somewhat similar

in tone was his response to General Usher F. Linder, when that colleague

at the bar, and occasional political opponent, appealed for assistance

during a period of dire distress. The general’s son Dan had, in the heat

of a quarrel, shot a young man named Benjamin Boyle. When he was placed

under arrest, the assailant seemed, for the moment, without even the

customary legal supports, as his father, seriously ill with inflammatory

rheumatism, could hardly move hand or foot. The affair had happened “in

a quarter of the country where,” as General Ewing relates, Lincoln “was

a tower of strength; where his name raised up friends; where his

arguments at law had more power than the instructions of the court.” But

these triumphs, be it said, left the potent advocate unspoilt. For they

had not perceptibly increased the size of his head, nor decreased the

size of his heart. In a sympathetic reply to Linder’s agonized cry for

help, Lincoln promised that no business, however important, should be

allowed to keep him from being present and aiding in the trial. He felt

deeply moved over the general’s trouble, yet what appears to have

disturbed him almost as much was an offer of fees. This called forth a

spirited but gentle protest, declining pay of any kind. No act of his,

he asserted, justified the supposition that Abraham Lincoln would take

money from a friend for assisting in the defense of an imperiled

son.[iv-9] But no trial took place; for, as Boyle recovered, Dan was

finally released. He went South, entered the Confederate army during the

Civil War, and became, when taken prisoner, the recipient of still

further kindnesses from the hand of that same attorney engaged, at the

time, in trying the great cause entitled, Union _versus_

Disunion.[iv-10]

What Lincoln did on occasions for those who were not of his party, he

did as cheerfully, it is perhaps needless to say, for the faithful. His

political associates always found him ready and willing to render proper

legal services, but they never found him keen about setting a price upon

the work when completed. This was especially so with regard to matters

of a public nature. One case in point, which may be regarded as typical,

has been related by Henry B. Blackwell. Recalling some of his own early

experiences, he said, a few years ago:--

“In 1857, in behalf of New York publishers, I went from Chicago to

Springfield with Mr. Powell, the state superintendent of public

instruction, to consult Mr. Lincoln as to the details of a proposed

contract for the introduction of district school libraries. We met him

as he was coming out of the court-house with his green bag in his hand.

Greeting us cordially, he took up our affair, giving us the advice we

sought; but with characteristic unselfishness, he declined to accept

compensation for his legal services on a question of public

interest.”[iv-11]

More numerous still were the instances of valuable counsel given by

Lincoln, without price, to the clients whom he dissuaded from bringing

contemplated suits. Some of these cases, as we have seen, involved

unprincipled demands, but others rested upon honestly mistaken

convictions. To this latter class, apparently, belonged the real-estate

claim which a lady once placed in his hands for prosecution. She told

him her story, wrote out a check by way of retainer, and left some

papers for the attorney’s examination. At their next interview Mr.

Lincoln reported frankly that a careful reading of the documents had

disclosed “not a peg” to hang the claim upon. He felt obliged,

therefore, to advise against bringing an action. The lady, evidently

satisfied that she had no case, thanked him, took her papers, and arose

to go.

“Wait a moment,” said he. “Here is the check you gave me.”

“But,” she replied, “Mr. Lincoln, I think you have earned that.”

“No, no,” he rejoined, handing it back to her; “that would not be

right.”

A few words more of the same tenor followed. Then the surprised client

departed, richer by the rejected fee and an expert opinion for which she

had paid nothing.[iv-12]

In similar fashion many a matter that had reached a more advanced stage

was settled by Lincoln, as the reader will remember, out of court and

usually without charge. He appears to have been governed, on such

occasions, by the rule which led Sir Matthew Hale to refuse fees for his

services as an arbitrator. “In these cases,” said the great English

jurist, “I am made a judge, and a judge ought to take no money.” The

American peacemaker, however, explained his moderation, whether as

attorney or referee, on less lofty grounds. To a young associate, who

suggested that he should render bills in such instances, Lincoln

laughingly replied: “They wouldn’t want to pay me. They don’t think I

have earned a fee unless I take the case into court and make a speech or

two.”[iv-13]

There are always suitable reasons enough as to why a man should work

without recompense, if he looks for them in anything like Lincoln’s mood

of lovable self-forgetfulness. How far this was sometimes carried by him

may be inferred from his treatment of certain wealthy clients at the

close of his legal career. He had been retained for the stockholders of

the Atlantic Railroad Company, in a suit brought against them by some

creditors of that corporation. Their case was in charge of former

Lieutenant-Governor Gustave Koerner, at whose request the great lawyer’s

services had been enlisted. Many important consultations between the

associated counsel had taken place, and their carefully prepared answer

for the defense had been put in, when Mr. Lincoln received his

nomination to the Presidency. He asked to be relieved, at once, from

further attendance on the case, a request which was of course complied

with. His clients, moreover, appreciative of the work that had already

been done by him, arranged for the payment of a handsome fee. To their

surprise it was declined. “He utterly refused,” relates Koerner, “to

take anything, although they almost pressed the money on him.”[iv-14]

And so, to the very end of the chapter, this remarkable man evinced more

agility, at times, in dodging payments than most men expend in reaching

for them.

But there is one instance, at least, of Lincoln finding himself paid

against his will. The circumstances have not been made entirely clear,

yet one cannot scan the meager details of the affair without an

uncomfortable feeling that something about it was discreditable--whether

to Lincoln or to others remains equally vague. The episode presents

peculiar interest, however, as an illustration of the extreme to which

he went in dealing with a fee that had been forced upon him. His

partner, Mr. Herndon, relating what happened to a magazine writer

shortly after the war, said:--

“One morning a gentleman came here and asked him to use his legal

influence in a certain quarter, where Lincoln again and again assured

him he had no power. I heard him refuse the five hundred dollars

offered, over and over again. I went out and left them together. I

suppose Lincoln got tired of refusing, for he finally took the money;

but he never offered any of it to me; and it was noticeable that,

whenever he took money in that way, he never seemed to consider it his

own or mine. In this case, he gave the money to the Germans in the town,

who wanted to buy themselves a press. A few days after, he said to me in

the coolest way, ‘Herndon, I gave the Germans two hundred and fifty

dollars of yours the other day.’ ‘I am glad you did, Mr. Lincoln,’ I

answered. Of course I could not say I was glad he took it.”[iv-15]

Some years after this recital, when Mr. Herndon wrote the life of his

illustrious associate, he made no reference to the incident. As that

biography, whatever else can be said concerning its merits, manifestly

aimed to set forth the real Lincoln, without undue eulogy on the one

hand or the suppression of unfavorable facts on the other, this omission

is significant. It indicates that the retainer at which he balked may

not, after all, have required any considerable departure from his

customary high standards. Perhaps, indeed, as he had anticipated,

nothing was done to earn the fee. That alone would suffice to explain

why Lincoln did not consider the money his, and why he cast it into the

first conscience fund which offered itself.

Next to retaining payments for which no equivalents in services have

been rendered ranks the dishonesty of charging too much for work that

has actually been done. So thought Lincoln. He wished to avoid the one

fault as much as the other. And his anxiety to make fair prices led him,

at times, into the opposite error, that of asking fees which fell

absurdly short of what they should have been. Money, it is true, was far

from plentiful in Illinois during those days of small things. Such

limited sums as people possessed had to supply many wants; and legal

services, like other kinds of labor, seemed relatively cheap. Yet when

Lincoln came to the making out of bills, his charges were not

infrequently so light as to fall sheer below even these moderate

standards. How far in this direction he sometimes went may be gathered

from a multitude of anecdotes concerning him that still pass current

throughout the region comprised within the old Eighth Judicial Circuit.

Every one of these tales, however trivial, opens a window into the man’s

soul; and it is only by having regard to many, if not all of them, that

we can reach the various angles at which he should be scrutinized.

In depicting a great personage, the historian may rest content with

broad generalizations; the biographer may stop at a few specific

illustrations of prominent features in his subject’s make-up; but the

student of character, recognizing the value of cumulative instances,

must go further and, at the risk of seeming prolix,--perhaps

unskilled,--must marshal enough kindred happenings in line to

demonstrate the presence or absence of significant traits.

Lincoln’s proneness to underrate his services, when he tried to express

them in terms of dollars and cents, occasionally took a striking form.

One instance is related by Abraham Brokaw, of Bloomington, Illinois. He

had brought an action against a neighbor who owed him considerable

money. The debt was collected by the sheriff, but that officer, becoming

insolvent, had failed to make proper return of the proceeds. Whereupon

Brokaw retained Lincoln’s great political rival, Stephen A. Douglas, to

sue the sureties on the official bond. This resulted in prompt payment

of the claim. But the “Little Giant,” engrossed in one of his strenuous

campaigns for Congress, proved to be no improvement over the delinquent

sheriff, so far as that waiting creditor was concerned. King Log had

been exchanged for King Stork. Douglas, with characteristic

heedlessness, let the money slip somehow through his fingers, and

returned to Washington without having made a settlement. Then Brokaw’s

overstrained patience snapped. Neither the man’s ardent Democracy nor

his admiration for the party’s dashing young leader was proof against

such a succession of disappointments. He engaged Lincoln to obtain an

immediate accounting, and that gentleman, nothing loath, sent Douglas,

who was still at the capital, a rather sharp letter demanding prompt

payment. This deeply incensed the recipient. Writing an indignant reply

to Brokaw direct, he protested against the outrage of placing any such

weapon in the hands of a political opponent. So delicate a matter, urged

the complaint, might at least have been entrusted to a Democrat. The

letter was re-mailed to Lincoln, who entered briskly enough into the

humor of the situation. Taking Douglas at his word, he forwarded the

claim to “Long John” Wentworth, a Democratic member of Congress from

Chicago. Then the “Little Giant” capitulated, and Brokaw at last

received his money.

“What do you suppose Lincoln charged me?” queried the successful

claimant, telling the story. “He charged me exactly three dollars and

fifty cents for collecting nearly six hundred dollars.”

When asked his reason for retaining so small a fee, the attorney is said

to have replied: “I had no trouble with it. I sent it to my friend in

Washington, and was only out the postage.”[iv-16]

This naïve explanation deserves a place side by side with that of the

hospitable hostess, who, setting an elaborate luncheon before her

guests, brushed away their protests by assuring them of its cheapness.

“Why,” said she, “the whole affair cost almost nothing. I had everything

in the house but ten cents’ worth of cinnamon.”

The Brokaw episode, moreover, recalls another instance of how liberally

Lincoln discounted the value of his services when a friendly colleague

had helped him out. It has been related by Isaac Hawley, a citizen of

Springfield. He was sued in an action of ejectment from a piece of land

on the so-called “military tract” of Brown County. The suit had been

brought in the United States Court, so Hawley employed Mr. Lincoln to

look after the case, whenever it should come up for trial at Chicago.

After giving the matter considerable attention through several terms of

court, the attorney arranged with a local lawyer to watch the case in

his absence. The man on guard did this work so well that when the case

was called he had it dismissed. Delighted at the outcome, Mr. Hawley

asked for a bill, expecting, as he afterward explained, to pay not less

than fifty dollars. But great was his astonishment when Lincoln said:

“Well, Isaac, I think I will charge you about ten dollars. I think that

would be about right.”[iv-17]

Another Lincoln client, George W. Nance by name, who settled at even a

larger ratio of difference between what he thought was due and what he

actually paid, writes: “I engaged his services in a lawsuit, and on

asking his charge, to my surprise he only asked me two dollars and fifty

cents. I had no idea of paying less then ten dollars.”[iv-18]

Still another friend and client, John W. Bunn, of Springfield, bears

testimony to the same general effect. He tells how George Smith &

Company, a firm of Chicago bankers, requested him to retain an attorney

who should look after their defense in a local attachment suit which

involved several thousand dollars. Mr. Bunn entrusted the case to

Lincoln. That skillful advocate won a verdict at the trial, and charged

twenty-five dollars for his victory. When the bill reached them, the

Chicago men wrote to their correspondent: “We asked you to get the best

lawyer in Springfield, and it certainly looks as if you had secured one

of the cheapest.”[iv-19]

No less an authority than Daniel Webster was similarly impressed with

Lincoln’s moderation. The “Great Expounder” employed him to transact

some legal business concerning a certain speculation in land, at the

place where Rock River flows into the Mississippi. An embryo city, laid

out there by the promoters, had not been a success, and most of the

property, on which but one payment had been made, reverted finally to

the original owners. For such services as he could render Mr. Lincoln

charged ten dollars, a fee so far from adequate, in Mr. Webster’s

estimation, that he frequently referred to its smallness and declared

himself still his attorney’s debtor.

An English barrister, quite as eminent, perhaps, as our “Godlike

Daniel,” once facetiously defined the lawyer to be “a learned gentleman

who rescues your estate from your enemies and keeps it himself.” Such a

view of the profession has, from time to time, been held in sober

earnest by not a few citizens of both countries. Certainly the Illinois

matron, whom her son quotes in the following characteristic little

anecdote, appears to have been of this opinion. But it is interesting to

notice how, on one occasion, at least, she had to modify the gibe in

favor of Abraham Lincoln.

“My father,” relates Henry Rickel, “had a claim against a man of the

name of Townsend, to the amount of fifteen hundred dollars or more; and

he learned one day that he was about to leave the country, and had a

drove of cattle, and was on the way to Oregon. My father went to Mr.

Lincoln, secured an attachment, Mr. Lincoln furnishing the bond, and

there was a vigorous contest over the matter. I remember the evening

after the trial my father came home, and my mother asked him how he

came out. His reply was: ‘I came out ahead, of course, because I had Abe

for my lawyer.’

“My mother seemed to have a pretty poor opinion of lawyers in general,

and she said: ‘I suppose the lawyers will take most of it.’

“And father replied: ‘Why, mother, what do you suppose Abe charged me?’

“She mentioned a very large sum. My father said: ‘You are greatly

mistaken. He said to me, “Mr. Rickel, I will only charge you twenty-five

dollars, and if you think that is too much, I will make it

less.”’”[iv-20]

As surprisingly small a fee--the same sum, in fact--contented Lincoln

after another verdict of even more importance. This had been reached in

what was called the Dungee slander suit. That it involved far heavier

labors on his part, and that it may be classed among those triumphs in

which a good round charge is peculiarly appropriate, appears to have

made no difference. He had carried all before him through a hotly

contested trial; but in the supreme hour, when nothing remained save to

gather the fruits of victory, his hand fell limp at his side. It makes

rather a long story, yet to appreciate fully what happened one must know

the salient details.

To begin, this action was brought before Judge Davis, at Clinton, during

the spring of 1856, after Lincoln had attained prominence as a lawyer.

It grew out of a quarrel between two brothers-in-law, Jack Dungee and

Joe Spencer. The former, a dark-complexioned Portuguese, had married the

latter’s sister. How their broil originated is not now definitely

known. When it was at its height, however, Spencer called Dungee a

“nigger,” and followed this up, as they said, by adding “a nigger

married to a white woman.” The words were slanderous because, under

Illinois law, such a union constituted a crime. Laying his damages at

several thousand dollars, the aggrieved man employed Mr. Lincoln to

bring suit, whereupon the defendant enlisted the services of Clifton H.

Moore and Lawrence Weldon. When the matter came up, these two able

lawyers demurred to the complaint, on technical grounds; and their

motion, to Lincoln’s great chagrin, was sustained by the court. It

touched his professional pride to have a case thrown out, in that

manner, because of faulty papers, as indeed it would any practitioner.

Gathering himself together, he leaned across the trial table, and

shaking a long bony finger toward his opponents, he exclaimed: “Now, by

Jing, I’ll beat you boys!”

To make good that threat Lincoln appeared at the next term of court with

amended pleadings. He threw himself into the trial with a mastery which

gave evidence of painstaking preparation; while the logic, wit, and

eloquence that marked his argument to the jury compelled the admiration

of even his adversaries. After a hard-fought battle extending over two

days, the case terminated in a heavy judgment for the plaintiff.

His counsel had said that Dungee sought vindication, not money;

accordingly the defendant’s lawyers came and said: “Mr. Lincoln, you

have beaten us, as you said you would. We want now to ground the

weapons of our unequal warfare, and as you said your client did not want

to make money out of the suit, we thought you might get him to remit

some of the judgment. We know Spencer has acted the fool, but this

judgment will break him up.”

“Well,” replied Lincoln, “I will cheerfully advise my client to remit on

the most favorable terms. The defendant is a fool. But he has one

virtue. He is industrious and has worked hard for what he has, so I am

not disposed to hold him responsible. If every fool was to be dealt with

by being held responsible in money for his folly, the poorhouses of the

country would have to be enlarged very much beyond their present

capacity.”

Guided by this benevolent spirit, Dungee consented to forego the whole

judgment on condition that Spencer would defray all costs, and pay Mr.

Lincoln’s bill. When the proposition had been eagerly accepted, a

question arose as to what the bill should be. Lincoln referred this to

Moore and Weldon, but they both insisted that he, not they, ought to fix

the amount of his fee.

“Well, gentlemen,” came the response, after a few moments’ thought,

“don’t you think I have honestly earned twenty-five dollars?”

What the gentlemen thought was thus expressed by Judge Weldon, in after

life, when he told the story: “We were astonished, and had he said one

hundred dollars it would have been what we expected. The judgment was a

large one for those days. He had attended the case at two terms of

court, had been engaged for two days in a hotly contested suit, and his

client’s adversary was going to pay the bill. The simplicity of Mr.

Lincoln’s character in money matters is well illustrated by the fact

that for all this he charged twenty-five dollars.”[iv-21]

An equally striking undervaluation was remarked in another slander

suit,--one of wide repute,--which took place at about the same period.

This case is known as the Chiniquy affair. It was brought in the Circuit

Court of Kankakee County, by Peter Spink, a prominent citizen of

L’Erable, against Father Charles Chiniquy, the famous priest of St.

Anne. That reverend gentleman had, in the course of a sermon, charged

the plaintiff, one of his parishioners, with having committed perjury;

and the object of this attack had lost no time in seeking reparation.

His attorneys were Messrs. Starr, Norton & McRoberts. Chiniquy was

represented by John W. Paddock and Uri Osgood. According to the

defendant’s own overcharged, not to say hysterical, narrative, this

prosecution had been set on foot at the instigation of his superior,

Bishop O’Regan, with whom he then already waged the unequal warfare

which later attracted so much attention. The merits of his polemic do

not concern us here. Certain members of the church may, as the priest

states in his book, have conspired to ruin him, and that particular

diocese may, at the time, have harbored those shameful abuses which he

decries; but what Chiniquy says about Spink’s suit should be received

with caution, for it departs materially, at important points, from the

official court records.

When the case came up in Kankakee, during the autumn of 1855, counsel

for the plaintiff secured a change of venue to Champaign County. This

greatly troubled Father Chiniquy. The heavy expense--far beyond his

means--of bringing witnesses and lawyers to a distant tribunal, as well

as the perils of a trial among strangers appalled him. He was leaving

the court-room cast down by these prospects, when an unknown

well-wisher, hurrying up with eager words of sympathy, urged that

Abraham Lincoln be retained to take part in the defense.

“But,” queried the priest, “who is that Abraham Lincoln? I never heard

of that man before.”

To which the other responded: “Abraham Lincoln is the best lawyer and

the most honest man we have in Illinois.”

Returning to where his counsel were still in consultation, Chiniquy

asked their opinion of the suggestion. They warmly approved, so he

accompanied this new-found friend to the telegraph office. In a brief

exchange of messages over the Springfield wire, Lincoln promised his

aid. Then the stranger, still preserving his incognito, paid the

operator, gave the priest a few further words of encouragement, and

hastened away. He had not been gone long before Spink entered the

office, for the purpose of retaining that same attorney, but it was too

late.

At the May term of the following year, when the trial opened in Urbana,

Mr. Lincoln, according to agreement, appeared for the defense. He

aroused the admiration of his client by the skill with which he both met

the evidence of the prosecution and marshaled the witnesses on their

own side. As most of the persons concerned were French Canadians, the

testimony had to be taken chiefly through an interpreter. This drew the

proceedings out to tedious lengths, and increased the labors of counsel

not a little. The trial was, however, slowly approaching its close when

one of the jurymen appeared to be in great distress.

“What is that juror crying about?” asked Judge Davis, who presided.

“My child is dying,” was the sobbing answer.

A neighbor, coming into court had, unperceived by any one, whispered

these tidings to the unfortunate father. His grief so moved the judge

that, after a few questions addressed to the newcomer, he said to the

juryman: “You’re discharged,--go at once.”

Then, turning to the counsel in the case, His Honor inquired:

“Gentlemen, will you proceed with the eleven jurymen?”

After both sides had consulted, Lincoln responded, “We will”; but Norton

replied, “We decline.” So the jury had to be discharged, and the case

was continued to the October term.

Another trial appears to have been well under way in the following

autumn when Lincoln exerted his powers as peacemaker and brought about a

compromise. He probably framed the agreement under which the suit was

dismissed, for the final order still stands on the court records in his

handwriting. By its terms Chiniquy’s charges against Spink were

withdrawn, and each party consented to pay his own costs. The reverend

Father’s expenses must have borne heavily upon him. If his own statement

is to be credited, Messrs. Paddock and Osgood asked him for a thousand

dollars each. Commenting on the size of the fee, he adds, “I had not

thought that too much.”

So, when it came to settling with Mr. Lincoln, the third counsel, whose

services in Chiniquy’s estimation were more than again as valuable, the

poor priest asked for a bill with some trepidation. To his bewilderment,

as he relates, the lawyer replied: “You owe me nothing; for I suppose

you are quite ruined. The expenses of such a suit, I know, must be

enormous. Your enemies want to ruin you. Will I help them to finish your

ruin, when I hope I have the right to be put among the most sincere and

devoted of your friends?”

But Father Chiniquy would not let the matter rest there. He urged that

Mr. Lincoln should at least charge his hotel bills and traveling

expenses. Whereupon the attorney wrote on a scrap of paper:

URBANA, _May 23, 1856_.

Due A. Lincoln fifty dollars, for value received.

“Can you sign that?” he asked. And the overwrought client, breaking into

sobs, affixed his signature.[iv-22]

So large a disparity in size between Lincoln’s fees and those of other

lawyers engaged on the same case, as occurred in the Chiniquy matter,

was probably not common. There were differences enough, however, to

provoke comment; and one of them, at least, led to an amusing

situation. On that occasion he gained a verdict for an aged German who

was in danger of losing his farm. The suit had been a trying one, but

after years of litigation from court to court, it resulted in their

favor. Then Lincoln charged two hundred dollars, which the old man,

secure of his property, willingly paid. Yet the attorney’s conscience

was not quite at ease in the matter. His reflections were disturbed by a

fear that the bill might have been excessive, and the more he thought

about it the stronger became his feeling. So, seeking out the lawyer on

the other side, who happened to be his brother-in-law, Ninian W.

Edwards, Lincoln asked him what he--the losing advocate--had charged his

client.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” was the reply.

It touched the questioner’s ever-ready sense of humor. He laughed, and

decided to keep his fee without further parley.

But there are instances in which fees, or rather such portions of them

as appeared exorbitant, were not kept. One of these episodes has, within

recent years, been related by Mr. George P. Floyd. Having rented the

Quincy House at Quincy, Illinois, from the owner, Mrs. Enos, who lived

in Springfield, he employed Mr. Lincoln to draw up a lease and have it

executed. When the document reached Mr. Floyd, no bill for services

accompanied it. A proper charge would, in his estimation, have been

twenty-five dollars. So he sent the attorney that amount. Within a few

days, to his astonishment, came this reply:--

SPRINGFIELD, ILL., _February 21, 1856_.

MR. GEORGE P. FLOYD,

_Quincy, Ill._

DEAR SIR:--I have just received yours of 16th, with check on Flagg

& Savage for twenty-five dollars. You must think I am a high-priced

man. You are too liberal with your money. Fifteen dollars is enough

for the job. I send you a receipt for fifteen dollars, and return

to you a ten-dollar bill.

Yours truly,

A. LINCOLN.[iv-23]

On another occasion the writer of this singular missive went further. He

not only returned part of his own fee, but he also insisted that his

associate should do likewise. The associate himself--it was Ward Hill

Lamon, one of Lincoln’s local partners on circuit--tells the story. He

had been retained in a case of some importance by a client named Scott.

The man was acting as conservator for a demented sister, who possessed

property that amounted to ten thousand dollars, mostly in cash. This

ready money--a neat sum for those days--had excited the cupidity of a

certain adventurer who sought to marry the unfortunate girl, and as an

essential preliminary to that step a motion had been made for the

removal of her conservator. It was to oppose this action that Scott

retained Lamon, insisting, however, at the time, upon having the amount

of his fee determined in advance. The attorney advised him to wait, as

the matter might not give much trouble, in which event a comparatively

small charge would be sufficient. But the suggestion met with no favor,

so Lamon named two hundred and fifty dollars. This sum, Scott,

anticipating a prolonged contest, eagerly agreed to pay. When the case

came on, however, Lincoln, who appeared for him, won a complete victory

inside of twenty minutes. And as they stood within the bar, Scott, much

elated, paid Lamon the stipulated fee. Mr. Lincoln, who had been looking

on while the money was counted out, said to his colleague, after their

client’s departure: “What did you charge that man?”

When the amount was stated, he exclaimed: “Lamon, that is all wrong. The

service was not worth that sum. Give him back at least half of it.”

But the other protested that the figure had been agreed on in advance,

and that Scott expressed himself as perfectly satisfied. To which

Lincoln, sorely displeased, rejoined: “That may be, but I am not

satisfied. This is positively wrong. Go, call him back, and return half

the money at least, or I will not receive one cent of it for my share.”

There was naturally only one course open to the embarrassed junior. He

hastened after Scott and, to that gentleman’s astonishment, restored

half the fee.

This little colloquy had attracted the attention of both bench and bar.

It appears to have especially interested the presiding judge, David

Davis, who, calling the fault-finding attorney to him, said in a poorly

controlled whisper, which could be heard throughout the court-room:

“Lincoln, I have been watching you and Lamon. You are impoverishing

this bar by your picayune charges of fees, and the lawyers have reason

to complain of you. You are now almost as poor as Lazarus, and if you

don’t make people pay you more for your services, you will die as poor

as Job’s turkey.”

The rebuke was warmly applauded, but it made no impression on the man

against whom it had been directed.

“That money,” said he, “comes out of the pocket of a poor, demented

girl, and I would rather starve than swindle her in this manner.”[iv-24]

The matter was not allowed, however, to rest there. In the evening of

that same day, Lincoln found himself arraigned for his offense before

the “orgmathorial court.” This was a sort of mock-tribunal maintained by

Davis, on circuit, to try lawyers who might be charged with breaches of

decorum. No member of the jocund company, it is safe to say, had ever

before been placed in the dock for the heinous crime of undervaluing his

services. Yet complaints against this particular respondent, as the

judge implied, had been frequent enough. Lamon was not the only attorney

who had suffered, in mind and pocket, because of his Quixotic acts.

Partner Herndon, himself a kindly man, is said to have expostulated

repeatedly without effect; and so far as the bar at large was concerned,

some of its pillars doubtless felt the jolt at times of Lincoln’s

absurdly low standards. He had, moreover, been caught red-handed in the

Scott case, so that the plea of a certain famous British barrister,

similarly on trial before the circuit mess for disgracing his

profession by accepting too small a fee, would hardly have answered.

This earlier offender, Sergeant William Davy, is said to have made the

since oft-quoted defense: “I took silver because I could not get gold.

But I took every farthing the fellow had in the world, and I hope you

don’t call that disgracing the profession.”[iv-25]

Davy was nevertheless found guilty and fined. So was Lincoln. His fellow

anglers in the turbid waters of the law had no sympathy with the rare

sportsmanship which had prompted him to throw back half his catch. He

proved to be a true sport, however, in more ways than one. The fine was

paid, we are told, with great good humor; and then the culprit told

stories that kept the court in an uproar of laughter until after

midnight.

There is another--a serious--side to this question. It was succinctly

stated by Mr. Hoffman in this passage from one of his resolutions: “As a

general rule I will carefully avoid what is called the ‘taking of half

fees.’ And though no one can be so competent as myself to judge what may

be a just compensation for my services, yet when the _quiddam

honorarium_ has been established by usage or law, I shall regard as

eminently dishonorable all underbidding of my professional brethren.”

But Lincoln could not see it so. Strong as was his sympathy with these

colleagues at the bar, they were forgotten when he sat down to write a

bill. His own modest estimate of himself, his compassion for clients in

distress, and above all his ever-present fear of taking a dishonest

advantage, proved to be the controlling factors. Influenced by such

habits of mind, to the very end, he declared, as Lamon states, that

their firm should never, with his consent, deserve the reputation

enjoyed by those shining lights of the profession--“Catchem and

Cheatem.”

To infer from all these things that Lincoln was wholly shiftless in

monetary matters, or that he did not, at times, gladly receive the fees

which had, according to his own rigid standards, been fairly earned,

would be wide of the mark. He welcomed, for the most part, in fact, the

gleanings of ordinary practice from clients who could afford to pay.

Such small sums as the circuit yielded, and they usually were small,

meant much to him; how much, may be seen in the little side-light thrown

on the subject by another one of his local partners. Henry C. Whitney,

recalling the end of a session, in the summer of 1856, at Urbana, says:

“He had collected twenty-five or thirty dollars for that term’s business

thus far, and one of our clients owed him ten dollars, which he felt

disappointed at not being able to collect. So I gave him a check for

that amount, and went with him to the bank to collect it. The cashier,

T. S. Hubbard, who paid it, is still living in Urbana, and will probably

remember it. I do not remember to have seen him happier than when he had

got his little earnings together, being less than forty dollars, as I

now recollect it, and had his carpet-bag packed, ready to start

home.”[iv-26]

There is something almost pathetic in this scene, when one stops to

think that the central figure was at the time a leader of the Illinois

bar, and the very man whose persistent tenderness of his clients’

purses had made him an object of censure from the bench. Lincoln himself

still further illuminates the topic. Early in his practice, while

associated with the thriftiest of his Springfield partners, he wrote to

one James S. Irwin: “Judge Logan and myself are willing to attend to any

business in the Supreme Court you may send us. As to fees, it is

impossible to establish a rule that will apply in all, or even a great

many cases. We believe we are never accused of being unreasonable in

this particular, and we would always be easily satisfied, provided we

could see the money; but whatever fees we earn at a distance, if not

paid before, we have noticed, we never hear of after the work is done.

We, therefore, are growing a little sensitive on that point.”[iv-27]

Under this same head, one of the younger lawyers has recollected a piece

of “fatherly” advice given to him by Lincoln, while they were engaged in

court. Addressing the fledgling as the jury went out, and referring to

his client, a shifty fellow who sat near by, the older lawyer whispered:

“You had better try and get your money now. If the jury comes in with a

verdict for him, you won’t get anything.”[iv-28]

So much for what the speaker once termed a “mere question of bread and

butter.” As to the rest, when clients did not pay, Lincoln was averse to

suing them. His high ideals of professional ethics, no less than a

certain personal fealty toward those who had honored him with their

confidence, stood in the way of such prosecutions. And when any

associates did, on rare occasions, carry the collection of unpaid bills

for legal services into court, it was done contrary to his wishes.

An instance of what would then be likely to happen has been related by

Mr. Herndon. “I remember,” says he, “once a man who had been indicted

for forgery or fraud employed us to defend him. The illness of the

prosecuting attorney caused some delay in the case, and our client,

becoming dissatisfied at our conduct of the case, hired some one else,

who superseded us most effectually. The defendant declining to pay us

the fee demanded, on the ground that we had not represented him at the

trial of the cause, I brought suit against him in Lincoln’s absence, and

obtained judgment for our fee. After Lincoln’s return from the circuit,

the fellow hunted him up and, by means of a carefully constructed tale,

prevailed on him to release the judgment without receiving a cent of

pay. The man’s unkind treatment of us deserved no such mark of

generosity from Lincoln, and yet he could not resist the appeal of any

one in poverty and want.”[iv-29]

A notable exception to the rule against suing for fees was made in the

case of one wealthy client--the Illinois Central Railroad Company. That

corporation, through its attorneys, Mason, Brayman, and James F. Joy,

sent Mr. Lincoln, during the year 1853, a retainer of two hundred

dollars in an important action. Suit had been brought by the corporation

against McLean County to enjoin the collection of taxes assessed on

railroad lands. The question at issue involved the interpretation of the

charter whereby the corporation had been granted exemption from local

taxation, on condition that it paid annually a certain percentage of its

gross earnings into the State Treasury. Such immunity the Legislature,

according to some county officers, had no right to confer; and the

McLean authorities insisted upon taxing so much of the railroad property

as lay within their jurisdiction. This course had brought about the case

at bar by which it was planned to test the constitutionality of that

law. When the suit came to trial, Lincoln, facing Stuart and Logan, is

said to have conducted the plaintiff’s side “with rare skill”; but the

verdict, despite all his exertions, went against him. An appeal was

promptly taken, however, to the Supreme Court, where, after twice

arguing the case, and after two years of laborious litigation, all told,

he succeeded in reversing the decision of the Circuit Court.

This victory meant much to the Illinois Central Railroad Company.

Although a comparatively small sum was involved in the suit itself, an

adverse result would have brought down upon the company a mass of

claims, which, as some thought, might have led to bankruptcy. The road

owned nearly two million acres of land and ran through twenty-six

counties. Had all these several jurisdictions succeeded in laying their

annual burdens upon the company, half a million dollars at interest

would hardly have defrayed the tax. In view of all these facts, Lincoln

considered two thousand dollars a moderate compensation, and presented a

bill for that amount. What was his chagrin, however, to have Mr. Joy

disallow the account, because it impressed him as an exorbitant charge

from a “common country lawyer.” The modesty of a Socrates or a Cato

might have succumbed before such a rebuff. Lincoln withdrew the bill,

and started for home. On the way, he stopped at Bloomington, where the

affair became known to some of his colleagues on the circuit. In their

indignation over the company’s shabby conduct, they persuaded him to

make the charge five thousand dollars, and to set forth the increased

demand by means of the following unique document:--

The Illinois Central Railroad Company,

_To_ A. Lincoln _Dr._

To professional services in the case of the Illinois Central

Railroad Company against the County of McLean, argued in the

Supreme Court of the State of Illinois at December term, 1855,

$5000.00

We, the undersigned members of the Illinois Bar, understanding that the

above entitled cause was twice argued in the Supreme Court, and that the

judgment therein decided the question of the claim of counties and other

minor municipal corporations to the property of said railroad company,

and settled said question against said claim and in favor of said

railroad company, are of opinion the sum above charged as a fee is not

unreasonable.

Grant Goodrich.

N. B. Judd.

Archibald Williams.

N. H. Purple.

O. H. Browning.

R. S. Blackwell.

These signatures were probably not all appended at Bloomington, nor were

these signers the only lawyers whom Lincoln consulted. Anxious to deal

fairly with the company beyond the shadow of a doubt, he appealed to

several other prominent attorneys for their opinions. One of these, Mr.

Koerner, who had enjoyed peculiar opportunities for reaching a judgment

in the matter, says: “He wrote me a letter stating that as I knew all

about the case, and had been present when it was argued, he would be

obliged to me to give him my opinion whether his demand was unreasonable

or not. He also stated that he had written to some other members of the

bar, and he would be guided by our opinion. I advised him that his

charge was very unreasonable, and that he ought to have charged at least

ten thousand dollars. I presume he received about the same answer from

the other gentlemen.”

At all events, Lincoln’s bill, as revised, was sent in. The company

still refused payment, and there seemed but one course open to him. So

he promptly brought suit, in McLean County Circuit Court, for the amount

of his strangely amended reckoning, with costs.

When the cause was reached for trial, before Judge Davis, on the morning

of June 18, 1857, “the defendants,” as the ancient judicial formula

expresses it, “came not.” A jury having been empaneled, Mr. Lincoln

briefly presented his case, and upon its verdict was awarded a judgment

in full. By afternoon one of the company’s general solicitors, John M.

Douglas, who had been delayed, arrived from Chicago, too late, of

course, for the trial. Greatly disturbed by the embarrassing position in

which the default placed him, he sought out Lincoln and begged to have

the case reopened so that the corporation might have its day in court.

This was readily consented to, the judgment was set aside, and a few

days later the issue was again tried. On that occasion, Mr. Douglas

called attention to the two hundred dollars paid four years previously

as a retainer. It had been forgotten by Lincoln, who at once reduced his

claim accordingly. So when the new jury brought in a second verdict, the

figure stood at four thousand eight hundred dollars, and that amount,

with costs, the defendant promptly paid.[iv-30]

In justice to the Illinois Central Railroad Company its own statement of

this affair should not be overlooked. From an elaborately printed

monograph, illustrated by reproductions of the documents in the case,

and published within recent years, we quote what is offered as an

official explanation: “The then general counsel of the road advised Mr.

Lincoln that while he recognized the value of his services, still, the

payment of so large a fee to a Western country lawyer without protest

would embarrass the general counsel with the board of directors in New

York, who would not understand, as would a lawyer, the importance of the

case and the consequent value of Mr. Lincoln’s services. It was

intimated to Mr. Lincoln, however, that if he would bring suit for his

bill in some court of competent jurisdiction, and judgment were rendered

in his favor, the judgment would be paid without appeal.”

This version of the affair seems hardly convincing. The verdict of the

trial court was, it is true, accepted as final by the railroad

officials; but they have left slender evidence on which to base the

latter-day inference that the suit was a mere formality, framed up

between friends to guard against the censure of non-resident directors.

The company’s own exhibits, examined in the light of statements made by

certain contemporary lawyers, lead one--with all candor be it said--to a

contrary conclusion. Even the claim that amicable relations continued

uninterrupted, and that Lincoln acted as counsel for the railroad in

several important matters thereafter, loses its force when one remembers

his peculiar sweetness of character. He might well have conducted the

suit, in serious earnest, without losing his temper or his

client.[iv-31] Indeed, it is difficult for us, after studying the man

thus far, to conceive of him as really quarreling over a sum of

money--large or small. And if, when enforcing the collection of perhaps

his biggest fee, he managed to take a somewhat arrogant patron into

court without snapping delicate professional ties, the feat should be

explained, not by the fanciful surmise that there was no cause of

irritation between them, but rather by the fact that he

was--Lincoln.[iv-32]

This man, of all men, bringing suit to collect a disputed bill for his

services, presents a spectacle which should be classed among the

caprices of history. It would have seemed more natural, by far, had the

plaintiff’s rôle in that action been filled by any one of the colleagues

who certified to the fairness of the claim. Though hardly a mercenary

bar, the lawyers of the Eighth Judicial Circuit were largely, as the

phrase goes, alive to the main chance. Not a few of them at this period

laid up competencies; while here and there an able practitioner managed

to grow rich. The presiding judge himself, David Davis,--he who had

lectured Lincoln on his “picayune charges,”--possessed the true Midas

touch. Yet the ample fortune which was eventually credited to him, as

indeed much of the wealth amassed by the others, may be traced back to

activities and speculations outside the law. Such modes of money-getting

held no attractions for Lincoln. His early misadventures in business had

cured him of mercantile ambitions, and when friends presented alluring

opportunities for profitable investments they were invariably declined.

He might truly have replied as did Webster once, under similar

circumstances: “Gentlemen, if you have any projects for money-making, I

pray you keep me out of them. My singular destiny mars everything of

that sort, and would be sure to overwhelm your own better fortunes.”

In Lincoln’s case, however, this unwillingness to seek revenues beyond

the pale of the profession lay deeper than any mere question concerning

profit or loss. The old-fashioned ideals, which debarred an advocate

from pursuing any outside occupation of a gainful nature, had taken firm

hold upon his convictions. Indeed, he carried to its extreme this

aversion for hampering himself with whatever smacked of trade, going so

far as to reject even the mint, anise, and cummin of related business

that many able attorneys about him were glad to cull from adjacent

fields. Accordingly, when some Springfield property had been levied

upon, in a suit brought by Logan and Lincoln, for certain wholesale

merchants at Louisville, the junior partner thus curtly dismissed a

request of their clients that they collect the rents which might accrue:

“As to the real estate, we cannot attend to it as agents, and we

therefore recommend that you give the charge of it to Mr. Isaac S.

Britton, a trustworthy man, and one whom the Lord made on purpose for

such business.”[iv-33]

Yet the man who wrote those lines was in debt. His situation, generally

speaking, must have been far from prosperous. At about this very period,

we find him frankly giving poverty as the reason for declining an

invitation to visit Joshua F. Speed, whom he very much desired to see

again. That dear friend, happily married and domiciled in the South, had

been sending insistent messages to which Lincoln finally replied: “I do

not think I can come to Kentucky this season. I am so poor, and make so

little headway in the world, that I drop back in a month of idleness as

much as I gain in a year’s sowing.”[iv-34]

The writer--gaunt and grimly humorous--might well-nigh have gone as far

as once did another threadbare limb of the law, who declared, “I am so

poor, I do not make a shadow when the sun shines.” Indeed, to complete

the traditional picture of a needy barrister, Lincoln apparently lacked

but one thing--a family. And so he married. Within a few months after

the writing of that lugubrious message, Mary Todd, a high-spirited,

well-nurtured Kentucky lady, who was living with relatives in

Springfield, became his wife. Their marriage ceremony, conducted by the

Reverend Charles Dresser according to the ritual of the Episcopal

Church, appears to have been somewhat of a novelty in Springfield at

that time. Certainly one of the guests was taken off his guard when he

heard it. For as the bridegroom repeated after the rector, in an

impressive manner, the formula, “With this ring I thee endow with all my

goods and chattels, lands and tenements,” Judge Thomas C. Browne, the

Falstaff of the bench, standing close to the high contracting parties,

exclaimed: “Good gracious, Lincoln, the statute fixes all that!”

This sage interruption was too much for the good minister’s sense of

humor, and some moments elapsed before he could proceed.[iv-35] One

wonders whether, on the under side of his merriment, there may not have

frolicked a suspicion that, had rite or statute been invoked, then and

there, in the bride’s behalf, she would have carried away but a slim

endowment of worldly goods. On her part, moreover, the lady was

apparently quite as poor as the man she married. For like many other

wives whose mates have attained professional eminence, Mary Todd brought

her husband no fortune to paralyze his industry.

The young couple would gladly have made a honeymoon journey to their

native State and availed themselves of Speed’s now repeatedly offered

hospitality; but again, poverty stood in the way. They were fain,

therefore, to content themselves with a room at Mrs. Beck’s Globe

Tavern, where the munificent sum of four dollars paid their whole bill,

each week, for board and lodging. This frugal arrangement lasted

somewhat more than a year, after which the birth of their first child

necessitated a change.[iv-36] So they bought from the Reverend Mr.

Dresser his frame cottage, on the corner of Eighth and Jackson Streets,

that was to serve them as a residence for the rest of their days in

Springfield. It appears to have been a modest home among modest

surroundings. Here the little family took root, here the problems of the

growing household were worked out, and here Abraham Lincoln lived the

simple life of an honest gentleman.[iv-37] His personal wants were

few,--so few, in fact, as to make him almost seem rich. He had no

expensive habits and one looks in vain for what cynics sometimes term

redeeming vices. A man whose parents were, to quote one old settler,

“torn-down poor,” does not enter upon life handicapped by a love of

luxury. In Lincoln’s case the privations of earlier days had left him

largely indifferent even to such creature comforts as the refinements of

later times brought within reach. And though he rarely then referred to

those trying backwoods experiences, the primitive ways instilled by them

never quite got out of his system. Always in some degree a son of the

soil, he consciously bore himself as belonging to “the plain people.” It

was the plain mode of living, therefore, that appealed to him, not only

because the more elegant customs were distasteful, but also because he

felt keenly aware of how incongruous they would have been with his real

self. Nor does the closest scrutiny reveal in all this any trace of

affectation. The ostentatious display of poverty, on the one hand, and

on the other, the vulgar mannerisms whereby our so-called self-made men

sometimes make capital out of their lowly origins, were alike foreign to

his nature. He was true here as elsewhere. In fact, when all is said,

the man’s simplicity of life must be counted but one more expression of

his inherent honesty.

Lincoln made it a practice to serve himself. He really disliked to have

others wait upon his wants. Self-reliant in the extreme, to go for a

thing came easier with him than to send for it; to do what was required

seemed simpler than to order it done. He would walk to the house from

the office for a document, though willing clerks were on hand eager to

act as his messengers. If the open fire, at home or elsewhere, needed a

fresh supply of fuel that did not happen to be promptly forthcoming, he

took up the axe, shed his coat, and went vigorously to work over the

woodpile. When a small stick was once wanted for some special purpose by

a visitor at the Springfield residence, the master of the house fetched

it after a brief session with his saw in the rear shed; and when a

surprised comment ensued, Lincoln laughingly replied: “We’re not much

used to servants about this place. Besides, you know, I have always been

my own wood-sawyer.”[iv-38]

The speaker was so little used to servants, in fact, that even when

latterly they were at hand, he often opened the front door for visitors

himself. This habit keenly annoyed Mrs. Lincoln, particularly as his

attire on these occasions appears not always to have conformed with the

conventional requirements laid down by authorities on etiquette.

But once, when she was lamenting over certain social breaches of that

kind, a member of her family said: “Mary, if I had a husband with a mind

such as yours has, I wouldn’t care what he did.”

To which the lady, much mollified, replied: “It is very foolish. It is a

small thing to complain of.”

And what might one have expected of a man, who was not only his “own

wood-sawyer,” but his own stable-boy as well? For when at home, Mr.

Lincoln usually, during that period, milked the cow, fed the horse, and

looked after their several wants, in a rudely constructed little barn

which stood behind the house.[iv-39] This same democratic simplicity and

absence of all pretentions to elegance were observed about the untidy

little offices in which he successively practiced his profession. Nor

was it otherwise on circuit. The sorry nag that he sometimes bestrode

and the shabby buggy in which the animal at other times pulled him from

town to town looked consistent with the rest. When accommodations,

moreover, at the local hotels were poor,--as they frequently appear to

have been,--his easy-going temper remained unruffled. “He never

complained of the food, bed, or lodgings,” said Judge Davis. “If every

other fellow grumbled at the bill-of-fare, which greeted us at many of

the dingy taverns, Lincoln said nothing.”[iv-40] To which Joseph

Gillespie, another friend of the old circuit days, adds: “He had a

realizing sense that he was generally set down by city snobs as a

country Jake, and would accept, in a public-house, any place assigned to

him, whether in the basement or the attic, and he seldom called at the

table for anything, but helped himself to what was within reach. Indeed,

he never knew what he did eat. He said to me once that he never felt his

own utter unworthiness so much as when in the presence of a hotel clerk

or waiter.”[iv-41]

It would be interesting to determine how much of this self-depreciation

was due to the unfavorable impression that Lincoln often made upon those

who saw him for the first time. By all accounts he must have been, in

those days, anything but an object of beauty. His six-feet-four of

homely, awkward angularity apparently owed little to the clothier’s or

the haberdasher’s art. For in matters of dress as in other respects, he

was still the plebeian, carrying about him, so to say, the broad-axe air

which suggested, if it did not actually revive, the crudities of

frontier customs. He no longer, it is true, wore, as in his youth, a

coon-skin cap or birch-bark moccasins with hickory soles. His shirts

were no longer of linsey-woolsey, nor his trousers of butternut jeans or

untanned skins. Yet he never quite outgrew the image of himself so

arrayed. What appears to have been particularly vivid in his memory,

moreover, was a picture of flat-boat times on the river, when his

buckskin breeches--the only pair--happened to fall into the water with

their owner inside of them. Relating such an experience once, he said:

“Now, if you know the nature of buckskin, when wet and dried by the sun,

it will shrink, and my breeches kept shrinking until they left several

inches of my legs bare, between the tops of my socks and the lower part

of my breeches; and whilst I was growing taller they were becoming

shorter, and so much tighter that they left a blue streak around my legs

that can be seen to this day.”[iv-42]

Similar tendencies, in Lincoln’s later, more modern apparel, to leave a

sort of neutral zone unoccupied between trousers and shoes, recurred

with atavistic persistence long after he became accustomed to better

things. In fact, such misfits troubled him but slightly during the

period of his career at the bar. “He probably had as little taste about

dress and attire as anybody that ever was born,” writes one attorney who

saw him often in those days. “He simply wore clothes because it was

needful and customary. Whether they fitted or looked well was entirely

above or beneath his comprehension.” The same observer says: “When I

first knew him his attire and physical habits were on a plane with those

of an ordinary farmer. His hat was innocent of a nap. His boots had no

acquaintance with blacking. His clothes had not been introduced to the

whisk-broom. His carpet-bag was well worn and dilapidated. His umbrella

was substantial, but of a faded green, well worn, the knob gone, and the

name ‘A. Lincoln’ cut out of white muslin and sewed in the inside. And

for an outer garment, a short circular blue cloak, which he got in

Washington in 1849, and kept for ten years.”[iv-43]

Another friend and colleague, James W. Somers, recalling a first

photographic glimpse of Mr. Lincoln during the earlier days on circuit,

said: “His dress was the most peculiar thing about him. The trousers

were several inches too short and illy fitted. The coat was the

old-style swallow-tail, and was also too small. His head was surmounted

by an antiquated silk hat, battered and rusty, as was his entire suit of

broadcloth, originally black. In his hands or under his arm he carried a

faded green gingham umbrella. He wore a black silk or mohair stock

around his neck, two and a half or three inches wide, buckled at the

back, but with no tie or bow in front. At the fall term court he usually

wore a short circular cloak, extending down to the hips, and much the

worse for wear.”

Disregard of fine apparel, moreover, was not limited by any means to

Lincoln’s younger days at the bar. As late as 1858, after he had

achieved a prominent place at the bar, his appearance made a similar

impression upon Carl Schurz, who drew this graphic thumb-nail sketch of

him: “On his head he wore a somewhat battered ‘stove-pipe’ hat. His neck

emerged, long and sinewy, from a white collar turned down over a thin

black necktie. His lank, ungainly body was clad in a rusty black

dress-coat with sleeves that should have been longer; but his arms

appeared so long that the sleeves of a ‘store’ coat could hardly be

expected to cover them all the way down to the wrists. His black

trousers, too, permitted a very full view of his large feet. On his left

arm he carried a gray woolen shawl, which evidently served him for an

overcoat in chilly weather. His left hand held a cotton umbrella of the

bulging kind, and also a black satchel that bore the marks of long and

hard usage.”[iv-44]

Evidently the age or condition of a garment was no reason, in Lincoln’s

eyes, for discarding it. On the contrary, he appears at times to have

cherished an old article of dress as one would an old friend. But such

attachments have their penalties. And we find him in the

court-room,--yes, on one occasion, in the very presence of the

court,--making hasty repairs to ward off untoward accidents. Still other

inconveniences grew out of Lincoln’s inattention to dress. He had not

been practicing long before his partner, Major John T. Stuart, received

a retainer to defend one John W. Baddeley, against whom a suit was

pending in the McLean County Circuit Court. When this case came to

trial, the major, finding that he could not attend, sent the junior

member of the firm, with a letter of introduction, to act as counsel in

his stead. Baddeley gave one glance at the letter, and one at the

ungainly, ill-dressed bearer of it. That a man who presented so

unpromising an appearance should come offering to be his representative

in the august precincts of the law irritated him beyond measure. He

discharged a volley of abuse at the astonished Lincoln, paid his

respects, in similar terms, to the absent Stuart, and straightway hired

another lawyer, James A. McDougall, to defend the suit. What reply, if

any, was made by the innocent object of all this wrath is not known. He

endured it, we are told, however, without resentment; and later on, when

these first unfavorable impressions had given place to warm

appreciation, counted that very client among his stanchest

admirers.[iv-45]

Nor was Baddeley the only one to be deceived by Lincoln’s

unprepossessing garb. So keen an intellect as Edwin M. Stanton’s wholly

misjudged him, many years thereafter, on the occasion of their first

meeting at Cincinnati, in the famous McCormick _versus_ Manny reaper

case; and that, too, notwithstanding the eminent position which the

Springfield lawyer had by that time attained among his professional

brethren at home. For this critical associate could see no promise of

forensic ability in the man, to whom he contemptuously referred as a

“long, lank creature from Illinois, wearing a dirty linen duster for a

coat, on the back of which the perspiration had splotched wide stains

that resembled a map of the continent.”[iv-46] Stanton’s disdainful

treatment rankled in the gentle soul of Lincoln. He began, some time

after the affair, to wear better clothes--better in texture if not in

fit. But he never learned to take an interest in fine linen, or to spend

on his person more than was necessary to satisfy the ordinary demands of

society.

Thus much for the man’s simple habits. A lawyer whose immediate wants

were, all in all, so moderate, certainly had no personal

incentive--whatever may have been his standards of honesty--for any but

upright methods in his practice. Like Manius Curius, over that historic

dinner of turnips at the chimney-side, he prized honor with modest

living above meretricious wealth and the luxuries it might buy.

To assume, however, that there were not numerous demands upon Lincoln

for what money could procure, would be far from the fact. A kind husband

and indulgent father, it distressed him to refuse his family anything.

All their reasonable wants he did, in truth, cheerfully provide for, as

she who knew him best bore affectionate testimony. And once, when he was

contrasted in her presence with a certain well-favored rival, the little

wife retorted: “Mr. Lincoln may not be as handsome a figure, but the

people are perhaps not aware that his heart is as large as his arms are

long.”

Still, there were many who had good reason to believe in such a

consonance between length of limb and breadth of sympathy. Nor was their

number limited, by any means, to those on whom, as we have seen, he

conferred professional kindnesses. For others frequently felt the

sustaining grip of that sinewy helping hand; and the hospitality

dispensed in the modest little home made a lasting impression upon the

circle of friends, who were favored from time to time with coveted

invitations. Then, too, among the uses that Lincoln had for money must

be reckoned those numberless little charities which are of the same

blood as great and holy deeds. A typical instance, eloquent in its

brevity, is supplied by a slip of paper, dated September 25, 1858. It

reads:

My old friend Henry Chew, the bearer of this, is in a strait for

some furniture to commence housekeeping. If any person will furnish

him twenty-five dollars’ worth, and he does not pay for it by the

1st of January next, I will.

A. LINCOLN.

With this scrap has been preserved the obvious sequel:--

HON. A. LINCOLN, _Springfield, Illinois_.

MY DEAR FRIEND: I herewith inclose your order which you gave your

friend Henry Chew. You will please send me a draft for the same and

oblige yours,

S. LITTLE.

URBANA, _February 16, 1859_.[iv-47]

Another generous act, of a different character, is gratefully recalled

by an old resident of Springfield, Dr. William Jayne. He tells how the

“Phi Alpha” Society at Illinois College, in Jacksonville, arranged a

series of lectures, the profits from which were to be expended on books

for the library. One of the lecturers during 1857 was Mr. Lincoln. On

the night of his appearance, after his address had been delivered, and

the rather meager audience had departed, he said, with a kindly smile,

to the president of the society: “I have not made much money for you

to-night.”

At which the young officer who was in charge of the finances interposed:

“When we pay for rent of the hall, music, and advertising, and your

compensation, there will not be much left to buy books for the library.”

“Well, boys,” replied Lincoln, “be hopeful. Pay me my railroad fare and

fifty cents for my supper at the hotel, and we are square.”[iv-48]

The speaker’s benevolence on other occasions must have been carried to

extremes; for partner Herndon was repeatedly heard to murmur his

disapproval and a student in their office reports him as saying:

“Lincoln wouldn’t have a dollar to bless himself with if some one else

didn’t look out for him. He never can say ‘No’ to any one who puts up a

poor mouth, but will hand out the last dollar he has, sometimes when he

needs it himself, and needs it badly.”[iv-49]

This view was apparently shared by the plucky little woman at home. She

doubtless had found, as many housekeepers have before and since, that

money should be conserved, not alone because of what it procures for

people, but still more because of what it saves them from. The

proverbial “rainy day,” with its provident demands, was therefore

frequently urged upon the attention of her open-handed helpmate without,

however, appreciably modifying his habits in this regard. And when

remonstrance became too insistent, he replied: “Cast thy bread upon the

waters.”[iv-50]

That the lady preferred to make sure of bread upon the dining-room table

is not surprising, nor should it be remembered to her discredit. Yet a

certain characteristic little scene between the two may not be omitted

here; for, trivial though it seems, the incident throws a vivid

side-light upon this phase of Lincoln’s nature. The story was related to

the author by John F. Mendonsa, now of Jacksonville, Illinois. His

father Antonio, a poor immigrant, after arriving in Springfield

sometimes did odd jobs for the Lincolns. As the older man could not

speak English, he took the little son John with him to be his

interpreter; and that boy never forgot the many kindnesses which he

received from the master of the house. More than half a century has

elapsed since then, yet among his most cherished recollections are these

visits to Mr. Lincoln’s home.

Recalling the great man’s manner, Mr. Mendonsa writes: “He would

invariably walk up to father, shake his hand most cordially, and utter

some little pleasantry which I would interpret. This interpretation

seemed to amuse him very much. In every way he was most considerate. If

the day was hot, the maid was instructed to prepare cooling refreshments

of some sort, and _vice versa_. Knowing our reduced circumstances, he

would take me by the hand, after father had been paid, and place a

quarter therein, saying, ‘Sonny, take this to your mother to buy meat

for dinner.’”

The narrator goes on to say:--

“At one time, during an extremely hot summer, father, my brother-in-law,

and I went to the woods for berries. It was in July, 1856, and the berry

season was all but over. We got back to town at eleven A.M., having only

three pints. My brother-in-law had two quarts. We took them to

Lincoln’s. Mrs. Lincoln met us and asked what we wanted for the berries.

Father thought they should be worth fifteen cents per quart, considering

the scarcity of berries and the length of time consumed--from four A.M.

until eleven. Mrs. Lincoln thought this price outrageously high, and

said she would not pay more than ten cents. Father had me explain our

long walk through the heat, but she was inexorable.

“We met Mr. Lincoln at the gate as we were leaving. He asked us what we

had to sell. I told him, and he said, ‘Doesn’t Mrs. Lincoln want them?’

‘Yes, sir, but she will only allow father ten cents per quart, and he

feels they’re worth fifteen cents.’ He patted me on the head, smilingly

and said, ‘Sonny, you tell your father we’ll take them.’ Mrs. Lincoln

had joined us, and on hearing Mr. Lincoln’s remark, said, ‘No, we won’t

have them. I won’t give that much for them.’ And when she was angry, she

screamed what she had to say. Mr. Lincoln quietly said, ‘Mary, they have

earned all they ask for them. Get me a pan in which to put them.’ She

refused, saying, ‘No, I won’t! I won’t have them! I don’t want them!’ He

then called to the maid. She brought a pan. He paid father twenty-five

cents and brother-in-law thirty cents. He chatted awhile, and as he bade

us good-bye, gave me a quarter, telling me to be a good boy.”[iv-51]

But Lincoln, like the skillful tactician that he was, usually contrived

to avoid so violent a clashing of wills. His method, on one occasion at

least, seems to have foreshadowed the diplomatic triumphs of later

times. What happened is related by the Chevalier Henry Haynie, who lived

in Springfield during the old days. He was torch-bearer to a volunteer

fire-company which needed a new hose-cart. Making a canvass for

subscriptions among the citizens of the town, young Haynie and a fellow

member called upon Mr. Lincoln. That gentleman at once expressed his

sympathy with the project, but thought it best, before setting down any

amount, to consult “a certain little woman” about it. “I’ll do so,

boys,” he continued, “when I go home to supper,--Mrs. Lincoln is always

in a fine, good humor then,--and I’ll say to her--over the toast--‘My

dear, there is a subscription paper being handed round to raise money to

buy a new hose-cart. The committee called on me this afternoon, and I

told them to wait until I consulted my home partner. Don’t you think I

had better subscribe fifty dollars?’ Then she will look up quickly, and

exclaim, ‘Oh, Abraham, Abraham! will you never learn, never learn? You

are always too liberal, too generous! Fifty dollars! No, indeed; we

can’t afford it. Twenty-five’s quite enough.’”

Mr. Lincoln chuckled, as he added: “Bless her dear soul, she’ll never

find out how I got the better of her; and if she does, she will forgive

me. Come around to-morrow, boys, and get your twenty-five

dollars.”[iv-52]

Fallible human nature, viewing this man’s uncompromising truthfulness

with perhaps a trace of chagrin, may derive some consolation from the

thought that now and then, when domestic skies were overcast, even he

sought refuge in equivocation. His sin, on one occasion at least,

speedily found him out, as he himself confessed by means of the

characteristically frank letter which follows:--

_Private._

SPRINGFIELD, _Feb. 20, 1857_.

JOHN E. ROSETTE, ESQ.

DEAR SIR:--Your note about the little paragraph in the _Republican_

was received yesterday; since when, till now, I have been too

unwell to answer it. I had not supposed you wrote, or approved it.

The whole originated in mistake. You know, by the conversation with

me, that I thought the establishment of the paper unfortunate; but

I always expected to throw no obstacle in its way, and to patronize

it to the extent of taking and paying for one copy. When the paper

was first brought to my house, my wife said to me, ‘Now, are you

going to take another worthless little paper?’ I said to her

evasively, I had not directed the paper to be left. From this, in

my absence, she sent the message to the carrier. This is the whole

story.

Yours truly,

A. LINCOLN.[iv-53]

Meanwhile, there were other, far heavier drafts upon that meager purse.

Its strings reached all the way to the little cabin on Goose Nest

Prairie, in Coles County, where, after repeated migrations, Thomas and

Sarah Lincoln had taken up their last abode. The family, or what

remained of it, was not more prosperous then, we need hardly add, than

of yore. In fact, financial embarrassments appear to have increased, and

frequent were the calls upon Abraham for aid. How he responded may be

inferred from what he once wrote to his stepbrother, John D. Johnston:

“You already know I desire that neither father nor mother shall be in

want of any comfort, either in health or sickness, while they

live.”[iv-54]

A fitting pendant is furnished by a letter which had been sent to Thomas

Lincoln, himself, some years previous. It read:--

WASHINGTON, _December 24, 1848_.

MY DEAR FATHER:--Your letter of the 7th was received night before

last. I very cheerfully send you the twenty dollars, which sum you

say is necessary to save your land from sale. It is singular that

you should have forgotten a judgment against you; and it is more

singular that the plaintiff should have let you forget it so long,

particularly as I suppose you always had property enough to satisfy

a judgment of that amount. Before you pay it, it would be well to

be sure you have not paid, or at least that you cannot prove that

you have paid it. Give my love to mother and all the connections.

Affectionately your son,

A. LINCOLN.[iv-55]

When occasion served, moreover, the writer’s customary contributions to

the family fund were supplemented by the proceeds of some near-by case.

This happened in 1845, when he won a Coles County slander suit that had

been tried at Charleston. His client, in lieu of fees, assigned

thirty-five dollars of the judgment to Mr. Lincoln, who, instead of

collecting the money, instructed the clerk of the court to turn the

entire sum, when it was received, over to his father. The old gentleman,

they say, came in from Goose Nest Prairie, accompanied by his stepson,

to get the present. And this took place at a time when fees were far

from plentiful with the donor, whose total receipts for a term of court,

as one of his partners states, did not, in some instances, exceed fifty

dollars.

More generous still was Lincoln’s course in the matter of two hundred

dollars which, it is said, his parents were sorely in need of. Having

paid over the money, he determined to make sure that at least part of

the property held by them should not slip through their fingers. To this

end, forty acres of the home place were deeded to him by Thomas and

Sarah, with a reservation to the effect that the old folks should have

“entire control of said tract ... during both and each of their natural

lives.”[iv-56] This was doubtless done, in the main, for the protection

of his dearly beloved stepmother. To give her money or to supply her

with comforts failed, as he thought, to balance the long account of

affectionate service which stood between them. He went further, and

secured her this piece of property at his expense for as long as she

lived: secured it, indeed, against her own fond forgetfulness of self.

For no sooner had Thomas Lincoln died than Sarah’s own son, the

good-natured, idle, happy-go-lucky John, tried to sell the place, and

only Abraham’s firmness in maintaining his rights as the owner kept the

land under the old lady’s feet. Still there was no ill-will between the

brothers. When Johnston, who appears to have been perpetually

impecunious, appealed for assistance on his own account, Lincoln usually

responded with the desired funds. And once, when for obvious reasons the

money was not forthcoming, a generous proposition accompanied the kindly

refusal.[iv-57] This warm-hearted man, then, meeting the claims of the

old home as well as of the new, smoothing out from year to year a coil

of debts, and indulging his fancy, at the same time, for occasional

little acts of benevolence, might surely have used a much larger income

to advantage.

Yet apparently none of these demands upon Lincoln’s resources quickened

in him, to the least degree, any tendency toward cupidity. Even certain

notable ventures on the uncertain seas of politics, that brought up now

and then, as we shall learn, financial straits, failed to disturb his

perfect poise with regard to money matters. Nor did he attempt to better

the range of his professional opportunities, and when Judge Grant

Goodrich, one of the leading Chicago lawyers, offered him a partnership

in a highly lucrative practice, Lincoln declined the flattering

proposal. He preferred his life on the circuit, with its freedom and

smaller fees, to the grind of a wealth-producing hopper in that rapidly

expanding city. As a result of all this Lincoln naturally failed to

attain a competency. After more than twenty years of active practice at

the bar, during which his services were eagerly sought for in the

Federal Courts, as well as throughout the Eighth Judicial Circuit; after

a record of labors unsurpassed, if indeed it was equaled, by any of his

contemporaries who attended the Illinois Supreme Court, the highest

appellate tribunal in the State; after enjoying a standing that brought

him important cases to be tried in distant places, and retainers to

appear before the United States Supreme Court,--this powerful advocate,

successful in every respect but one, closed his legal career a poor man.

The circumstance once led Judge Davis to remark: “I question whether

there was a lawyer in the circuit who had been at the bar as long a time

whose means were not larger.”

How much Lincoln might, then, be considered actually worth, as the

phrase goes, has been variously estimated. It is safe to say, however,

that his estate consisted, for the most part, of his home with its

contents at Springfield, a tract of land comprising one hundred and

sixty acres in Crawford County, Iowa, granted by the United States

Government for military service during the Black Hawk War, and a lot in

the new town of Lincoln.[iv-58] If there were other similar possessions

of importance, they must have escaped notice, and ready money was

evidently far from plentiful. Mr. Lincoln, himself, rated his net

assets, it is said, low enough. While in New York, during the month of

February, 1860, he met, so the story goes, one of his former Illinois

friends, who, when questioned as to how the fickle goddess had treated

him, replied that she had only yielded up one hundred thousand dollars.

“Isn’t that enough?” asked Lincoln. “I should call myself a rich man if

I had that much. I’ve got my house at Springfield and about three

thousand dollars.”

Somewhat larger amounts figure in other versions of this interview, but

at best the total sum must have been comparatively small.[iv-59] Indeed,

such scattering indications as can now be collected all warrant the

inference that a banker’s balance-sheet, struck in those days between

Mr. Lincoln’s debits and credits, would have disclosed no very sizable

net surplus.

But there is another system of accounting which results in quite a

different showing. It deals not with dollars and cents, nor with real

estate, nor securities; yet until this method too has been applied, no

such appraisement can be deemed complete. Its values are expressed in

terms of honor, its profits are to be found in the hearts of the people;

and by this reckoning, Abraham Lincoln’s career at the bar was a

brilliant success. He may, it is true, have had less property to show

for all these years of toil than any of his colleagues; still, not one

of them was so rich in the love and confidence of the entire region. The

old circuit--judges, lawyers, and laymen--united to award him a prize

that money cannot buy. They sent him out laden with the fine gold of a

spotless reputation. They introduced him to the nation as their ideal of

a true man, at a time when the true man was sorely needed; at a time

when any but a true man placed where he was placed must have gone down

in defeat with perhaps as great a cause as has ever been committed to a

single champion; and to this day, his name remains a synonym throughout

the land for honest dealing.