LINCOLN ROOM UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY MEMORIAL the Class of 1901 founded by HARLAN HOYT HORNER and HENRIETTA CALHOUN HORNER 1 Mill and Dam. 2 Jacob Bales. 3 McNamara's Store, where Lincoln kept Post Office. 4 The Log Tavern, by H. Onstot, where Lincoln boarded from 1833 to 1835. 5 Dr. Allen's Residence. 6 Aleck Fergesson's Cabin. 7. Hill's Store. 8 Hill's Residence. 9 The Carding Machine. 10 Martin Waddle, Hatter Shop. 11 William McNeely. 12 Henry Onstot's Cooper Shop. 13 Henry Onstot's Residence. 14 Miller's Blacksmith Shop. 15-16 Miller and Kelso Residence. 17 Road from Petersburg. 18 Road from Mill West. 19 Springfield Road South. 20 The Lincoln Cellar, with the Three Trees Growing. 21 Grave Yard. 22 School House. 23 Gander Pulling. ABRAHAM LINCOLN MISS ANN RUTLEDGE NEW SALEM PIONEERING * THE POEM A LECTURE Delivered in the Old Sangamon County Court House November, 1866 BY WILLIAM H. HERNDON SPRINGFIELD. ILLINOIS 1910 COLLECTOR'S EDITION Limited to 1 50 signed copies, of which this is No. Copyright, 1910 FOEEWOED. Among the many who have written of Abraham Lincoln, none surpass in interesting statement and forceful expression, his long time law partner, Wm. H. Herndon. This remarkable address of Mr. Hern- don's has never before been published, and is prac- tically unknown to collectors of Lincolniania. It was delivered as a lecture, on an evening in November, 1866, to a very small audience gathered in the old Sangamon County Court House, on the east side of the public square, in Springfield, 111. It was after- wards printed at length, as here given, as a broad- side, but owing to this unfortunate choice of form, it quickly disappeared and at present but three copies are known to exist one in the Illinois State Historical Library, where it was placed by the late Dr. A. W. French, another in the library of Dr. Wil- liam Jayne, who purchased it from the late Joseph Wallace, and a third which the publisher, such is his faith, hopes soon to add to his private collection. Newspaper comment, made at the time of its de- livery, was invariably unfavorable, and this recep- tion of his carefully prepared lecture, doubtless de- termined Mr. Herndon in not repeating it. ABRAHAM LINCOLN ANN RUTLEDGE NEW SALEM PIONEERING AND THE POEM BY WILLIAM H. HEENDON. Ladies and Gentlemen: I am about to deliver a Lecture tonight on Abra- ham Lincoln, Miss Ann Butledge, New Salem, Pio- neering, and the Poem commonly called Immortality or "Oh ! Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" Lincoln loved Ann Rutledge better than his own life; and I shall give the history of the poem so far as to connect it with the two in its own proper place and time. The facts in relation to Abraham, Ann, and the poem, making a complete history, lie in fragments in the desk at my office, in the bureau drawers at my home, and in my memory in the memories of men, women and children all over this broad land, and especially in the counties of Menard and Sangamon, covering an area of sixty miles square. The facts, I say, are fragmentary. They lie float- ing on the memories of men, women and children in and about New Salem, and in and about this city. This lecture is but a part a small part of a long, thrilling and eloquent story. I have not here told the whole story; nay, -not the half of it; nor can I do so here understandingly, for the want of time. I am forced to keep something back from necessity which shall, in due time, assume a more permanent form. That which is withheld is just as interesting, and more lovely, than I here can tell or relate. Some one has said that "truth is stranger than fiction;" and as it is stranger, so it is sometimes more beauti- ful and more sad. We see the truth; we feel it; it is present, and we deeply sympathize with it. All human life is more uncertain, and it may rea- sonably be thought that the invisible and intangible threads that enwrap and tie up life, may be sud- denly snapped, and historic events of great interest and importance to mankind lost forever. I do not think wishing to arrogate nothing to myself that any living man or woman so well understands, the many delicate wheels and hidden springs of the story of Lincoln, Miss Eutledge, the Poem, and its relation to the two, in time and place, as I do. My pecuniary condition will not let me rest. Duty to myself, my family, and my clients, holds me sternly to my profession. I cannot drop these duties, spurred on by necessity, as I am, to sit down and at once furnish the long contemplated life of Mr. Lin- coln. I am compelled to walk slowly, but what I shall lose in speed I shall gain in volume and cer- tainty of record. To put these fragmentary facts and historic events therefore beyond danger, I con- sent tonight to speak, write and utter what I know. I have no right to retain facts and events, so import- ant to a good understanding of Mr. Lincoln's life, in my own selfish bosom any longer. I rest under a sacred duty to mankind, to relate the facts and nar- rate the circumstances that lawfully and truthfully belong to the story. I owe to man the facts and the story which shall soon become, I believe, not through me, as to artistic beauty, one of the world's most classic stories. You know my Religion, my Philosophy namely: That the highest thought and acts of the human soul in its religious sphere, are to think, love, obey and worship God, by thinking freely, by loving, teaching, doing good to and elevating mankind. My first duty is to God, then to mankind, and then to the indi- vidual man or woman. I wish to perform my duty honestly and truthfully. -I do not wish to awaken or injure the dead, nor to wound or injure the feel- ings of any living man or woman. I am glad nay, happy, to be able to speak to my own fellow citi- zens of this city neighbors, friends, and enemies too, tonight, so near the scene and facts that I am about to relate. Each one of you, every man, woman and child, has the same powers, the same means, opportunities and capacities I have, to hunt up, find and criticise the facts, know them and to verify them, each for himself. The truth of the story is open to all alike, rich and poor, energetic and lazy. If any man or woman, or child, after hearing this lecture, still doubts what is here told, let him or her come to my office and have all skepticism wiped out at once from his or her mind. There is no doubt about the story; there can be none. I want only truth, and I, in common with all mankind, for all time to come, am deeply interested to have the facts known exactly as they are, truthfully and substantially told. If I am mistaken substantially in any particular, or in general, expose me by exposing the error. I am willing that my character among you may 10 stand or fall by the substantial truthfulness of this lecture in every particular. I want no doubts to hang over the subject, nor shall they so hang if I can avoid it, between the honest gaze of mankind and their search for truth, blurring their mental vision. Truth in history is my sole and only motive for making this sad story now public for the first time. History is sacred, and should be so held eternally by all men. What would you give for a manly, honest, candid and noble biography of Washington? Let the universal regrets of mankind fix the price and stamp the value. The facts which I shall relate, including the scen- ery of New Salem, shall, in my humble judgment, throw a strong foot-light on the path of Abraham Lincoln, from New Salem, through Springfield, to and through Washington, to the grave. They, to me, throw their rays all over Mr. Lincoln's thoughts, acts, deeds, and life, privately, domestically, socially, religiously and otherwise. I hope they will to you. I dare not keep these facts longer. Men need to read history by a blazing light. This is my apology for the publication of these facts now, and I appeal to time for my defense. The world needs but one 11 other set of facts to get the whole, almost the divine light, that illuminates Mr. Lincoln's pathway. The facts are a little older than he was some a little younger. Will the world dare hear them and defend the man that tells them? Ladies and gentlemen, friends, enemies, too, give me the good, kind, sad and tender corner of your hearts tonight, not forgetting your heads. Ann Eutledge was a beautiful girl of New Salem from 1824 to 1836. She was born in Kentucky, January 7th, 1813. She was a grandchild of the liberty-loving patriotic Eutledges of South Carolina. Her father was born in South Carolina, amid the echoes of the cannon's revolutionary roar. Mr. Lincoln lived in New Salem from 1830 to 1837, and boarded for awhile with Cameron, who was a partner of Mr. Eutledge. Mr. Lincoln soon changed his home. He went and boarded with Mr. James Eutledge about the year 1833 and 1834, and then and there first be- came well acquainted with Ann Eutledge. He may have known her well before this. I have no space here to give a description of this beautiful, amiable, and lovely girl of nineteen. She was gifted with a good mind. Three good and influential men of the little village of New Salem, simultaneously fell in 12 love with this girl A. Lincoln, Mr. , and Mr. . The third man she quickly rejected. He was a gentleman ; so was Lincoln ; so was Mr. . All these men were strong men, men of power, as time demonstrated. Circumstances, fate, Provi- dence, the iron chain of sweeping events, so willed it that this young lady was engaged to Mr. Lincoln and Mr. at the same time. No earthly blame can be attached to the girl, and none to the men in their fidelity and honor to her. It all so happened, or was decided by fate. It shall, in truth, be explained hereafter to the satisfaction of all. It is a sad, thrilling story. The young girl saw her condition. Her word of promise was out to two men at the same time, both of whom she loved, dearly loved. The consciousness of this, and the conflict of duties, love's promises, and womanly engagements, made her think, grow sad, become restless and nervous. She suffered, pined, ate not and slept not. Time and struggle, as supposed and believed by many, caused her to have a raging fever, of which she died on the 25th of August, A. D. 1835. She died on a farm seven miles north, bearing a lit- tle west of New Salem, and now lies buried in the Concord graveyard, six miles north, bearing a little 13 west of New Salem, and four miles from Petersburg. On Sunday, the 14th day of October, A. D. 1866, I went to the well cultured and well stocked farm of Mr. . I went with book in hand, in search of facts. I have known the gentleman whom I visited, for more than thirty years. He received and wel- comed me into his house most cordially, and treated me most hospitably. He acted like a gentleman, and is one. He is the man who knows all the story so far as it relates to . He knows it and has . He owns the on which the young girl died; and if I could risk a rapid and random opinion, I should say he purchased the in part, if not solely, because of the sad memories that cluster over and around it. The visit and my task were truly delicate. Without holding you longer in uneasy and unnecessary suspense, from what took place then and there, permit me to say, that I asked the gentleman this question: "Did you know Miss Butledge? If so, where did she die!" He sat by his open window, looking westerly, and pulling me closer to himself, looked through the window and said: "There, by that " choking up with emotion, pointing his long forefinger, nervous and trembling, towards the spot "there, by that cur- 14 rant bush, she died. The old house in which she and her father died, is gone." I then, after some delay, asked the further ques- tion: "In what month and year did she dief" He replied, "In the month of August, 1835." After further conversation, leaving the sadness to momen- tarily pass away, I asked this additional question: "Where was she buried?" In reply to which he said, "In Concord burying ground, one mile south- east from this place." "Can you tell me exactly where she lies buried?" I remarked. He said, "No, I cannot. I left the country in 1832 or 1833. My mother soon after died, and she too, was buried in the same little sacred graveyard, and when I re- turned here in 1835 I could find neither grave. The Berrys, however, may know Ann's." To Berry's I speedily went, with my friend and guide, James Miles. The time was 11 :20 a. m., Sun- day, the 14th day of October, A. D. 1866. I found S. C. Berry at the Concord church, a little, white, neat meeting house, that crowns the brow of a small knoll overlooking Concord creek Berry's creek, southward. S. C. Berry, James Short the gentle- man who purchased in Mr. Lincoln's compass and chain in 1834, under an execution against Lincoln, 15 or Lincoln and Berry, and gratuitously gave them back to Mr. Lincoln James Miles and myself, were together. We all went into the meadow eastward of the church and sat down in the shade of a walnut tree. I asked Mr. Berry if he knew where Miss Butledge was buried the place and exact surround- ings! He replied: "I do. The grave of Miss Eut- ledge lies just north of her brother's, David Eut- ledge, a young lawyer of great promise, who died in 1842, in his 27th year." I went from the neat little church to the Concord burying ground, and soon found the grave of Miss Ann Eutledge. The cemetery contains about one acre of ground, and is laid out in a square. The dead lie in rows, not in squares, as is usual. The ground, the yard, is beautifully situated on a mound, and lies on the main road leading from Springfield, in Sangamon County, to Havana, in Mason County. It is situated lies on Berry's creek, and on the left bank or west side. The ground gradually slopes off east and west, north and south. A ribbon of small timber runs up the creek. It does not here break into groves. The creek runs northward i. e., its general course, and runs into what is called Blue Lake in the Sangamon bottom, and thence running 16 into the Sangamon river, some three miles distant from the burying ground. The grounds are other- wise beautifully situated. A thin skirt of timber lies on the east, commencing at the fence of the cemetery. The ribbon of timber, some fifty yards wide, hides the sun's early rise. At 9 o'clock the sun pours all his rays into the cemetery. An ex- tensive prairie lies west, the forest north, a field on the east, and timber and prairie lie on the south. In this lovely ground lie the Berrys, the Eutledges, the Clarrys, the Armstrongs, and the Jones, old and respected citizens, pioneers of an early day. I write or rather did write, the original draft of this description in the immediate presence of the ashes of Miss Ann Eutledge, the beautiful and tender dead. "My heart lies buried here," said Lincoln to a friend. I wrote in the presence of the spirits of David and Ann Eutledge, remembering the good spirit of Abraham. I knew the young man as early as 1841, probably when he had first commenced his profession as lawyer. The village of the dead is a sad, solemn place, and when out in the country, es- pecially so. Its very presence imposes truth on the mind of the living writer. Ann Eutledge lies buried north of her brother, and rests sweetly on his left 17 arm, angels to guard her. The cemetery is fast filling with the hazel and the dead. I shall now have to take you back with me some five years or more. After Mr. Lincoln returned from New Orleans, in 1831, and after a short visit to his father and mother in Coles County, in Illi- nois, who then lived on a farm eight miles south of Charleston, the county seat of Coles County, he returned to New Salem, twenty miles northwest of Springfield, now the capitol, and the home of Lin- coln in 1860. At that time New Salem and Spring- field were in one county, the County of Sangamon. Mr. Lincoln first saw New Salem hill on the 18th day of April, 1831, and he must have been struck with the beauty of the scene, if not with its grandeur and sublimity. Objects of beauty, objects of grandeur, objects of sublimity, have a supreme power over the mind, elevating and expanding it, humanizing and edu- cating it. These educate us, and give us an ex- panded, ever-widening view of nature and of God. It is said that the Alpine heights with their majestic sceneries, make the Swiss a patriotic, liberty-loving people, who have defied Austrian bayonets for ages. It is said that the sacred hills and mountains around 18 Athens, and the great deep blue sea that sweeps around her feet that is to say, the peninsula's feet made and fashioned her poets, statesmen and orators. New Salem had and has some power in this way and did have on Mr. Lincoln's mind. I am now necessitated that you may understand much that goes before and comes after to describe New Salem and her surroundings. I do this for various reasons in addition to what I specially name, in order to give you a running picture of New Salem her rivers, peaks, bluffs, and other views. I first knew this hill or bluff as early as 1829. I have seen it in spring time and winter, in summer time and fall. I have seen it in daylight and night time; have seen it when the sward was green, living and vital, and I have seen it wrapt in snow, frost and sleet. I have closely studied it for more than five long years. The town of New Salem lies on the west the left bank of the river Sanga- mon, and is situated on a bluff, which rises above low water mark in the river about 100 feet. The town is on the road leading from Springfield to Havana the former in Sangamon County and the latter in Mason County. New Salem hill was once covered with the wild forest tree not a very 19 thick heavy timber, rather barren, so called. The forest was cut off to make room for the village, which was laid out in 1828. It became a trading place at that time, and in 1836 contained a popula- tion of about 100 souls, living in about 20 houses, some of which cost from $10 to $100 none exceeded the latter sum. The village had one regular, straight street, running east and west, the east end resting on the brow of the hill, overlooking the Sangamon, and the west end abutting against the forest. The village runs along on what is called the backbone of the hill, it sloping on the north and south. The north branch rises in a meadow or field, about three-fourths of a mile west of New Salem, and sweeps east, cutting a deep channel as it rushes and runs. The branch pours its waters in the Sanga- mon river about three hundred yards below and north of the village. The creek on the south a larger and a longer one than the north branch by its cuts and deep channels, 80 or 100 feet deep, leaves New Salem on the back of the hill the very backbone of the ridge. The only and main street was about 70 feet wide, and the backbone of the hill is about 250 feet across sufficiently wide for a street, with lots 180 feet 20 deep till it runs back westerly for some distance, growing wider, to the then forest and now meadow or field. The hill on the east end of the street where the river runs, and which the bluffs boldly overlook, rises at some places almost to perpendic- ular heights. At other places it rises from an angle of 25 to 80 degrees. There is an old mill at the foot of the bluff, on the Sangamon, driven by water power. The river washes the base of the bluff for about 400 yards, the hill breaking off almost abruptly at the north. The river along this line runs about due north; it strikes the bluff coming around a sudden bend from the south-east, the river being checked and turned by the rocky hill. The milldam running across the Sangamon river just at the mill, checks the rapidity of the water. It was here and on this dam that Mr. Lincoln's flatboat "stuck on the 19th of April, 1831." The dam is about eight feet high, and 220 feet long, and as the old Sangamon rolls her turbid waters over the dam, plunging them into the whirl and eddy beneath, the roar and hiss of waters, like the low, continuous, distant thunder, can be distinct- ly heard through the whole village, day and night, week day and Sunday, spring and fall, or other 21 high water time. The river, at the base of the bluff, is about 250 feet wide. The mill using up 30 feet, leaving the dam only about 220 feet long. Green's rocky branch, so called, which rises west by a little south of New Salem, sweeps eastwardly and washes the southern line of the base of the hill; it is a nar- row, winding stream, whose bottom is covered with pretty little pebbles of all shapes, colors and sizes. Standing on New Salem hill and looking southward some 800 yards across a valley, rises the opposite bank or bluff of the hill, made by the branch or double force of branch and river. The bluff rises to an equal elevation with the Salem hill, if not a little higher. The hills or bluffs are covered with a heavy timber. The creek leaps and pours her waters into the Sangamon just above the milldam, some- times adding its rapid and clear and clean volume to the pond. On the eastern side of the river, on the right bank of the river, looking east down the village street, running east and west, the range of bluffs rises generally to the level of the surround- ing hills. The distance from bluff to bluff, across the river, is about 1,000 yards, possibly 1,500 yards. The general range of the hills on the eastern side of the river is likewise bearded with timber the 22 wild forest trees mostly oak, hickory, walnut, ash and elm. The bottom, the rich lowlands that lie between hill and hill, are about 800 yards wide, pos- sibly more, and between peak and peak, hill and hill, through this rich and deep alluvial soil, flint and limestone, chalk and sand, clay and lime, slate and soapstone, animal and vegetable remains, rolls, washes and plays from east to west, from peak to peak, through the ages, the eternal Sangamon, cast- ing and rolling sand and clay, flint and limestone, animal and vegetable debris, on either shore as it half omnipotently wills, sometimes kissing the feet of one bluff, and then washing the other. At other times in spring time or other high water seasons the river at other places is more than a mile wide, ranging from its head to its mouth. As we look up the river southeast, and follow with our eyes its winding course, beyond bluff rises bluff on bluff, and forest on forest, the first tier of timber giving and presenting to the eye, in the month of October the time of writing this a mellow green orange color of various shades, according to distance and the angle of view. The second ribbon of timber, ris- ing over the first and beyond, gives and presents to the eye a more distinct and darker green, tinted 23 with blue a more uniform color and not so abrupt in its dash, its risings and swells. The third belt of timber, still beyond, rising over the first and second timber, to the eye gives and presents a still deeper and more distinct blue, wrapt in mist generated in the distance, as it rises and recedes in the infinite east, leaving a clear, sharp outline, less abrupt and more uniform than either of the closer ones, slightly undulating, out against the clear, clean blue eastern sky, measuring and fixing beyond doubt the earth's general level and its rotundity here. Down the river, a little east, is the same general view, though not so beautiful, not so grand, because less distinct and prominent to the eye. About two miles north, in a beautiful valley, nestles snugly the handsome town of Petersburg, which Lincoln surveyed and laid out in 1836, and which is now the county seat of Menard County, with a population of about 1,500 souls. About three-fourths of a mile below New Salem, at the foot of the main bluff, and in a hollow between two lateral bluffs, stands the house of Bolin Green, now uninhabited. It is a log-house, weather- boarded; and about the same distance north from Bolin Green's house, now at the foot of the bluff, stands the building, the house and home once of 24 Bennett Able. When the proper time comes I shall have to tell of another quite romantic love story that happened at this house. These descriptions mean something, and in our historic evolution you will perceive the absolute necessity of them; then you will thank me, not be- fore, possibly. New Salem, Petersburg, Green's and Able 's houses, all lie on the western bank of the river, namely on the left-hand shore. These bluffs, houses, and general scenery give a beautiful appear- ance to the eye. I cannot truthfully say they rise to the grand, yet they are most beautiful indeed. When I wrote the original of this on my knee, I was on the hill and bluff, the sun was just climbing upward out of the forest in the east, hanging over the timber like a fire-wheel, climbing and rolling up the deep unmeasured immensities above me. The morning, the 15th day of October, 1866, was misty, cloudy, foggy and cold. The orb of day soon dis- sipated and scattered mist and fog, cloud and cold. The Circuit Court of Menard County had adjourned and my business was finished, and I was free, at least for one day. I sat down to write amid the ruins of New Salem. Only one lone and solitary log hut was in view all that remains of New Salem; it is 25 one-story high, had two doors, two chimneys, two rooms, fronts north, and is a log house, weather- boarded with plank. Abraham has been in it possi- bly a hundred times. The logs are hewed a little, simply faced. The chimneys are one at the east end and the other at the west end of the house. On the south of the house stands now a smoke house of plank, a seem- ingly newer erection. My guide, a new man, sat at my right hand, my feet in the ruins of the town, and close to me, and a little southwest, rang and rolled out and tinkled the ring of a lone cow bell, rattling, tapping and sounding here and there, as the cow browsed along the hills. The roll and roar of the Sangamon is distinctly heard eastward, as the waters curl and leap over the dam and plunge into the stream beneath. Lincoln has heard it often, and though he is gone, it rolls and roars on, and will for ages yet to come. All human life is tran- sient, Nature permanent. Life is but for an instant, Nature is eternal. Why burn the short span of our human life by undue use and haste. As I sat on the verge of the town, in the presence of its ruins, I called to mind the street running east and west through the village, the river east- 26 ward, Green's rocky branch, with its hills, south- ward; Clarry's Grove westerly about three miles; Petersburg northward and Springfield southeast, and now I cannot exclude from my memory or imagination, the forms, faces, voices, and features of those I once knew so well. In my imagination, the little village perched on the hill is astir with the hum of busy men, and the sharp, quick buzz of women ; and from the country come men and women afoot or on horseback, to see and to be seen ; to hear and to be heard; to barter and exchange what they have with the merchant and laborer. There are Jack Armstrong, and Win. Green, Kelso and Jason Duncan, Alley and Cameron, Hill and McNamara, Herndons and Rutledges, Warburton and Sincho, Bale and Ellis, Abraham and Ann. Oh! what a history. Here it was that the bold, rattling and brave roysterer met and greeted roys- terer; bumper rang to bumper, and strong friend met friend and fought friend, for friendship's sake. Here it was that all strangers, every new comer, was initiated quickly, sharply and rudely, into the lights and mysteries of western civilization. The stranger was compelled, if he assumed the appearance of a 27 man, to walk through the strength and courage of naturally great men. They were men of no college culture, but they had their many and broad, well tested experiences, good sense and sound judgment, and if the stranger bore well his part, acted well, he at once became, thenceforward, a brother of the clan forever. But if but if he failed, he quickly, amid their mocking jeers, sank out of sight to rise no more ^ or existed as an enemy stranger, to be killed anywhere at first sight by any of the clan, and to be forever damned to the eternity of their unending scorn, or scorched in the social hell forevermore. This is no fancy pic- ture. It existed as I have told it, and Lincoln had to pass it. He did it nobly and well, and thence- forward held unlimited sway over the clan. Lin- coln did it by calm, cool courage and physical strength. He said to the clan one day "If you want and must have a fight, prepare." The word prepare, with the courage and body behind it, set- tled the affair. The clan had seen him, strapped, lift in a box in the old mill, a thousand pounds. They knew his courage well, and the word prepare, settled all. Here it was that manly honesty with womanly tenderness, valor, strength, and great nat- 28 ural capacity, went hand in hand, however absurd it may appear to the world. I affirm the truth of this here and now. Such a people the world never sees but once, and such people! I knew them all; have been with them all; and respect them all. A man with vastly greater powers than I possess might well quail from the task of writing the history of the men and times of New Salem. This is the ground on which Lincoln walked, and sported, joked and laughed, loved and despaired, read law, studied sur- veying and grammar, read for the first time Shakespeare and Burns, and here it was that his reason once bent to its burdens. And oh! how sad and solemn are New Salem 's memories to me. The spirit of the place to me is lonely and yet sweet. It presides over the soul gently, tenderly, yet sadly. It does not down. It does not crush. It entices and enwraps. May the spirits of the loved and loving dead here meet and embrace, as they were denied them on earth. A friend of mine, who knew Mr. Lincoln as well as I did, and whose judgment I always respect, profoundly so, said that if Mr. Lincoln had married Ann Eutledge, the sweet, tender and loving girl, he would have gravitated insensibly into a purely domestic man ; that locality, home, and 29 domesticity, were the tendencies of Mr. Lincoln; that the love and death of the girl shattered Lin- coln's purposes and tendencies; that he threw off this infinite grief and sorrow to the man, and leaped wildly into the political arena as a refuge from his despair. Another gentleman agrees with this, and affirms that Lincoln needed a whip and spur to rouse him to deeds of fame. I give no opinion now for want of space. The affirmation or denial needs argument to my mind. As I clambered from bluff to bluff, crossing streams and hollows, which ran into the creek, flow- ing thence into the river, I tread on and pass the wild mistletoe, so called, green, living moss, clinging to rock and sandy, cold, shaded, damp clay. The ferns and low creeping vines cover the hillsides here. While I was taking the notes of this lecture on the spot, I sat in the infinite past, ages, where they have written their origin, creation, their growth, their development, death and decay, on the coal and rock records of Nature, that lay at my feet and rose above my head. The blue sky above me, however, refuses to vegetable and to man her clear, clean blue leaves, whereon to record their creation, growth, death and decay. One as he sits in the present, on 30 the past, cannot avoid thinking and speculating on the immense, endless, boundless, infinite future, in this world and that to come. The day on which I took my notes was the 15th day of October, A. D. 1866. The frost had scorched the leaves of the forest, and they hung dry, curled and quivering in the winds, as they sighed and moaned. Death rides everywhere, but life has begun everywhere before death comes. Death is a natural condition of life and life a condition of death. Which is the normal one? Are death and life normal? As I wander up Green's rocky creek, say one mile from its mouth, I cross the stream and climb along the northern face of the hill, where the sun seldom, if ever, warms the sod. The rolling brook has, here and there, beds or groups of long, green, waving moss, that waves from bank to bank, not upward and downward from bot- tom to top. This moss, called here deer moss, is from three to six feet long, is vital, living and a beautiful pale green. Lichen clings to the rocks, and the short green forest moss grows luxuriantly here; and as it seems to me ages on long ages ago, as the frozen waters swept and rushed southward from their icy homes, on the Laureutian hills, with 31 huge rocks, called boulders, in their frozen arms, they threw them at the northern face of the hill, and piled them at random here and there. These rocks rest or stand imbedded in the hill, south of New Salem, at every elevation on its sides, and in every angle of its face. One of these boulders seems as if it came from some fiery pool, and not from the northern pole. It has the looks, and smell, and feel of fire on it. On the southern face of another hill, across the branch, not far from where I stood at the rock just described, I heard the rock quarrier's iron rod ring out steel-like, as it bit and bored its way through the thick limestone ledges, rock on rock, sounding through valley and over hill. Here are lime-burners' kilns, and coal diggers' shafts, hori- zontal, going under the hill, or perpendicular, eighty feet or more, to reach the third great stratum of Illinois coal, deposited here millions of years now gone by. I returned to New Salem hill again and now, as I intently gaze over the whole field and scene, to my left, a little to the northeast, lies beautifully what is called Baker's prairie, about one mile off, stretch- ing out eastward two and one-half miles long, by one and one-quarter miles wide. The prairie on 32 the east side of the river, and the bottom land on the west side of the river, seem to me to be halves of a common lake through which the Sangamon river originally cut and burst. The bottom on the west side of the river, just north of Salem, is three- fourths of a mile wide, by one and a half miles long. The prairie on the east side contains probably fifteen hundred acres of rich the very richest alluvial soil, and the bottom on the west side contains about eight hundred acres of the same kind of sod and soil. The whole supposed lake, the eastern and the western side of the rolling river, is surrounded by hill and bluff, that rise to an equal elevation with the Salem hill. The Sangamon river runs into the lake at the south, and runs out at the north. These hills, bluffs, and peaks surrounded this lake before the great sea long, long before the great sea of waters passed off southward, between Missouri and Kentucky, roaring into the great gulf below. These hills are bearded with heavy forest trees. Now, all over these hills and valleys are, here and there, next little frame houses, and large, rich, and beautiful fields, clothed in green meadows and yel- low, ripened corn. Barns, orchards, and wheat stacks dot the plain, where once probably floated 33 the shark or other monster of the deep, or browsed the mastodon and other beasts. In the spring and summer all the lands are covered with rich meadows, wheat, oat and barley fields, over whose surface floats the clouds, chasing clouds, casting their shad- ows of various shapes and sizes on the ground, cov- ered with grass and grain; and as the wings of the wind gently move over the plains and fields, varied shades and colors, deep green, pale green, ripening into straw, salmon, dark straw and bright, in long, wide, wild waves, chase and follow each other as wave runs on and rolls after wave, in the ocean's sport and play. Do not forget, never forget, that Lincoln gazed on these scenes, which aided to edu- cate him. Never forget this for one moment. Did he love the beautiful and grand? If he did those faculties were developed here. Eemember it was amid these scenes he loved and despaired, and but I must pass on. While on my winding way, at my right hand and on my left, in front of me and beneath my feet, I saw and was met and greeted by the wild aster blue, purple and white whose blossoms stand trembling on their wiry stem in the wind. The blue lobelia, the morning and evening primroses, the 34 shrubby acacia, growing ten inches high, filled with yellow blooms, and the tall, huge mullen, whose single shaft runs up from three to six feet high, and whose broad, hairy, or velvety leaves lie broad and flat on the ground the very emblem of desolation were scattered here and there. Other flowers were here. In the early spring, in the first days of March, on the southern slope or face of the New Salem hill, comes first in the floral train, the blue and purple johnny, with which all western children, in their tender youth, fight rooster in the early spring. Soon follows the hardy, perennial mountain phlox, on the eastern side of the hill, where the sun first strikes it square in the face, an evergreen in winter, sending up in early spring from a common crown, ten or twenty stalks with many flowers on their slender stems, and on whose heads come and go many peach-colored blossoms with five petals, blooming from March to May. These grow about six inches high. Then follows, on the southern slope of the hill, the purple phlox, called the wild sweet-william, growing about ten inches high, and blooming from April to June. They too are hardy and perennial they may almost be called perpetual 35 bloomers, taking all localities and situations into account. At last, according to moisture, light and heat, they girdle the hill on three sides south, east and north, and finally running back through the woods, to and through the prairies westerly. The blue bell comes with its hundreds tubular, purple flowers, flaring at the mouth, bending in beauty and humility to the ground. The meadow lily is here, with its from two to four orange-colored flowers. The lady slipper, called the whippoorwill shoe by some, and the asclepias, red and orange, are here. The Judas tree, called the red-bud, colors in spring the forest's view. The may-apple and the wild dielytra, the wild hyacinth, the wild pansy, and the butter cup, among other fibrous, tuberous, and bulb- ous rooted flowers, hardy and perennial, are like- wise here, growing in patches or groups. The wild scarlet honey-suckle, and the sweet-scented clematis, throw their tendrils from limb to limb of hazel and haw, and climb up high towards the sun, adding their beauty to the scene. The bignonia climbs the elm of the valley, and the maple of the bottom; and in and during the year, each of the flower named here comes and blooms, seeds and dies, according to its floral season. The 36 wild, fiery scarlet Indian pink is scattered broad- cast over the hill, and we must not forget the haw, the crab apple and the plum, whose united fragrance of a dewy morning or evening, cannot be excelled in the floral world. The bushy dwarf and running wild rose squats or climbs all over and around the place. All, all these flowers come, bloom, have their passions, form and bear their seeds, and perish ; and yet come again, making the ages one grand floral procession; and yet, and yet how few, oh! how few men and women ever look upon and study these beauties of valley and hill. The fruit of this and the neighboring hills, woods, valleys and forests, is the blackberry, the raspberry and the dewberry, the red and black haw, the crab- apple, the plum, strawberry, the cherry, the hack- berry, and the paw-paw. Here are the walnut, the hickory nut black and white, hard shell and soft shell the acorn in variety, and the grape, summer and fall, small and fox, sweet and sour. The birds that come, sing, mate, raise their young, and go or stay, are the eternal, universal and uneasy jay, the wood cock, the wood pecker, the robin and the dove, the duck and wild pigeon, the quail and the wild goose, the prairie hen and turkey, 37 the martin and bee bird, the raven and the crow, the owl and whipporwill, birds of night, the wren and swallow, the eat bird and thrush, the snow bird and snipe, the king fisher, the oriole, the humming bird, and above all and over all, floats high, the gray or bold bald eagle. The timber and forest trees on the high and back grounds, are the oak in variety, the hickory in va- riety, sugar tree, walnut, ash, cherry and elm. The timber in the bottom is mostly elm, buckeye, syca- more, cottonwood, maple and the huge oak. I do not name all the trees, only some of the leading ones. The river's edges are lined and filled and fringed with the climbers, and the willows that grow run- ning and wild over its waters. The river and creeks give abundance of fish, such as the pike and cat, salmon and sucker, bass and buffalo, perch and red-horse, gar and sturgeon. The forests are full of game, such as deer, turkey, squir- rel, quail, coon and o 'possum, mink, muskrat and rabbit. Probably, I had better say the forest was once full of game, and the river full of fish. The game and fish are fast going. Game once served for sport, fun, chase and food, for cheer and life; and if the 38 western eye could see its game, and his fore-finger, educated to the feel, could but softly touch the well set hair trigger of his own long, close shooting and trusty gun, away goes as quick as lightning, the fast, hissing, leaden bullet, and down drops life in man and woman. Such were our people, and here they lived, loved, bore and died. On the opposite side of the river, eastward, across the river from New Salem, on the bluffs, mounds and peaks, may be found by thousands, the dead of the Silurian period of the world, millions of years gone by. We find the periwinkle, the bivalve, and other such shells in abundance, with other higher animal remains. The sand bars on the river's edge and in the river, present and give up to man the dead of all past time; and all around, all beneath, and above are life and death, and all is the past, the present, and the future, meeting, mingling, mixing and sink- ing into one God, who is all. There have been four distinct and separate waves classes of men, who have followed each other on the soil we now daily tread. The first is the Indian. The second is the bee and beaver hunter, the em- bodied spirit of western and southwestern pioneer- ing; they roam with the first class, nomads, wander- 39 ing Gipsies of the forests and the plains. The third class, with sub-classes and varieties, is composed of three distinct varieties of man, coming as a triple wave. The first is the religious man, the John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness; the second is the honest, hardy, thrifty, active and economical farmer, and the third is composed of the wild, hardy, honest, genial and social man a mixture of the gen- tleman, the rowdy, the roysterer; they are a wild, rattling, brave, social and hospitable class of men; they have no economy, caring only for the hour, and yet thousands of them grow rich ; they give tone and cast and character to the neighborhood in spite of all that can be said or done ; they are strong, shrewd, clever fellows; it is impossible to outwit or whip them. The fourth class, with sub-classes and va- rieties, have come among us seeking fortune, po- sition, character, power, fame, having ideas, philoso- phy, gearing the forces of nature for human uses, wants and purposes. They come from the East, from the Middle States, from the South; they come from every quarter of the globe, full grown men. Here are the English and the German, the Scotch and the Irish, the French and the Scandinavian, the Italian, the Portuguese, the Spaniard, Jew and Gen- 40 tile; and here and there and everywhere is the uni- versal, the eternal, indomitable and inevitable "Yankee," victorious over all, and I as a "Sucker", say welcome all. All, all, however, have their divine purposes in the high, deep, broad and wide extended, the sublime economy of God. I am necessitated, as it were in self-defense, to speak some words of the second and the third class, with sub-classes and varieties. The fourth class needs none. The original western and southwestern pioneer the type of him is at times a somewhat open, candid, sincere, energetic, spontaneous, trusting, tolerant, brave and generous man. He is hospitable in his tent, thoroughly acquainted with the stars in the heavens, by which he travels, more or less; he is acquainted with all the dangers of his route horse flesh and human flesh. He trusts to his own native sagacity a keen shrewdness, and his physical pow- er his gun and dog alone. The original man is a long, tall, lean, lank man ; he is a cadaverous, sallow, sunburnt, shaggy haired man ; his face is very sharp and exceedingly angular; his nose is long, pointed, and keen, Eoman or Greek as it may be; his eyes are small, gray or black, and sunken, are keen, sharp 41 and inquisitive, piercing, as if looking through the object seen, and to the very background of things; he is sinewy and tough, calm or uneasy, according to circumstances; he is all bone and sinew, scarcely any muscle ; is wise and endless in determinations- obstinate. He wears a short linsey-woolsy hunting shirt, or one made of soft buck or doe skin, fringed with the same; it is buckled tightly about his body. His moccasins are made of the very best heavy buck. His trusty and true rifle is on his shoulder, or stands by his side, his chin gracefully resting on his hand, which covers the muzzle of the gun. The gaunt, strong, hungry cur, crossed with the bull dog, and his hound, lie crouched at his feet, their noses rest- ing on and between their forepaws, thrown straight out in front, ready to bound, sieze, master and de- fend. The lean, short, compact, tough and hardy, crop eared, shaved mane and bob-tailed pony browses around, living where the hare, the deer, mule or hardy mountain goat can live. It makes no difference where night or storm overtakes him, his wife and children sleep well and sound, knowing that the husband, the father, protector and defender is safe from all harm. He sleeps on his rifle for pillow, his right hand 42 awake on the long, sharp, keen hunting knife in the girdle, carved over and over with game and deer. The will in the hand is awake. Such is the conscious will on the nerve and muscle of the hand, amid dan- ger of a night, placed there to keep watch and ward while the general soul is asleep, that it springs to defense long before the mind is fully conscious of the facts. How grand and mysterious is mind! The family makes no wild outcry "He's shot or lost!" This man, his trusty long rifle, his two dogs one to fight and one to scent and trail the long, sharp and keen butcher knife, that never holds fire or flashes in the pan, are equal to all emergencies. As for himself, his snores on the grass, or brush-pile, cut to make his bed, testify to the soul's conscious security. Whether in a hollow tree or log, or under and beneath the river's bank for shelter screen or fort in night or daytime, his heart beats calm; he is a fatalist, and says, "What is to be, will be." He never tires, is quick and shrewd, is physically pow- erful, is cunning, suspicious, brave and cautious al- ternately or all combined, according to necessity. He is swifter than the Indian, is stronger, is as long- winded, and has more brains. This man is bee hunt- er, or trapper, or Indian fighter. He is shy, nervous, 43 uneasy, and quite fidgety in the villages where he goes twice a year to exchange his furs for whisky, tobacco, powder, flints and lead. He dreads, does not scorn, our civilization. Overtake the man, catch him, and try to hold a conversation with him, if you can. His eye and imagination are on the chase in the forest when you think you are attracting his simple mind. He is restless in eye and motion about towns and villages ; his muscles and nerves dance an uneasy, rapid, jerking dance when in presence of our civilization. He is suspicious here, and danger- ous from his ignorance of the social world. This man is a man of acts and deeds, not speech ; he is at times stern, silent, secretive and somewhat uncom- municable. His words are words of one syllable, sharp nouns and active verbs mostly. He scarcely ever uses adjectives, and always replies to ques- tions asked him' ' Yes, " " No, " " I will, ""I wont. ' ' Ask him where he is from, and his answer is "Blue Ridge," "Cumberland," "Bear Creek." Ask him where he kills his game, or gets his furs, and his answer ever is "Illinois," "Sangamon," "Salt Creek." Ask him where he is going "Plains," "Forests," "Home," is his unvarying answer. See him in the wilds, as I have seen him, strike up with 44 bis left hand's forefinger the loose rim of his old home-made wool or other hat, that hangs like a rag over his eyes, impeding his sight and perfect vision, peering keenly into the distance for fur or game, Indian or deer. See him look and gaze and deter- mine what the thing seen is see him at that instant stop and crouch and crawl toward the object like a wild hungry tiger, measuring the distances between twig and weed with his beard, so as to throw no shadow of sensation on the distant eye of foe or game the thing to be crept on and inevitably killed. See him watch even the grass and brush beneath his feet, as he moves and treads, that no rustle, or crack or snap, shall be made by which the ear of foe or game shall be made aware of his danger. See him carefully wipe off and raise his long and trusty gun to shoulder and cheek see him throw his eye lockward and along the barrel watch him, see the first upcoil of smoke, before the crack and ring and roll and roar comes. The bullet has already quickly done its work of death. Caution makes this man stand still and reload before moving a foot. Then he eyes the dead keenly. "There's danger in the ap- parent dead," he whispers to himself, cocks his gun and walks, keeping his finger on the trigger. 45 The third class I am about to describe the brave, rollicking roysterer is still among us, though tamed by age into a moral man. He is large, bony, muscular, strong almost as an ox. He is strongly physically developed. He is naturally strong mind- ed, naturally gifted, brave, daring to a fault. He is a hardy, rough and tumble man. He has a strong, quick sagacity, fine intuitions, with great, good com- mon sense. He is hard to cheat, hard to whip and still harder to fool. These people are extremely so- ciable and good natured too much so for their own good, as a general rule. They are efficient, ready, practical men, and are always ready for any revolu- tion. I wish, I am anxious, to defend these men, as well as the God-given spirit of pioneering. One of the writers on Mr. Lincoln's life says, speaking of Thomas Lincoln, "When inefficient men become very uncomfortable they are quite likely to try emigra- tion as a remedy. A good deal of what is called the pioneer spirit is simply the spirit of shiftless dis- content." But more of this hereafter, not now and just here. These men, especially about New Salem, could shave a horse's mane and tail, paint, disfigure and offer him for sale to the owner in the very act of in- 46 quiring for his own horse, that knew his master, but his master recognizing him not. They could hoop up in a hogshead a drunken man, they being them- selves drunk, put in and nail down the head, and roll the man down New Salem hill a hundred feet or more. They could run down a lean, hungry wild pig, catch it, heat a tin-plate stove furnace hot, and putting in the pig, could cook it, they dancing the while a merry jig. They could, they did, these very things occasionally, yet they could clear and clean a forest of Indians and wolves in a short time ; they could shave off a forest as clean and clear as a man's beard close cut to his face ; they could trench a pond, ditch a bog or lake, erect a log house, pray and fight, make a village or create a state. They would do all for sport or fun, or from necessity do it for a neighbor and they could do the reverse of all this for pure and perfectly unalloyed deviltry's sake. They attended church, heard the sermon, wept and prayed, shouted, got up and fought an hour, and then went back to pray, just as the spirit moved them. These men I am speaking generally were always true to women their fast and tried friends, protectors and defenders. There are scarcely any such on the globe for this virtue. They were one 47 thing or the other praying or fighting, creating or destroying, shooting Indians or getting shot by whisky, just as they willed. Though these men were rude and rough, though life's forces ran over the edge of its bowl, foaming and sparkling in pure and perfect deviltry for deviltry's sake, yet place be- fore them a poor weak man, who needed their aid, a sick man, a man of misfortune, a lame man, a woman, a widow, a child, an orphaned little one, then these men melted up into sympathy and char- ity at once, quick as a flash, and gave all they had, and willingly and honestly toiled or played cards for more. If a minister of religion preached the devil and his fire, they would cry out "to your rifles, oh boys, and let's clean out the devil, with his fire and all, they are enemies to mankind." If the good minister preached Jesus and him crucified, with his precious blood trickling down the spear and cross, they would melt into honest prayer, praying hon- estly, and with deep, deep feeling and humility, say- ing aloud, "would to God we had been there with our good trusty rifles amid those murderous Jews." I wish to quote the author 's sentence again, it reads "When inefficient men become very uncomfort- able, they are quite likely to try emigration as a rem- 48 edy. A good deal of what is called the pioneer spirit is simply the spirit of shiftless discontent." Here are two distinct allegations or assertions, rather charges : 1st, that inefficient men, through the spirit of discontent at home, emigrate as a remedy for that uncomfortableness ; and 2nd, that a good deal of the spirit of pioneering comes from the spirit of shift- less discontent. I wish to say a few words on this sentence, and first as to fact, and secondly, as to principal. It is not, I hope, necessary for me to defend the particular man spoken of Thomas Lin- coln the father of President Lincoln. It is not necessary that I should natter the pioneer to defend him, yet I feel that other men and women in New England, possible in Europe, may be grossly mis- led by such an assertion, such an idea, as is con- tained in this sentence. It is admitted by me that man's condition at home sometimes is exceedingly uncomfortable. To throw off that condition of un- comfortableness is the sole, only and eternal motive that prompts and drives men and women to pio- neering. Men of capacity, integrity and energy for such are the generality of pioneers in the west emigrate to this new land from their own homes, not because they are inefficient men, men unable to 49 grapple with the home condition, but rather because thy refuse to submit to the bad conditions at home. Their manly souls and indomitable spirits rise up against the cold, frigid, despotic caste crystalliza- tions at home a glorious rebellion for the freedom of man. All men emigrate from their homes to new lands in hope of bettering their human conditions, which at home are sometimes chafingly uncomfort- able. The spirit of pioneering is not a spirit of shiftless discontent, nor any part of it, but is the creating spirit, a grand desire, wish and will to rise up in the scale of being; it has moved mankind each man and woman and placed them on the globe, with genius in their heads, and hope and faith rh their souls. God's intentions, purposes and laws, as written on the human soul, forever interpret them- selves thus: "My child, my good children, man, woman and child, each and all hope, struggle, I am with you and will forever be, go on, go upward, go westward, go heavenward, on and on forever." Good men and women do not, from the spirit of shift- less discontent, quit the sacred ashes of the dead loved ones, and wildly rush into a cold, damp, un- cleared, gloomy, unsettled, wild wilderness, where they know they must struggle with disease, poverty, 50 nature, the wild wolf and wilder men, and the un- tamed and ungeared elements of nature, that sweep everywhere unconfined. They do not go for game, nor sport, nor daring adventure with wild beast, nor daring sport with wilder men. They go or come at God's command "Children, my good chil- dren, one and all, man, woman and child, all, all hope, struggle, to better your condition onward, forestward, upward and on and on forever, or miserably perish, and quit the globe to be repeopled by better beings. ' ' Men, tender and lovely women, do not quit their homes, where are comforts, luxuries, arts, science, general knowledge and ease, amid the civilized and civilizing influences at home, to go westward from a spirit of shiftless discontent. "What! are these brave men and women all through the west, and such as these the world over, inefficient men, inactive con- sumers, unenergetic, insufficients, lazy and do- nothing people, bursting westward from the spirit of shiftless discontent, where they involuntarily clap their hands to their heads and spasmodically feel for their crowns, in order to preserve their scalps, as the quick flash and fire-steel gleam of the Indian's knife glints and glistens against the western sky! 51 What! Are Grant and Jackson, Douglas and Ben- ton, Clay and Lincoln, inefficient men, coming west from the spirit of shiftless discontent? Is fire ef- ficiently hot? Is lightning efficiently active? Is na- ture efficiently creative, massing and rolling up all these visible worlds to heat and light and life, and holding them suspended there by God's will called by men gravity for a human idea's sake? If these things are so, then these men and women whom I have described, the pioneers, with their brave hearts and their defiant and enduring souls, are and were efficient men and women efficiently warm, for they consumed and burnt the forest and cleared and cleaned it. They had and have energy and creative activity, with capacity, honesty and valor. They created states and hold them to the Union, to liberty and to justice. They and their children after them can and do point with the highest pride and con- fidence to the deep, broad-laid, tolerant, generous, magnanimous foundations of these mighty several western states, whereon our liberty and civilization so proudly and firmly stand, that they, the pioneer, in the spirit of pioneering embodied in them, made and created, and hold up to light and heat and life, 52 suspended there rolling, by the electro -magnetic power of the intelligent popular will. My defense has ended. The wild animals that pre- ceded the Indians are gone, the Indian treading closely on their heels. The red man has gone. The pioneer, the type of him, is gone, gone with the Indian, the bear, and the beaver, the buffalo and deer. They all go with the same general wave, and are thrown high on the beach of the wilderness, by the deep, wide sea of our civilization. He that tramped on the heels of the red man, with his wife and children, pony and dog, are gone, leaving no trace behind. He is the master of the bee and the beaver, the Indian and the bear, the wolf and buff- alo. He and they are gone, never to return. God speed them on their way, their journey and destiny. As path makers, blazers, mappers, as fighters and destructive, they have had, and have their uses and purposes in the divine plan. Such are succeeded by the Armstrongs, the Clarrys, the Eutledges, the Greens, Spears, and Lincolns, who too have their uses and purposes in the great Idea, and are suc- ceeded by others, now among us, who are forces in the same universal plan. And let us not complain, for the great Planner knows and has decreed what 53 is best and wisest in his grand and sublime economics. The animal is gone; the Indian is gone. The trapper, bee and beaver hunter is gone all are gone. A few of the third class still remain among us, standing or leaning like grand, gray, old towers, with lights on their brow, quietly inclining, leaning, almost dipping in the deep, the unknown, the un- knowable and unfathomable deeps of the future, that roll through all time and space, and last up against the Throne. They did not come here from ihe spirit of shiftless discontent, nor shall they take up their soul's greatest pioneering march on to God, through the cowardly spirit of shiftless discontent. They are fast going, one by one. Eespect them while living, reverence them when dead, and tread lightly on their sacred dust, ye all. The children of such may be trusted to preserve and hand down to all future time what they created, wrought and planted in the forest. The fourth class is ready to clasp hands with the third, taking an oath of fidelity to Liberty, sacred as heaven. We thus come and go, and in the coming and going we have shaded risen up, progressed during these various and varied waves of immigration, with their respective civili- zations, through force, cunning and the rifle, to the 54 dollars, the steam engine, and the Idea. We have moved from wolf to mind. We have grown out- ward, upward, higher and better, living generally in more virtue, less vice, longer and more civilized, freer and purer, and thus man ever mounts upward. So are the records of all time. Abraham Lincoln loved Ann Eutledge with all his soul, mind and strength. She loved him as dearly, tenderly and affectionately. They seemed made in heaven for each other, though opposite in many things. As before remarked, she was accidentally, innocently and honestly engaged to A. Lincoln and Mr. at one and the same time. It is said and thought that the young lady was conditionally promised to Mr. Lincoln, to be consummated upon a release from her first engagement with Mr. The primary causes, facts and conditions which led to this complication shall be related to you at another time and place. There is no dishonor in it to any of the three. In her conflicts of honor, duty, love, promises, and womanly engagements she was taken sick. She struggled, regretted, grieved, be- came nervous. She ate not, slept not, was taken sick of brain fever, became emaciated, and was fast sinking in the grave. Lincoln wished to see her. 55 She silently prayed to see him. The friends of both parties at first refused the wish and prayer of both, still the wishes and prayers of both prevailed. Mr. Lincoln did go to see her about the 10th day of August, A. D. 1835. The meeting was quite as much as either could bear, and more than Lincoln, with all his coolness and philosophy, could endure. The voice, the face, the features of her; the love, sympathy and interview fastened themselves on his heart and soul forever. Heaven only knows what was said by the two. God only knows what was thought. Dr. Jason Duncan, of New Salem, about September, A. D. 1833, had shown and placed in Mr. Lincoln's hands the poem called in short, now, "Immortality," or properly, "Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?" Eemember, Miss Eut- ledge died on the 25th of August, A. D. 1835, and was buried in the Concord cemetery, six miles north, bearing a little west, of New Salem, as stated before. Mr. Lincoln has stated that his heart, sad and broken, was buried there. He said in addition, to the same friend, "I cannot endure the thought that the sleet and storm, frost and snow of heaven should beat on her grave." He never addressed another woman, in my opinion, "yours affectionate- 56 ly;" and generally and characteristically abstained from the use of the word "love." That word can- not be found more than a half dozen times, if that often, in all his letters and speeches, since that time. I have seen some of his letters to other ladies, but he never says "love." He never ended his letters with "yours affectionately," but signed his name, "your friend, A. Lincoln." Abraham Lincoln was, by nature, more or less, in tendency, abstracted had the power of continuous concentrated thought. It may be, as alleged, that he was a warm, ardent and more or less impulsive man, before 1834, and of which I give no opinion. He never did care for food eating mechanically. He sorrowed and grieved, rambled over the hills and through the forests, day and night. He suffered and bore it for a while like a great man a philosopher. He slept not, he ate not, joyed not. This he did until his body became emaciated and weak, and gave way. His mind wandered from its throne. In his imagi- nation he muttered words to her he loved. His mind, his reason, somewhat dethroned, walked out of itself along the uncolumned air, and kissed and embraced the shadows and illusions of the heated brain. Love, future happiness, death, sorrow, 57 grief, and pure and perfect despair, the want of sleep, the want of food, a cracked and aching heart, over and intense thought, soon worked a partial wreck of body and mind. It has been said that Mr. Lincoln became and was totally insane at that time and place. This is not exactly the truth. The de- thronement of his reason was only partial, and could alone be detected by his closest friends, and sharpest observers, through the abruptness of his sentences and the sharp contrasts of his ideas and language. To give you a fair idea, an exact one of his then true mental state and condition imagine Mr. Lincoln situated as I have attempted to de- scribe. Mr. Lincoln had a strong mind, a clear and distinct one. His style and mode of expression in 1835, were entirely different from what they were from 1853 to 1864. He had more, much more, emo- tion, fancy and imagination, in 1835, when he was 26 years of age, than he had in 1853 to 1864 when he was 47 to 55 years of age. He grew stronger as he grew older. Did this dread calamity, of which I have spoken, crush him and thus modify, if it did not change his nature? It must be expected that his expressions would follow truly his own rational thoughts in part 58 only, not wholly so in logic, at least. His utterances and expressions would be necessarily disconnected and sharply contrasted. It is said, and I believe it, that he lost his logical faculty power over cause and effect, and their legitimate relation through the momentary loss of memory alone. Imagine him racked in heart and body, in mind and soul, not forgetting the immediate and proximate cause of his condition. He must naturally and necessarily speak and utter what is in his own mind; sharply and incoherently, sadly and wildly. Hear him: "What a time for joy today in town; the men and women looked so happy all through the village. Ah ! me. No. Not today; its night. There's a trick in it, and where 's the fallacy? Does nature deal un- justly? I thought not. I'll see and tell myself. "Pis a rude wind that blows no man joy. Where am I? What strange woods are these. It seems that I've run my compass and dragged my chains along this path. Why, wherefore is all this! These hills I've never seen before, and the wild valleys at my feet now have no more familiar face for me. What? 'Tis strange. How is it? What's that? These hands I think I've seen before, and yet I know them not. The clouds are cold, and where 's 59 fire? There it is! No, 'tis not. How goes it out? Who cheats me ? and for what ? I am sad ; and thou sweet bird of night, sing on thy tune of whippor- will; ah! who's that? 'Tis her I love. This path and hill I know; yet 'tis strange, strange, uncom- mon strange. I know it here and there, in spots. Why, wherefore is this? Who am I and what, 'mid nature's profoundest uncertainties, that come and go like chance, whither, no one knows. There, the cocks crow. Did I not read but, stay, did I not read law beneath the shade of this tree, grinding 'round the sun? I love her. Oh! immensities above me, below me, and around me. The dogs, the very dogs bark at me. These limbs and legs, feet and hands, are mine ; yet 'tis strange ! and ah! thou mysterious state of things. Isn't fate, chance, Providence, God that so unwinds the world's and all their life? Grief! What's that? I'm tired and weary . The clothes I've got on and wear, I know are mine, and yet they seem not to be. Ah! dead and gone from me thou sweet one; and shall this aching, crushed heart of mine never die and feel the pangs of nature never more. This old mill I've seen before, and often heard it grind. The waters in the pond are filled with shining, floating 60 stars. Why don't they go out and sink in water ten feet deep, or more? It's curious, curious, strange wondrous strange. Why, wherefore is that? Some trick deludes me. I'll search and tell myself. Ah ! dead and gone, thou sweet one ; dead and buried forever, forever more, in the grave. Mortal man! so it is, and must be. Our hopes forever blast and wither in their tender growth. What is hope? What is death? What is forever, evermore, forevermore? Come gentle winds and cool my aching head; or, thou hanging thunderbolt, swiftly strike and scorch me. What's that in the mill pond, going splash, splash! 'Twas a fish, I guess. Let's go and feed it, and make it joy, and be happy. I love her, and shall marry her on tomorrow's eve. So soul be content, and endless joy shall come. Heart of mine be still, for remember sweet tomorrow eve. Oh! thou calmest, most boisterous profoundest uncer- tainties of things, hold off, or take another path not coming here. What ! did I dream? Think ; what did I say? It cannot be. No, it cannot be. She's dead and gone gone forever. Fare thee well, sweet girl! We'll meet again." I am not now discussing the complicated causes of insanity in a scientific method. I am not able to 61 do so. I am giving you a probable example of what Lincoln was in September A. D. 1834. I give you the broad facts. I shall not, now and here, enter into a scientific disquisition on lunacy what are illusions, or delusions; nor other false appearances in the mind of the insane; nor whether these illu- sions, delusions, or other false appearances in a fevered, wrecked brain are caused objectively from or through irregular and feverish sensations; nor subjectively by the same; nor whether they come from perceptions distorted nor from memory or imagination, abnormally developed; nor from all combined. One thing ought to be certain: namely, that the mind cannot create normally, regularly, in a wrecked and shattered condition. Creation, through mental energy, is the law of the mind; and when it cannot create lawfully, regularly, through normal mental energy in activity, it cannot create according to its law. This is the great law of the mind. Creations are distortions when the mind is diseased. Mental creations lift us heavenward, in proportion to the number of such creations. Who shall promulgate this great law and teach it? The friends of Mr. Lincoln men, women and children begged him to quit his home and place 62 of business. They coaxed and threatened him by turns in order to get him to quit the places and scenes of his sorrows and griefs. His women friends tried their arts on him. Men begged and held out strong inducements to go into the country. The boys and girls of the town and neighborhood aided and assisted the older people all they could. All tricks were detected by the man the whole peo- ple so dearly loved. Bolin Green and some of his and Lincoln's special friends at last tried their pow- ers. They succeeded in throwing Lincoln off his guard by robbing him of his suspicions. Mr. Lin- coln, in September, went down to Bolin Green's in consequence of the pressure thrown on him and around him, and in the space of a week or ten days, by Bolin 's humor, generosity and hospitality, his care and kindness, aided by the womanly sympathy, gentleness and tenderness of his wife, Lincoln soon rose up, a man once more. He was visited daily by men, women, boys and girls, whose conversation, stories, jokes, witticisms, fun and sport, soon roused up the man, thus enabling him to momentarily throw off sorrow, sadness, grief, pain and anxiety. They walked over the hills with him, danced for him, read for him, laughed for him, and amused him in 63 a thousand ways. He evidently enjoyed all as man scarcely ever enjoyed two weeks before, nor since. He got well and bade adieu, for a short season, to Bolin's kind roof and generous hospitality. Mrs. Bolin Green still lives, God bless her; she survives her own husband, and their ward and guest. Mr. Lincoln went back to New Salem, as thought, a changed, a radically changed man. He went to New Salem about the last of September, A. D. 1835. He now once more picked up, took up, and read, and re-read the poem called "Immortality;" or, "Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?" He saw new beauties in it. He siezed it, and it seized him a mutual seizure and arrest. He learned, learned it by heart, committed it to memory, and repeated it over and over to his friends. Such is the true history of things such are New Salem and surrounding country such are her hills, and bluffs, and valleys. Such are her geology and her general past such is her floral world such are her fruits, trees and plants, birds, fish and game and such were and are her people. Such is New Salem such was she in the past such is she now. So is she in the spring-time, in the summer-time, fall and winter-time. So she is in daylight, and 64 darkness, beneath sun, moon, and stars. So is her rise her growth her fall and ruin, death and de- cay. Such is man. It was here Abraham Lincoln first came to himself, after so great grief. It was here, amid these hills and peaks, bluffs and valleys, creeks and paths, branches and rivulets, he moved among men and women, walked and roamed sadly, gloomily, frantically, despairingly, almost insanely. He thought and reflected on man and women, the V transient and permanent, love, duty, nature, destiny, the past, present, and the future of God. It was here he walked in daylight at night time under the forest trees and beneath the moon's pale, sad glance, contemplating all human life, its laws and springs, its mysterious ways and ends, his own insignificance, the utter insignificance of all men and things, the follies, foibles, ambitions and cor- ruptions, as compared with nature, laws and prin- ciples, all embodied in the permanent, and it in the never-beginning and never-ending, absolute, un- conditioned and illimitable. It was about the 20th day of October, A. D. 1835, that Abraham Lincoln, 65 as he wandered and wended his sad and melancholy way over hill and dale, gloomily burst forth Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeing meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. The infant, a mother attended and loved: The mother, that infant's affection who proved; The husband, that mother and infant who blest, Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure her triumphs are by. And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king, that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint, who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 66 So the multitude goes like the flower of the weed. That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes even those we behold. To repeat every tale that has often been told; For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen; We drink the same stream, we view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging, they also would cling But it speeds from us all, like a bird on the wing. They loved but the story we cannot unfold: They scorned but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved but no wail from their slumber will come; They joyed but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died ay, they died we things that are now, That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, And make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death; From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud: Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 67