by DL Fowler
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle,
All bathed in liquid light—
As distant mountains please the eye,
When twilight chases day —
As bugle-tones, that, passing by,
In distance die away —
As leaving some grand water-fall
We ling'ring list its roar,
So memory will hallow all we've known,
But, know no more—
Now twenty years have passed away,
Since here I bid farewell
To woods, and fields, and scenes of play
And school-mates loved so well—
Where many were, how few remain
Of old familiar things!
But seeing these to mind again
The lost and absent brings—
The friends I left that parting day —
How changed as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood grey,
And half of all are dead—
I hear the lone survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell
And every spot a grave—
I range the fields with pensive tread,
I pace the hollow rooms;
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs—
All mental pangs, by time's kind laws,
Hast lost the power to know—
The very spot where grew the bread,
That formed my bones, I see
How strange, old field, on thee to tread
And feel I'm part of thee!
On my return home, I keep my promise to Mother and dissolve my partnership with Logan. Billy Herndon agrees to come on as my junior partner; we will split the firm’s fees equally. Mother hires a cook who also helps with other chores, and when I am not away on the Circuit or busy with legal cases, I work on expanding our house.
Chapter Twenty Five
In early March of 1846, I rush home from the Circuit on receiving news our second son is born. I want to see for myself that our little family is well.
We name the boy Edward Baker Lincoln after my good friend, Ned Baker, who served alongside me in the state legislature and who was quick to join in on the lively conversations around the stove at Speed’s store. Unlike his stocky big brother Bobby, who bounds with energy and curiosity, young Eddy is frail and lethargic. His delicate little body pulls at my heart.
Mother withdraws to the new bedroom I’ve installed at the back of the house, turning it into a maternal lair where she nurses her newborn cub. She takes her meals there as well, and Bobby and I get to see his little brother when we take in her tray.
One afternoon, I’m home tending Bobby as he plays with a toy wagon on the floor while I sit by the fire reading. I glance at him a few times, wondering if he truly understands I’m his father.
When he begins crying, Mother flies out of her room like a hornet stirred from its nest, little Eddy cradled in one arm. She shrieks, “Why haven’t you picked him up?”
I look up from my newspaper. “It’s not even been a minute.”
She eyes a pile of unfolded laundry, walks over to it and holds up my cotton shirt. “What’s this rag doing here?”
Bobby is still crying.
I lay down my paper and get up from the chair. “I was about to put those away.”
She waves her hand around the room. “Must I do all of the work around here? Where are the servants?”
Bobby wails louder.
“I sent them home.”
“Then you should do their jobs. The nanny wouldn’t let him just sit there and cry.” She throws up her hands. “Why does everything fall on me? What would my father say if he saw me doing this kind of work?”
“I’ll take care of it straight away.” I pick up Bobby, his little red face contorted.
“No. I’ve had my fill. Get out of this house. Now.”
As she goes for the broom she often uses to chase me, I grab my coat and head for the door, Bobby tucked under one arm.”
“Good, take him with you. I need peace and quiet.”
Once outside, Bobby ends his tantrum, and I carry him to the office. He plays on the floor for a while with his toy wagon while I work, but soon begins whining from hunger. I get him some crackers and promise to fix supper when we go home. After a while, I put down my work and sprawl out on the floor to join him in play. As the night drags on, he tires enough to curl up and go to sleep, laying his head on my lap for a pillow. I pat his head.
Later, we steal back into the house, and I get Bobby something to eat before carrying him up to the loft to sleep. We slip back out just before sunrise while Mother is still sleeping and go to a restaurant for breakfast. I say to Bobby, “This ain’t so bad after all, is it? If your ma don’t conclude to let us come back, Reckon we can board here all summer.”
Mother takes us back that very evening, but her tyranny does not diminish.
Five months later I’m elected to serve in the United States House of Representatives. Since it’s more than a year until my term begins, the law business consumes my full attention. I spend three, ten-week terms on the Circuit, riding through forest and prairie, fording swollen streams, and trying cases in the various county seats. I love the solitude of the countryside and cherish friendships I make with the curious assortment of people.
In October of 1847, Usher Lindner calls me out to Coles County where a slavery case has drawn a good amount of attention from across the state. In my early days in the state legislature, Lindner fell victim to one of my “skinning.” On this occasion he asks my help in arguing a case on behalf of a slave owner trying to regain possession of his “property.”
Robert Matson, a resolute Kentucky planter, has filed for a writ to recover five slaves. The family of slaves—a woman named Jane Bryant and her four children—escaped his farm. They were taken into custody by the sheriff when they failed to produce “letters of freedom” which are required under the law.
The local justice of the peace would not give the sheriff the writ as requested, fearing violence from a small band of abolitionists. One of the abolitionists, Gideon M. Ashmore—a middle-aged hotel keeper who harbored the slaves for several days when they first ran away—has now filed for a writ of habeas corpus to free the slaves. He’s represented by Orlando Fricklin, a locally renowned lawyer and modestly successful politician.
Under the law of Illinois, slaves can be brought up from slave states to work seasonally, as long as they do not stay here year-round. Matson owns a plantation in Kentucky where he domiciles his slaves. He brings slaves up from there to his Coles County farm at harvest time and returns them across the border when their work is done. The mistress he keeps in Coles County became jealous of Jane, the slave mother, and Matson vowed to sell the whole family down South to work on cotton plantations.
The local sentiment favoring freedom for the slaves stems from the situation of the oldest daughter, Mary Catherine—age 14. She’s as fair skinned as any white girl, with red hair and blue eyes. It escapes no one’s imagination that she’ll be forced into sexual service as a “fancy piece” once she’s sold at auction. My stomach knots up at the thought of it.
The case is now before Judge William Wilson of the Supreme Court, a distinguished justice nearing the end of his career. He has Whig leanings, but no political ambitions. At his request, he’s joined on the bench by my friend Judge Samuel Treat. The afternoon before the trial begins, I’m telling stories to a crowd at a local tavern when a young, boyish-faced, abolitionist physician by the name of Hiram Rutherford interrupts me. He insists I should take the case on the side of the slaves.
When I tell him of my obligation to Mr. Matson he berates me and storms away. I follow after him and even offer to try freeing myself from Matson’s cause, but Rutherford will h
ave nothing more to do with me. Instead, he hires Charles Constable, a classically educated lawyer and capable debater, tall with chiseled features and an air of confidence.
Several years earlier, when opposing my partner Judge Logan in the Bailey case, I successfully obtained a writ to free slaves. My argument was that slavery does not exist in Illinois under the state Constitution and the Northwest Ordinance, a statute passed by the first United States Congress. In the present matter, I’m expecting the opposing lawyers to use my own precedent against me. By doing so they could easily disarm me in front of the judges, leaving me floundering in a vain effort to defeat the very arguments that served me well in a similar trial.
Fricklin and Constable take a different tact. They anchor their cause on the notion that slavery does not exist under British law or any system of law derived from it. Fricklin makes me wince when he asserts, “I speak in the spirit of British law which makes liberty commensurate with and inseparable from British soil.”
Doesn’t he realize we fought the Revolution of ’76 to be free of British tyranny, and this is no longer British soil?
I rise and make the case against the writ, arguing that slave property is protected wherever the Constitution of our country holds force. I say on summation, “The existence of slavery or the lack thereof is solely under the jurisdiction of each state. This is a sacred, though regrettable, pact entered into at our nation’s inception. Illinois cannot undo Kentucky’s laws.”
When the court rules against Matson, freeing the slaves, I toss my saddlebags onto Old Tom and head off to the next stop on the Circuit, not taking time to speak to any of the parties. I breathe a sigh of relief for the Bryant family and grieve over the abuse our Constitution suffered at the hands of the court. It is a knotty problem that our Founders sacrificed for liberty on one hand, and on the other, took measures to protect slavery where it existed when the nation was formed.
In early November, I pack up the family for my single term in Congress. Since I’ve agreed to serve only one term, we’ll live as vagabonds in the nation’s capital for the duration of the session. On the way to Washington City, we make a long visit with Mother’s family in Lexington. She idolizes her father, and he dotes on her. On the other hand, relations between Molly and her step-mother are strained. Their acrimony prompted Molly to leave home for Springfield where we met.
We travel by boat to Frankfort, Kentucky where we board a train to Lexington. Little Bobby and I romp through the rail cars, collecting smiles from some passengers, stares from others. One studious young man looks up from his book with a scowl each time we dash past his seat. When we return to our compartment I whisper to Mother, “Our boys are going to have fond memories of childhood. I’m determined to see it so.”
As the carriage that Molly’s father sent to pick us up turns onto Main Street, the icy wind that had cut across our faces in the countryside is tamed by rows of grand houses. Molly tells me to make good notes about the style of her family home. In her mind, it’s the model for how ours shall look someday.
I wince. “You’ve always said your father’s house is a mansion.”
She blows on her mittened hands, warming them. “It’s only fourteen rooms—if you don’t count the carriage house, outdoor kitchen, wash house, and slaves’ quarters. Of course we’ll never own slaves—I could never tolerate such a thing in my own home.”
I glance at her. “Which part of the house do you want ours to look like?”
She folds her hands on her lap and stares straight ahead. “You’ll be pleased to know that your hero Henry Clay lives in Ashland, only two miles away.”
A short time later, we pull up in front of a magnificent brick house. The entire family, dressed in finery despite the weather, is standing at the open front door in the same welcoming style I had witnessed at Speed’s estate in Farmington. A Negro footman helps Mother out of the carriage as she cradles little Eddy who’s wrapped in a wool blanket in her arms. She wastes no time greeting her father. I follow her into the hall toting young Bobby, swimming in his long winter coat. Once inside, I put the little fellow on the floor and spot the Colored contingent gathered at the rear of the hall. They’re eager to greet Molly and dote on the babies.
The wide hall is chilly with the door thrown open. I keep on my long cloak and the fur cap with its ear flaps still covering the sides of my face. After shaking hands with all the grown-ups, I lift Emilie—Molly's pretty, eleven year-old half-sister—and say, “So this is little sister.” Thereafter, I make a habit of calling her “Little Sister” although her family’s pet name for her is Pariet. By every measure she’s the beauty of the Todd clan.
Molly’s younger brother Sam, who attends college at Danville, is home to see his sister and little nephews. He swaggers around reminding everyone of the importance of being an uncle and teaches Bobby to call him “Uncle Sam.”
Molly stands back surveying her brother and broadcasts to everyone, “What a big handsome boy Sam has grown to be. He was such a little scrap of a baby.”
Sam strikes a superior pose. “At least I had the grace to grow up. You’re still but a tiny piece, hardly reaching my shoulder. I hope your boys inherit their father's length.”
Her eyes sparkle. “And their mother's lovely disposition.”
I hold my tongue. They all know her true nature.
During much of our stay, I sit inside at a window reading a book of poetry from Mr. Todd’s library, watching Bobby with Little Sister play in the garden behind the house. If it were warmer, I’d be outside on the long veranda. I bracket some lines of William Cowper’s poem Slavery and the Slave Trade and turn down the page in the book. Molly tells me Cowper’s friend John Newton wrote the beautiful poem Amazing Grace.
It’s no surprise to find writings of an English abolitionist and free-soiler in this slave owner’s house. While handling legal work for Molly’s father, I’ve learned that he’s an admirer of Henry Clay. Mr. Todd opposes trading slaves among whites and hopes slavery will die out someday—views which have torn apart his family. Later, I find a book of William Cullen Bryant’s verse and memorize Thanatopsis. Several lines capture my attention.
When thoughts of the last bitter hour come
like a blight over thy spirit,
and sad images of the stern agony, and shroud,
and pall, and breathless darkness,
and the narrow house make thee to shudder
and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky,
and list to Nature's teachings,
while from all around Earth and her waters,
and the depths of air
Comes a still voice ...
During our time in Lexington, Molly and I attend an address given by Senator Clay. At the time the meeting is to begin, an overflow crowd stands outside on the street, braving a bitter storm. As a result, we’re herded over to the Lower Market House on Water Street where a temporary platform has been cobbled together at one end of the building.
Once the meeting reconvenes, Judge George Robertson, the chairman, is seated on one side of Senator Clay, and Molly’s father Robert Smith Todd is on the other—bright-eyed, balding, and erect—with a smile peeking through his greying beard.
The awe of the moment is dashed, however, when the Senator begins to read his speech. I have long heard of his oratory flair; though tonight, he’s timid and dry. Over the course of two hours, he drones on about the illegitimacy of the war with Mexico. Then he touches on slavery, saying it’s a great evil, an irremedial wrong to its unfortunate victims. His challenge—to disavow in the most positive manner any desire on our part to acquire any foreign territory whatever for the purpose of introducing slavery into it—is void of passion.
Later, we dine with the Senator at his Ashland estate, even a grander house than Speed’s Farmington. As we enter, the man I’ve thought of as my ideal greets me with a feeble handshake, cold and empty of charm. His trembling weakness s
hocks me.
During dinner, served to us by household slaves, Senator Clay expounds on the necessity of leaving slavery alone where it was already in place when the nation was formed. He insists it was our Founders intention to do so. “Let it die a slow death,” he says, “and we should not add any new territories where slavery will be allowed.”
I pick at my food. Melancholy hovers over me, ready to swoop down and steal my mood. His words “die a slow death” ring in my ears. This man, whom I have esteemed as the savior of our land, is himself dying out, yet injustice lives on. The room grows dim, the faces around me seem ghostly, conversations become but a murmur. Then all is dark and silent.
When I’m jolted back to the present by a young mulatto who whisks away my plate, I look about the room. All eyes are fixed on me, except those of Senator Clay who is cutting a piece of meat on his plate. Without looking up he says, “It is good that young Mr. Lincoln has seen fit to rejoin us.”
The chill and gloom of the evening stay with me for the remainder of our time in Lexington.
On November 25, Mother, the children, and I continue on to the nation's capital where we move into a boarding house. Mother is unhappy from the moment of our arrival. No matter how hard I try, nothing improves her spirits. On the other hand, she’s quite adept at dampening mine. Soon after Christmas, she and the children return to Lexington to stay with her family until my term ends. I breathe a sigh of relief on their departure even as my heart aches over being left behind.
Twice during my term, I strive to influence important questions of the day. On my arrival, I engage in a debate on tariffs and write an argument advocating free-labor which is widely ignored.
In the early days of the world, the Almighty said to the first of our race, “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.” Since then, no good thing has been enjoyed by us without the necessity of labor.
But it has happened in all ages that some have labored and others have, without labor, enjoyed a large proportion of the fruits. This is wrong. To secure to each laborer the whole product of his labor is a most worthy object of any good government.
