Part 5 (1/2)
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
”'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall spring visit the moldering urn?
Oh, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?
”'Twas thus by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
'Oh pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 'Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee!
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'
”And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn: So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.”
Mrs. Lincoln used to listen to such recitations as this from the English Readers and Kentucky Orators with delight and wonder. She loved the boy with all her heart. In all the biographies of Lincoln there is hardly a more pathetic incident than one told by Mr. Herndon of his visit to Mrs.
Lincoln after the a.s.sa.s.sination and the national funeral. Mr. Herndon was the law partner of Lincoln for many years, and we give the incident here, out of place as it is. Mrs. Lincoln said to her step-son's friend:
”Abe was a poor boy, and I can say what scarcely one woman--a mother--can say, in a thousand: Abe never gave me a cross word or look, and never refused, in fact or appearance, to do anything I requested him. I never gave him a cross word in all my life.... His mind and my mind--what little I had--seemed to run together.... He was here after he was elected President.” Here she stopped, unable to proceed any further, and after her grateful emotions had spent themselves in tears, she proceeded: ”He was dutiful to me always. I think he loved me truly. I had a son, John, who was raised with Abe. Both were good boys; but I must say, both being now dead, that Abe was the best boy I ever saw or ever expect to see. I wish I had died when my husband died. I did not want Abe to run for President, did not want him elected; was afraid, somehow--felt it in my heart; and when he came down to see me, after he was elected President, I felt that something would befall him, and that I should see him no more.”
Equally beautiful was the scene when Lincoln visited this good woman for the last time, just before going to Was.h.i.+ngton to be inaugurated President.
”Abraham,” she said, as she stood in her humble backwoods cabin, ”something tells me that I shall never see you again.”
He put his hand around her neck, lifted her face to heaven and said, ”Mother!”
CHAPTER III.
THE OLD BLACKSMITH'S SHOP AND THE MERRY STORY-TELLERS.
_JOHNNIE KONGAPOD'S INCREDIBLE STORY._
The country store, in most new settlements, is the resort of story-tellers. It was not so here. There was a log blacksmith-shop by the wayside near the Gentryville store, overspread by the cool boughs of pleasant trees, and having a glowing forge and wide-open doors, which was a favorite resort of the good-humored people of Spencer County, and here anecdotes and stories used to be told which Abraham Lincoln in his political life made famous. The merry pioneers little thought that their rude stories would ever be told at great political meetings, to generals and statesmen, and help to make clear practical thought to Legislatures, senates, and councils of war. Abraham Lincoln claimed that he obtained his education by learning all that he could of any one who could teach him anything. In all the curious stories told in his hearing in this quaint Indiana smithy, he read some lesson of life.
The old blacksmith was a natural story-teller. Young Lincoln liked to warm himself by the forge in winter and sun himself in the open door in summer, and tempt this sinewy man to talk. The smithy was a common resort of Thomas Lincoln, and of John and Dennis Hanks, who belonged to the family of Abraham's mother. The schoolmaster must have liked the place, and the traveling ministers tarried long there when they brought their horses to be shod. In fact, the news-stand of that day, the literary club, the lecture platform, the place of amus.e.m.e.nt, and everything that stirred a.s.sociated life, found its common center in this rude old smithy by the wayside, amid the running brooks and fanning trees.
The stories told here were the curious incidents and adventures of pioneer life, rude in fact and rough in language, but having pith and point.
Thomas Lincoln, on the afternoon of the next day, said to Jasper:
”Come, preacher, let's go over to the smithy. I want ye to see the blacksmith. We all like to see the blacksmith in these parts; he's an uncommon man.”
They went to the smithy. Abraham followed them. The forge was low, and the blacksmith was hammering over old nails on the anvil.
”h.e.l.lo!” said Thomas Lincoln; ”not doin' much to-day. I brought the preacher over to call on you--he's a Tunker--has been to see the school--he teaches himself--thought you'd want to know him.”
”Glad you come. Here, sit down in the leather chair, and make yourself at home. Been long in these new parts?”
”No, my friend; I have been to Illinois, but I have never been here before. I am glad to see you.”