Threads of Grey and Gold Part 9

By the slow pa.s.sing of years humanity attains what is called the "historical perspective," but it is still a mooted question as to how many years are necessary.

We think of Lincoln as a great leader, and it is difficult to imagine him as a lover. He was at the helm of "the s.h.i.+p of State" in the most fearful storm it ever pa.s.sed through; he struck off the shackles of a fettered people, and was crowned with martyrdom; yet in spite of his greatness, he loved like other men.

There is no record for Lincoln's earlier years of the boyish love which comes to many men in their school days. The great pa.s.sion of his life came to him in manhood but with no whit of its sweetness gone.

Sweet Anne Rutledge! There are those who remember her well, and to this day in speaking of her, their eyes fill with tears. A lady who knew her says: "Miss Rutledge had auburn hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. She was pretty, rather slender, and good-hearted, beloved by all who knew her."

Before Lincoln loved her, she had a sad experience with another man.

About the time that he came to New Salem, a young man named John McNeil drifted in from one of the Eastern States. He worked hard, was plucky and industrious, and soon acc.u.mulated a little property. He met Anne Rutledge when she was but seventeen and still in school, and he began to pay her especial attention which at last culminated in their engagement.

He was about going back to New York for a visit and leaving he told Anne that his name was not McNeil, but McNamar--that he had changed his name so that his dependent family might not follow him and settle down upon him before he was able to support them. Now that he was in a position to aid his parents, brothers, and sisters, he was going back to do it and upon his return would make Anne his wife.

For a long time she did not hear from him at all, and gossip was rife in New Salem. His letters became more formal and less frequent and finally ceased altogether. The girl's proud spirit compelled her to hold her head high amid the impertinent questions of the neighbors.

Lincoln had heard of the strange conduct of McNeil and concluding that there was now no tie between Miss Rutledge and her quondam lover, he began his own siege in earnest. Anne consented at last to marry him provided he gave her time to write to McNamar and obtain a release from the pledge which she felt was still binding upon her.

She wrote, but there was no answer and at last she definitely accepted Lincoln.

It was necessary for him to complete his law studies, and after that, he said, "Nothing on G.o.d's footstool shall keep us apart."

He worked happily but a sore conflict seemed to be raging in Anne's tender heart and conscience, and finally the strain told upon her to such an extent that when she was attacked by a fever, she had little strength to resist it.

The summer waned and Anne's life ebbed with it. At the very end of her illness, when all visitors were forbidden, she insisted upon seeing Lincoln. He went to her--and closed the door between them and the world. It was his last hour with her. When he came out, his face was white with the agony of parting.

A few days later, she died and Lincoln was almost insane with grief.

He walked for hours in the woods, refused to eat, would speak to no one, and there settled upon him that profound melancholy which came back, time and again, during the after years. To one friend he said: "I cannot bear to think that the rain and storms will beat upon her grave."

When the days were dark and stormy he was constantly watched, as his friends feared he would take his own life. Finally, he was persuaded to go away to the house of a friend who lived at some distance, and here he remained until he was ready to face the world again.

A few weeks after Anne's burial, McNamar returned to New Salem. On his arrival he met Lincoln at the post-office and both were sorely distressed. He made no explanation of his absence, and shortly seemed to forget about Miss Rutledge, but her grave was in Lincoln's heart until the bullet of the a.s.sa.s.sin struck him down.

In October of 1833, Lincoln met Miss Mary Owens, and admired her though not extravagantly. From all accounts, she was an unusual woman.

She was tall, full in figure, with blue eyes and dark hair; she was well educated and quite popular in the little community. She was away for a time, but returned to New Salem in 1836, and Lincoln at once began to call upon her, enjoying her wit and beauty. At that time she was about twenty-eight years old.

One day Miss Owens was out walking with a lady friend and when they came to the foot of a steep hill, Lincoln joined them. He walked behind with Miss Owens, and talked with her, quite oblivious to the fact that her friend was carrying a heavy baby. When they reached the summit, Miss Owens said laughingly: "You would not make a good husband, Abe."

They sat on the fence and a wordy discussion followed. Both were angry when they parted, and the breach was not healed for some time. It was poor policy to quarrel, since some time before he had proposed to Miss Owens, and she had asked for time in which to consider it before giving a final answer. His letters to her are not what one would call "love-letters." One begins in this way:

"MARY:--I have been sick ever since my arrival, or I should have written sooner. It is but little difference, however, as I have very little even yet to write. And more, the longer I can avoid the mortification of looking in the post-office for your letter, and not finding it, the better.

You see I am mad about that old letter yet. I don't like very well to risk you again. I'll try you once more, anyhow."

The remainder of the letter deals with political matters and is signed simply "Your Friend Lincoln."

In another letter written the following year he says to her:

"I am often thinking about what we said of your coming to live at Springfield. I am afraid you would not be satisfied.

There is a great deal of flouris.h.i.+ng about in carriages here, which it would be your doom to see without sharing it.

You would have to be poor without the means of hiding your poverty. Do you believe you could bear that patiently?

"Whatever woman may cast her lot with mine, should any ever do so, it is my intention to do all in my power to make her happy and contented; and there is nothing I can imagine that would make me more unhappy than to fail in the effort.

"I know I should be much happier with you than the way I am, provided I saw no signs of discontent in you. What you have said to me may have been in the way of jest, or I may have misunderstood it.

"If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise I much wish you would think seriously before you decide. For my part, I have already decided.

"What I have said I will most positively abide by, provided you wish it. My opinion is that you would better not do it.

You have not been accustomed to hards.h.i.+p, and it may be more severe than you now imagine.

"I know you are capable of thinking correctly upon any subject and if you deliberate maturely upon this before you decide, then I am willing to abide by your decision."

Matters went on in this way for about three months; then they met again, seemingly without making any progress. On the day they parted, Lincoln wrote her another letter, evidently to make his own position clear and put the burden of decision upon her.

"If you feel yourself in any degree bound to me [he said], I am now willing to release you, provided you wish it; while, on the other hand, I am willing and even anxious, to bind you faster, if I can be convinced that it will in any considerable degree add to your happiness. This, indeed, is the whole question with me. Nothing would make me more miserable than to believe you miserable--nothing more happy than to know you were so."

In spite of his evident sincerity, it is not surprising to learn that a little later, Miss Owens definitely refused him. In April, of the following year, Lincoln wrote to his friend, Mrs. L. H. Browning, giving a full account of this grotesque courts.h.i.+p:

"I finally was forced to give it up [he wrote] at which I very unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond endurance.

"I was mortified it seemed to me in a hundred different ways. My vanity was deeply wounded by the reflection that I had so long been too stupid to discover her intentions, and at the same time never doubting that I understood them perfectly; and also, that she, whom I had taught myself to believe n.o.body else would have, had actually rejected me, with all my fancied greatness.

"And then to cap the whole, I then, for the first time, began to suspect that I was really a little in love with her. But let it all go. I'll try and outlive it. Others have been made fools of by the girls; but this can never with truth be said of me. I most emphatically in this instance made a fool of myself. I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason I can never be satisfied with any one who would be blockhead enough to have me!"

The gist of the matter seems to be that at heart Lincoln hesitated at matrimony, as other men have done, both before and since his time. In his letter to Mrs. Browning he speaks of his efforts to "put off the evil day for a time, which I really dreaded as much, perhaps more, than an Irishman does the halter!"

But in 1839 Miss Mary Todd came to live with her sister, Mrs. Ninian Edwards, at Springfield. She was in her twenty-first year, and is described as "of average height and compactly built." She had a well-rounded face, rich dark brown hair, and bluish grey eyes. No picture of her fails to show the full, well-developed chin, which, more than any other feature is an evidence of determination. She was strong, proud, pa.s.sionate, gifted with a keen sense of the ridiculous, well educated, and swayed only by her own imperious will.

Lincoln was attracted at once, and strangely enough, Stephen A.

Douglas crossed his wooing. For a time the two men were rivals, the pursuit waxing more furious day by day. Some one asked Miss Todd which of them she intended to marry, and she answered laughingly: "The one who has the best chance of becoming President!"

She is said, however, to have refused the "Little Giant" on account of his lax morality and after that the coast was clear for Lincoln. Miss Todd's sister tells us that "he was charmed by Mary's wit and fascinated by her quick sagacity, her will, her nature, and culture."

"I have happened in the room," she says, "where they were sitting, often and often, and Mary led the conversation. Lincoln would listen, and gaze on her as if drawn by some superior power--irresistibly so; he listened, but scarcely ever said a word."

The affair naturally culminated in an engagement, and the course of love was running smoothly, when a distracting element appeared in the shape of Miss Matilda Edwards, the sister of Mrs. Edwards's husband.

She was young and fair, and Lincoln was pleased with her appearance.

For a time he tried to go on as before, but his feelings were too strong to be concealed. Mr. Edwards endeavoured to get his sister to marry Lincoln's friend, Speed, but she refused both Speed and Douglas.

It is said that Lincoln once went to Miss Todd's house, intending to break the engagement, but his real love proved too strong to allow him to do it.

His friend, Speed, thus describes the conclusion of this episode.

"Well, old fellow," I said, "did you do as you intended?"

"Yes, I did," responded Lincoln thoughtfully, "and when I told Mary I did not love her, she, wringing her hands, said something about the deceiver being himself deceived."

"What else did you say?"

"To tell you the truth, Speed, it was too much for me. I found the tears trickling down my own cheeks. I caught her in my arms and kissed her."

"And that's how you broke the engagement. Your conduct was tantamount to a renewal of it!"