Abraham Lincoln

by Clara Ingram Judson

  As he leaned back in the worn chair in his office, did he think of the Abe Lincoln who had drifted down the Sangamon that July day in 1831? That boy would have called this man a success. He was a prosperous lawyer; he had a devoted wife and two sons. But somewhere in the nineteen years the dream had changed. Ambitious Abraham Lincoln now aimed higher than being a good lawyer. But he saw no way of achieving the new goal.

  “The best thing for me to do now,” he told himself, “is to drop politics for good and get at my law business.”

  • CHAPTER THIRTEEN •

  RIDING THE CIRCUIT

  Their house on Jackson Street looked wonderful to the Lincolns after that crowded boardinghouse in Washington. Bob and Eddie looked up their friends. Neighbors came to call on Mrs. Lincoln and to hear about the latest news and fashions. Mr. Lincoln had gone to his office.

  That Lincoln and Herndon office was a dingy place, for Billy Herndon was no more orderly than Lincoln; but their partnership was congenial and they could overcome differences of opinion. Lincoln was now forty years old—and he called his partner “Billy”; Herndon was thirty-one— and he always spoke of the senior partner as “Mr. Lincoln.” Their prospects for business were fine. A client felt a certain distinction when his case was handled by a man who had served in Congress. Shades of political opinion didn’t matter in court. Lincoln’s wide acquaintance brought clients from a distance, and he had work in the Eighth Circuit courts as well as in Sangamon County.

  The Lincoln summer home in Washington, D.C.

  Circuit courts had been set up in the state to serve citizens who lived in thinly settled communities where court was needed only occasionally. Most pioneer disputes were about boundaries, wills, or debts, and could wait until a judge came for a few days each spring and fall. This judge went from one community to the next in a kind of circle tour called a “circuit” so he came to be called the “Judge of the Circuit Court.” There were no railroads, so the judge must ride a horse or drive a light buggy. He was said to be “riding the circuit” when he made his trips. Usually one or two lawyers went along with him. If the case was important, they were hired ahead of time so they could look up the law in their books in Springfield.

  Judge David Davis was on the circuit around Springfield. He was a tall man, and he weighed more than three hundred pounds. He rode in a light buggy and sometimes Lincoln crowded his lean frame in beside the judge, though it was more comfortable to ride horseback alongside. Nights, the men stayed with friends or stopped at miserable little inns. Rain, cold, poor food, and long hours on a road that often was a mere trail across the prairie made the work hard. But Lincoln did not mind hardship, and he liked to be with people. Herndon stayed in Springfield and did the work there during circuit court time.

  Farm living had changed in the twenty years since Thomas Lincoln’s family had moved to Illinois. Now some farmers lived in frame houses and kept horses instead of oxen. Many used steel plows and some had reaping machines made in Chicago at the new McCormick factory.

  Court week was as good as a fair. People managed their work so they could come to town and see the judge arrive. If a man knew anyone who had a case up for trial, he might bring his whole family and visit a relative for the week—if he was lucky enough to have a relative and someone to stay at home and tend the stock. When Judge Davis’s buggy pulled up at the courthouse, men rushed over to engage a lawyer or talk to the judge.

  A famous case during the years Lincoln was riding the circuit was the trial of “Duff” Armstrong for the murder of a man named Metzker. Duff was a son of Jack Armstrong, the Clary Grove leader Lincoln had fought in New Salem. His wife, Hannah, was the woman who had “foxed” Abe’s breeches when he tore them on brambles while surveying. Metzker was killed (or had died) during a camp meeting the summer before. The story was that James Norris had hit him on the head with a club and that Duff Armstrong finished him off with a slingshot. Norris had already been tried and pronounced guilty—mostly on the testimony of a Charles Allen who claimed he saw the whole thing.

  Lincoln thought it a slim story and believed in Duff’s innocence, but it would be a hard case to prove and was made worse by the verdict against Norris. The Armstrongs were nearly wild with worry; their only comfort was that Abe Lincoln had agreed to take the case. But when he arrived Lincoln offered them no bright hopes. He merely spoke a few friendly words to Hannah.

  As the trial began, observers noticed that Lincoln was trying for a jury of young men.

  “Bet he thinks young fellows will understand the fix Duff is in,” one man whispered.

  Then the state put Charles Allen on the stand, and he told the long tale that had convicted Norris. Anxiously Hannah watched Lincoln. He sat quietly, his eyes on the ceiling. She wondered whether he was even listening.

  In the afternoon, when he began to cross-examine the witness, he asked such trivial questions that Hannah despaired; the knuckles of her clinched hands were white. Why didn’t Abe do something before it was too late? But wait! She straightened up. His questions were coming faster, now.

  “Did you actually see the fight?”

  “Yes, sir.” Allen’s answer was firm.

  “Where were you at the time?”

  “Not far away—about one hundred and fifty feet, I’d guess.”

  “Describe the weapon.”

  Allen went into detail, describing the slingshot Duff was supposed to have used.

  “What time was this?” Lincoln asked casually.

  “Before midnight. Around eleven o’clock.”

  Lincoln paused and squinted one eye inquiringly. “How could you see that far, in the night?”

  “The moon was bright—a full moon. High in the sky, as bright as day.”

  Lincoln whirled suddenly to face the sheriff.

  “Hand me that book—there, that one,” Lincoln pointed to a small paper book he had put on the table with other papers. He opened the book slowly. Men nearby saw by the cover that it was an almanac. Lincoln held it so those close to him could see the page as he read. On the night of the supposed murder the moon was in the first quarter and had set before midnight. The crowd was silent in shocked astonishment. The idea was so plain—yet no one had thought of it. Hannah flushed, hopeful for the first time.

  The fight was not over, but with Allen proved a liar, Duff now had a chance. Lincoln next proved that the slingshot showed in court was not Duff’s and was in another man’s pocket the night of the murder.

  At last the time came for Lincoln’s summing up for the jury. The crowded courtroom was stifling when he rose to speak. Seated, Lincoln did not look taller than other men. But as he unfolded his long legs he seemed to tower over everyone in that room. He took off his coat and vest and hung them on a chair. The room was so quiet that a dog’s bark outside sounded loud. He unwound the stock from about his neck and began to speak. At once his gray eyes brightened; his expression became alert; his high tenor voice carried to every corner and to the listening crowds at windows and doors. Men who heard boasted afterward that it was the best speech Lincoln ever made.

  He talked an hour, reviewing evidence, pointing out that Metzker might have died from a fall he’d had off his horse. He told of his long friendship for the Armstrong family and his belief in their fine characters.

  “I am interested only in justice,” he ended. “I am trying this case for friendship—not a fee.” (Many lawyers charged a big fee for a murder case. Working without any pay was unusual and impressive.)

  The jury acquitted Duff on the first ballot. Hannah sobbed with joy and could hardly speak when Lincoln came to bid her good-bye.

  Fees for legal work in the Circuit Court were low, since most cases were fairly unimportant. But they counted up. Lincoln was making a good living through these years and saving money. He got a few large fees, too; a thousand dollars for a patent case connected with the McCormick reaper, five thousand for a tax case for the Illinois Central Railroad. Between sessions of the Circuit Court he pr
acticed law in Springfield.

  About a year after the Lincolns came back from Washington, the family was saddened by the death of little Eddie. That same year, 1850, a third son, William Wallace, was born. Three years later, in 1853, they had a fourth son, named Thomas for Lincoln’s father, who had died. Young Thomas was affectionately called “Tad”; he was a lively little boy who spoke with a lisp. The small home seemed full of boys; and since Lincoln was doing well, the house was enlarged to a full two stories. They were very comfortable.

  Mrs. Lincoln was busy with her family, as mothers are. She made clothes for the boys and for herself, and she cooked the meals. Sometimes she had a “girl” to help with cleaning and picking up; there was plenty of that. The church sewing society often had meetings at the Lincoln home, and Mrs. Lincoln entertained guests she thought would help her husband. He had no political ambitions now, but she wanted to help him in his profession. When she had company she liked to have things “nice.” But that was not easy, because Mr. Lincoln allowed the boys to be as rowdy as they pleased. Often Mrs. Lincoln had bad headaches, and then she was cross and miserable. Her husband would take the boys for a long walk to keep the house quiet until she got better.

  Mr. Lincoln helped at home as other men did. He went to market with a big basket, which he lugged home and set on the kitchen table. He chopped wood and kept fires going. That fancy new stove in the parlor, called a “Parlour Temple,” fairly gobbled up wood, but Mrs. Lincoln thought it very stylish. Mr. Lincoln took care of the horse that he had bought for riding the circuit, and he milked the cow.

  That cow sometimes made trouble. Lincoln kept it tied to a sycamore tree in the meadow a block or so from the house. Boys in the neighborhood, including his own, played ball nearby; and often when Mr. Lincoln went to milk he forgot what he came to do and played with them. On an evening when the Lincolns were having a party, the cook needed milk. Lincoln had done the milking, but when the game got exciting he joined in.

  Small Willie came running from the house. “The milk,” he yelled. “They want the milk!”

  Lincoln tossed the bat aside, grabbed the bucket of milk and dashed for the house as fast as his long legs could get him there. The boys marveled that he could run fast without spilling. That was a skill he had learned lugging water in Indiana.

  Through the early fifties Abraham Lincoln was successful and content. He was still ambitious, and so was his wife. But law was a challenge to an ambitious man and promised a great future. The threat to the Union of slavery spreading, not personal ambition, drew him back into politics.

  This threat became important when Kansas and Nebraska were to be organized as territories. Opinion was divided as to whether the large part of the Louisiana Purchase should be “slave” or free.” Under the Missouri Compromise they would be “free.” Senator Stephen A. Douglas introduced a bill which abolished the Missouri Compromise and provided that each state should decide about slavery for itself. The bill passed and became a law.

  This Missouri Compromise had long been one of America’s important documents. It had been adopted in 1820 when the territory of Missouri had asked to be a state. Up to that year the new republic had not been troubled about slavery. The cotton-growing South had slaves. The more industrial East had about ended their slaveholding, and the whole Northwest Territory—Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, and Wisconsin were “free.” But the huge Louisiana Purchase had made a new problem. What should that region be? Northerners knew that if it had slavery, then a majority of the states would be slaveholding. Southerners knew that if all that land was “free” the institution of slavery would gradually die out.

  Mrs. Norah Gridley, cousin of Mrs. Abraham Lincoln, and Miss May Coleman, at the typewriter, outside of and near the corner of the Lincoln Cabin, a log cabin in Illinois that was built by Thomas Lincoln and visited by his son, Abraham Lincoln.

  The quarrel over admitting Missouri in 1820 had almost broken up the Union. Abe Lincoln was too young then to understand, but he learned about it later. Finally, both sides gave up something and a compromise was made. The people who were against slavery had agreed that Missouri could be admitted as a slaveholding state. The people who favored slavery had given up hope of controlling more states in the north. Together they had agreed about future states to be formed from Louisiana-Purchase land; a state that was north of an east-west line drawn about where the Ohio River entered the Mississippi should be “free” and states that were south of that line could be “slave.” This compromise had held for more than thirty years, until Douglas’s Nebraska bill, based on what he called “popular sovereignty,” set it aside. Many, like Lincoln, believed that this bill would quickly allow slavery to spread.

  Stephen A. Douglas had been elected in 1852 for his second term in the United States Senate, so he was not a candidate in 1854. But he took an active part in the campaign for state legislators in Illinois. Douglas was an excellent speaker and probably the most promising politician of that year. He was devoted to his country; and many people likened him to Henry Clay. He was mentioned as a good man for the next president, though some thought that in writing his Nebraska bill he was over-influenced by personal interests and ambition.

  Abraham Lincoln, though busy and successful in his law practice, proposed to bring an understanding of that Nebraska Bill to the people. He began by writing letters to influential friends and by making speeches. He pointed out two errors in Douglas’s reasoning: first, when part of the people were slaves true “popular sovereignty” was impossible because the slave part of the population could not vote; second, allowing new states to decide for or against slavery was an attempt to evade an evil. Lincoln believed that the time was approaching when the nation must decide about slavery, because no country could long exist half slave and half free.

  In October of 1854 Lincoln explained his ideas in a speech in Peoria. He told the whole history of the Missouri Compromise and pointed out the danger of setting it aside. Listeners saw that Lincoln’s oratory had improved; he did less clowning, and his manner was dignified. He still illustrated a point with a story, but his tales were brief and well chosen. His eyes lighted when he talked, and his friendly manner was pleasing. That speech was printed and was widely read. Anti-Nebraska voters won a majority in the legislature, and Lincoln just missed being chosen as United States Senator.

  In that same year, 1854, many men who had been Whigs joined with some anti-Nebraska Democrats to form a new party. They gave it a name Thomas Jefferson had used— Republican. Most Republicans were against slavery and, like Lincoln, were firmly against allowing slavery to spread. Most Democrats were for the right to hold slaves. In May of 1856, Lincoln allied himself with this new Republican party when he spoke at a state convention in Bloomington. That address was so thrilling that reporters forgot their pencils in eager listening; and as Lincoln had no notes, it became known as the “Lost Speech.” Some said that it was the best of all Lincoln’s speeches. So remarkable was its effect that twenty-one days later Lincoln, who was hardly known beyond Illinois, received several votes for the nomination for vice-president.

  But Lincoln himself, though ambitious, did not push his advantage. It seemed, almost, as though he was waiting— waiting. And while he waited, something in him began to grow, some secret, hidden stir of spirit. He pondered about his country and about the idea of government his country stood for. He wondered what might happen if men let the nation drift along, half free.

  To a friend he wrote, “The problem is too much for me. May God in His mercy superintend a solution.”

  In June of 1858 a Republican State Convention in Springfield endorsed Lincoln for the United States Senate. Afterward he addressed the convention, giving what came to be known as the “House Divided” speech. It was so stirring that he became the favored Republican candidate. Douglas’s second term in the Senate was ending, and the legislature elected that year would have to decide between these two men.

  Senator Douglas was to speak in Chic
ago on the 9th of July. Lincoln was in the city and went to hear the speech.

  The audience stood in the street in front of the Tremont Hotel to hear Douglas argue in plausible fashion that men should be allowed to manage their own property as they chose. If a man wanted to have slaves, that was his affair, and the government had no business to dictate. He was so eloquent that listeners hardly realized he was saying that human beings whose skin happened to be black were property the same as oxen or wagons.

  As Abraham Lincoln listened, an urge to answer those arguments came over him. The secret feeling that had been growing in him told him that now, now was the time he had been waiting for! Lincoln determined to answer Douglas at once.

  Early the next morning he demanded of the committee the right to state the other side of the case at that same place, “this very evening!”

  Dismayed, they told him the time was too short, but when he insisted, the meeting was arranged.

  That evening of July 10th, the street in front of the Tremont Hotel was thronged with people. Rockets whirled to the heavens. A band played stirring tunes. Crowds burst into loud cheers when Abraham Lincoln stepped onto the balcony. “Lincoln!” “Listen to Old Abe!” “He’ll tell ’em!” men shouted.

  Lincoln made a brilliant speech that held the vast crowd. He repeated parts of his Springfield speech—“A house divided against itself cannot stand … this government cannot endure permanently, half slave and half free,” and he explained his reasons for his belief. He ended the long address with these words, “I leave you, hoping that the lamp of Liberty will burn in your bosoms until there shall no longer be a doubt that all men are created equal.”