LINCOLN - THE UNKNOWN. Dale Carnegie

after day he walked five miles to the Concord Cemetery, where Ann was buried. Sometimes he sat there so long that his friends grew anxious, and went and brought him home. When the storms came, he wept, saying that he couldn’t bear to think of the rain beating down upon her grave.

      Once he was found stumbling along the Sangamon, mumbling incoherent sentences. People feared he was losing his mind.

      So Dr. Allen was sent for. Realizing what was wrong, he said Lincoln must be given some kind of work, some activity to occupy his mind.

      A mile to the north of town lived one of Lincoln’s closest friends, Bowling Greene. He took Lincoln to his home, and assumed complete charge of him. It was a quiet, secluded spot. Behind the house oak-covered bluffs rose and rolled back to the west. In front the flat bottom-lands stretched away to the Sangamon River, framed in trees. Nancy Greene kept Lincoln busy cutting wood, digging potatoes, picking apples, milking the cows, holding the yarn for her as she spun.

      The weeks grew into months, and the months into years, but Lincoln continued to grieve. In 1837, two years after Ann’s death, he said to a fellow-member of the State Legislature:

      “Although I seem to others to enjoy life rapturously at times, yet when I am alone I am so depressed that I am afraid to trust myself to carry a pocket-knife.”

      From the day of Ann’s death he was a changed individual. The melancholy that then settled upon him lifted at times for short intervals; but it grew steadily worse, until he became the saddest man in all Illinois.

      Herndon, later his law partner, said:

      “If Lincoln ever had a happy day in twenty years, I never knew of it. . . . Melancholy dripped from him as he walked.”

      From this time to the end of his life, Lincoln had a fondness, almost an obsession, for poems dealing with sorrow and death. He would often sit for hours without saying a word, lost in reverie, the very picture of dejection, and then would suddenly break forth with these lines from “The Last Leaf”:

      The mossy marbles rest

      On the lips that he has prest

      In their bloom;

      And the names he loved to hear

      Have been carved for many a year

      On the tomb.

      Shortly after Ann’s death, he memorized a poem “Mortality” and beginning, “Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?”

      It became his favorite. He often repeated it to himself when he thought no one else was listening; repeated it to people in the country hotels of Illinois; repeated it in public addresses; repeated it to guests in the White House; wrote copies of it for his friends; and said:

      “I would give all I am worth, and go in debt, to be able to write like that.”

      He loved the last two stanzas best:

      Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

      Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;

      And the smile and the tear and 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?

      The old Concord Cemetery, where Ann Rutledge was buried, is a peaceful acre in the midst of a quiet farm, surrounded on three sides by wheat-fields and on the fourth by a blue-grass pasture where cattle feed and sheep graze. The cemetery itself is overgrown now with brush and vines, and is seldom visited by man. In the springtime the quails make their nests in it and the silence of the place is broken only by the bleating of sheep and the call of the bob-white.

      For more than half a century the body of Ann Rutledge lay there in peace. But in 1890 a local undertaker started a new cemetery in Petersburg, four miles away. Petersburg already had a beautiful and commodious burying-ground known as the Rose Hill Cemetery; so selling lots in the new one was slow and difficult. Consequently, the greedy undertaker, in an unholy moment, conceived the gruesome scheme of violating the grave of Lincoln’s sweetheart, bringing her dust to his cemetery, and using its presence there as an argument to boost sales.

      So “on or about the fifteenth of May, 1890”—to quote the exact words of his shocking confession—he opened her grave. And what did he find? We know, for there is a quiet old lady still living in Petersburg who told the story to the author of this volume, and made an affidavit to its veracity. She is the daughter of McGrady Rutledge, who was a first cousin of Ann Rutledge. McGrady Rutledge often worked with Lincoln in the fields, helped him as a surveyor, ate with him and shared his bed with him, and probably knew more about Lincoln’s love for Ann than any other third person has ever known.

      On a quiet summer evening this old lady sat in a rocking-chair on her porch and told the author: “I have often heard Pa say that after Ann’s death Mr. Lincoln would walk five miles out to Ann’s grave and stay there so long that Pa would get worried and fear something would happen to him, and go and bring him home. ... Yes, Pa was with the undertaker when Ann’s grave was opened, and I have often heard him tell that the only trace they could find of Ann’s body was four pearl buttons from her dress.”

      So the undertaker scooped up the four pearl buttons, and some dirt and interred them in his new Oakland Cemetery at Petersburg—and then advertised that Ann Rutledge was buried there.

      And now, in the summer months, thousands of pilgrims motor there to dream over what purports to be her grave; I have seen them stand with bowed heads and shed tears above the four pearl buttons. Over those four buttons there stands a beautiful granite monument bearing this verse from Edgar Lee Masters’ “Spoon River Anthology”:

      Out of me unworthy and unknown

      The vibrations of deathless music:

      “With malice toward none, with charity for all.”

      Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,

      And the beneficent face of a nation Shining with justice and truth.

      I am Ann Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,

      Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,

      Wedded to him, not through union,

      But through separation.

      Bloom forever, O Republic,

      From the dust of my bosom!

      But Ann’s sacred dust remains in the old Concord Cemetery. The rapacious undertaker could not carry it away—she and her memories are still there. Where the bob-white calls and the wild rose blows, there is the spot that Abraham Lincoln hallowed with his tears, there is the spot where he said his heart lay buried, there would Ann Rutledge wish to be.

      Chapter 6

       Table of Contents

      In March, 1837, two years after Ann’s death, Lincoln turned his back on New Salem and rode into Springfield on a borrowed horse, to begin what he called his “experiment as a lawyer.”

      He carried in his saddle-bag all his earthly possessions. The only things he owned were several law-books and some extra shirts and some underwear. He also carried an old blue sock stuffed with six-and-a-quarter-cent and twelve-and-a-half-cent pieces—money that he had collected for postage before the post-office “winked out” back in New Salem. During this first year in Springfield, Lincoln needed cash often, and he needed it badly. He could have spent this money and paid the Government out of his own pocket, but he would have felt that that