From Out of the Top Hat: A Blog from the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum

In the mid-19^th century the mass production of prints and images allowed average citizens to own scenes and portraits that might serve as sources of inspiration.  One such example is the Alexander H. Ritchie print of Francis Bicknell Carpenter’s painting of First Reading of the Emancipation Proclamation Before the Cabinet.  The print was wildly popular.  Although sales figures are lacking for this period, the number of prints that can be found today online and at flea markets shows that it was widely disseminated.

One individual who purchased a copy was Herbert Hoover’s grandfather Eli.  The following narrative was written by the 31^st President (who served from 1929 to 1933) and attached to the back of the framed print that now hangs in the Herbert Hoover Presidential Museum in West Branch, Iowa.  The reader should note that duringHoover’s term as president, the print hung above the very fireplace depicted within the print.

Inspiration: from Lincoln to Carpenter to Ritchie to Hoover to …

“This print is from the Carpenter painting which hangs in the House of Representatives in Washington.  The painting was made from life.  The scene is Lincoln’s study in the White House.  The fireplace in the background is the same today and is easily identified.  The figures in the painting were sketched in by Carpenter in the study but he did the detailed portrait work in the East Room.  The prints were a part of every Midwest household for years after the Civil War.

“This copy was given to my father Jessie Hoover by his father Eli Hoover soon after my father was married and set up housekeeping in the little cottage at West Branch in about 1871.  Thereafter this picture was probably there when I was born.  After my mother’s death in 1879, the print was kept by an uncle Allan Hoover until his death in about 1922 when it went to his brother Davis Hoover.  Uncle Davis gave it to me with the above history in 1927.  It hung in my study at 2300 S Street, Washington, D.C., until 1929, when Mrs. Hoover removed it to the White House where it hung over the same mantel which appears in the picture.  It remained there for four years until 1933.  It was then removed to Palo Alto, and was brought back to my apartment in Waldorf Towers [on Park Avenue in New York] in 1945.  Thus its history seems clear for about 75 years!”

Long before Jackie Kennedy refurbished the White House in the early 1960s, First Lady Lou Henry Hoover extensively documented the White House rooms and furnishings in photographs.  She and President Hoover also converted the Lincoln Bedroom back into the original study and cabinet room as depicted in Ritchie’s print. Hoover used this as his private study and spent numerous hours in it conducting the affairs of state.  In a search for the original furnishings, a number of items turned up, only to be eliminated after careful research.  Four side chairs were the only items that could be reasonably ascertained as coming from the Lincoln presidency.  Undoubtedly, Abraham Lincoln remained Hoover’s inspiration for presidential leadership.

When Fort Sumter was fired upon in April 1861, formally starting a Civil War, Abraham Lincoln was 52 years and 2 months old. I am now 52 years and 2 months old. Though I am not president, perhaps some perspective on the many questions about his physical and mental health during the exigent days of his presidency can be gained by a comparison.

He loved his wife, though men and women become gradually less compatible as they age. I love my wife, and yes, that gap in activities and cares is felt in our home, too. Despite the occasional yelling, he and Mary were fine; so are my wife and I. Thanks for asking.

He worked too hard. He lost weight as a result. He did not sleep all that much. Ditto.

He did not drink, and his stories were much admired by friend and even foe alike, and these traits undoubtedly kept him youthful. I fail to meet his standard on both counts.

His feet bothered him a fair bit, and he did not own a pair of boots that fit him comfortably until the last year of his life. We are luckier today: our shoes fit fine, and very few of us suffer from saddle sores. No mercury in our pills, either.

His beard was thinning, and graying just a bit, like the hair at his temples. Mary used a little hair dye to stay ‘young,’ and some have wondered if Abraham borrowed it, but we have no real evidence to support that view. I am not growing a beard or using that stuff.

His two living children by spring 1862 marched to the beat of very different drums. Same choreography in my house. Both of our olders: hard-working, popular, destined for greatness of some sort. Our youngers: rambunctious, not that interested in l’arnin’ or settin’ still – just spunky to beat the band. As they age, they need less parental minding, and that phenomenon suited the presidential schedule.

Artwork by Isa Barnett, 1962. The kind of presidency that wears a man out; the kind of faith that kept him strong.

No one is interested in my DNA. Lincoln’s is sought by people in a half-dozen professions. We probably would learn nothing by sequencing his 150-year-old protein strands. From mine, well, we already know that color-blindness is heritable. This mad pursuit for Lincoln’s DNA is probably fruitless. He did not have Marfan’s Syndrome, and any other maladies he might have had evidently did not lead him to or prevent him from saving the Union or freeing the slaves. Or visiting Gettysburg, as depicted in the artwork here.

The matter far larger than molecules was his daily effort to save the great institutions around him and rectify the ills. Me too, but without his power and grace. Advancing his Presidential Library within so parlous a budgetary environment may kill me yet, and both of us can get ‘voted’ out by our peers. But we fight on with the help of most around us, as would most people in our chairs, “for a vast future also.” There was nothing wrong with Lincoln that an hour with Burns’s poems or a stroll across the park couldn’t cure. Mary forced him to take carriage rides with her to calm him down and keep them close. It worked. It’s the outlook that keeps you healthy.

No, Lincoln’s health as a question should fade to nothingness under the glaring July 4^th sun of a separate question: the health of the “republican example” he wished the United States to set for the world. He would not “abandon that position,” as he told Congress on July 4, 1861 (150 years ago today). And his health did not abandon him. Lincoln was ever the doctor, and never the patient in his own lifetime.

Just before Christmas 1859, the 50-year-old Lincoln looked back at his previous decade and noticed that it was split into two roughly equal parts.  For the five years after 1849 (the year he wrapped up his single term in Congress), he’d “practiced law more assiduously than ever before.”  So assiduously, that by 1854 he “was losing interest in politics” as a career.

But in that year he was “aroused again” as a potential candidate for office by “the repeal of the Missouri Compromise.”  The specter of slavery extension north of the Missouri Compromise line of 36°30” — made possible by the Kansas-Nebraska Act — revived his taste for electoral battle.

Win or lose, he’d seized the issue that would crystallize his sharpest thinking, his strongest feeling, and his deftest political calculation.  He would stake out a position at the center of northern opinion on slavery and cling to it with fierce resolve, hating slavery with the passion of an abolitionist, and loving union with the moderation of a conservative.

The rekindling of his political aspirations in 1854 gives the period 1849-1854 a special poignancy in the arc of his public career.  It’s the last bloc of time in his life when he wasn’t sure how to proceed with his life.  Ambitious for public service but lacking concrete options, Lincoln had settled into the law.

Yet for all his relentless activity on the legal circuit, this was a time of vocational limbo, perhaps even (as Michael Burlingame argues in Abraham Lincoln:  A Life, vol. 1, pp. 357-62) a forty-something’s passage through a “mid-life crisis.”

His striking eulogy for President Zachary Taylor in the summer of 1850 suggests how his mind was churning.  He was roaming widely and deeply in thought and feeling, connecting political and military affairs to timeless quandaries about the human condition.

Taylor died in the White House on July 9, after only 16 months in office.  Two days earlier, Lincoln had arrived in Chicago to defend a client in U.S. District Court.  On July 10, with the trial just under way, news of Taylor’s demise reached the city by telegraph.  That evening, a meeting was held to pick the city’s eulogist, and the visiting lawyer and wordsmith from Springfield was promptly chosen.

Lincoln agreed to do the job — he didn’t “feel at liberty to decline” — but he warned the selection committee not to expect much.  “The want of time for preparation,” he wrote, “will make the task for me a very difficult one to perform, in any degree satisfactory to others or to myself.”

When the trial ended on July 24 with exoneration for his client Charles Hoyt (found not guilty of infringing on another man’s water-wheel patent), Lincoln put the final touches on his speech and delivered it the following afternoon at City Hall.

In the main body of the eulogy, Lincoln dramatically recounted Taylor’s exploits in the Mexican War, going out of his way to praise him as an intrepid fighter in the very war Lincoln himself had opposed.  This was one general, he said, who had fearlessly taken the battle to the enemy.  This was also a leader who instinctively put the needs of the whole army, and nation, ahead of personal pique.  By the usual standard of military honor, Taylor would have deprived Colonel William Worth (who’d spoken ill of Taylor in Washington) of further opportunities for heroism.  Instead, he thought only of putting the best officers in place, and he judged Worth one of the best.

Lincoln was praising Taylor for selflessness as much as courage.  Moral stature mattered in war and politics.  It mattered in part, said Lincoln, because with his death, all that was left of Taylor or any other man was “the fruits of his labor, his name, his memory and example.”

Taylor’s sudden end called to Lincoln’s mind both the fragility of the republic — which other leader would now step forward to help rein in the people’s discordant passions? — and the evanescence of human life.  The death of a great man like Taylor forced everyone to confront the brute fact “that we, too, must die.”

High office or privileged station offered no protection against the final leveling.  Yes, personal virtue was revealed by the grandeur of one’s civic accomplishments, but it was also measured by a humble acceptance of life’s brevity.  Lincoln pitched no rosy outcome for Taylor beyond the grave, and sang no hymn to the permanence of his fame.

The eulogist took heart instead from a steadfast stoicism, reminding the audience of Taylor’s last words: “I have done my duty, I am ready to go.”  (As reported in the press on July 10, the president had said,  “I die.  I am ready for the summons.  I have endeavored to do my duty.  I am sorry to leave my old friends.”)

Lincoln went on to state that if they had served their nation with “singleness of purpose,” dying leaders would know they had secured “that country’s gratitude” and “its best honors.”  Lincoln sealed his eulogy by reciting 6 of the 14 stanzas of William Knox’s 1818 poem “Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?”  He selected verses stressing the common “pilgrimage road” that the living shared with the dead:

So the multitude goes, like the flower or 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.

Newspapers as well as 1865 sheet music misattributed the poem to Lincoln himself.

By 1865, thanks to the wide reprinting of the eulogy, many people associatedthis poem with Lincoln.  Some people thought he’d written it himself.  After his death, hundreds of newspapers around the country ran the complete poem, many of them attributing it to him.  They noted how often he’d recited it from memory, remembering his lost friends and family members.  The final stanza got the most play, and it comforted many readers in part because they knew it had comforted him:

’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossoms 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 first part of the post was published on May 30, 2011.

In April 1865 everyone knew that temporary quarters were needed for the immediate housing of Lincoln’s remains along with those of his departed sons Willie and Eddie. Willie’s casket accompanied Lincoln’s back to Springfield from Washington and was carried out to Oak Ridge Cemetery with Lincoln’s on May 4, 1865, both being placed in the temporary receiving vault in the cemetery.

Edward Baker Lincoln had been buried in Hutchinson Cemetery in 1850. This was a six-acre area immediately west of the old four-acre city graveyard. As Springfield grew, Hutchinson Cemetery was no longer sufficient, having become surrounded by town development. In 1856 the original portion of it was closed to further burials, and by 1866 all burials in these grounds were closed and all the bodies were removed to Oak Ridge.

At Oak Ridge what began as a modest 28 acres in the late 1850s eventually encompassed 115 acres of scenic rolling hills. City officials followed the national trend of placing cemeteries in bucolic rural settings outside of the noise and commotion of daily life. Cemeteries became places where people could commune with nature and see that life, like nature, was cyclical.

The pastoral setting chosen by Mary Lincoln; far from the hubbub of 2nd Street and Jackson

The formal dedication of Oak Ridge occurred on May 24, 1860, and was a major public event that Abraham and Mary Lincoln likely attended. Mary vividly recalled a conversation with her husband shortly before his death as they were taking a carriage ride. Approaching an old country graveyard, Lincoln turned to her and said: “Mary, you are younger than I. You will survive me. When I am gone, lay my remains in some quiet place like this.” This memory of Lincoln’s burial preference became the source of controversy between Mrs. Lincoln and the National Lincoln Monument Association in 1865.

The Association began negotiations to acquire property in the Mather block, a site near Springfield’s public square and visible from the Chicago and Alton Railroad tracks. A temporary receiving vault was begun with the intent that Lincoln’s remains would reside there, not at Oak Ridge. Mrs. Lincoln objected, and her cousin John Todd Stuart consented to her immediate wishes that Abraham and Willie Lincoln’s bodies reside in the temporary vault at Oak Ridge. Most Association members continued to push for the construction of the permanent monument on the Mather property and hoped to persuade Mrs. Lincoln of the merits of their position.

She refused to meet with them and gave the Association an ultimatum: either build the permanent tomb in Oak Ridge, or else she would have her husband’s remains removed to Chicago or to George Washington’s crypt in the United States Capitol. While there had been some talk immediately following Lincoln’s death that his remains should be placed in Washington’s crypt, nothing was done. The overwhelming indicators had favored Springfield. But now it appeared that the dispute between Mary Lincoln and the Association might identify the memory of Lincoln with someplace other than Springfield. Jesse Fell, one of Lincoln’s closest associates, warned the Association that they should defer to Mrs. Lincoln on the subject lest their efforts be seen as tending “more to the enhanced value of town lots than to the dictates of patriotism.”

On June 14, 1865, a vote of the board of directors decided to concede to Mrs. Lincoln’s wishes that the monument be built in Oak Ridge. This vote passed by a slim margin of 8 to 7. The City of Springfield donated the land, and a temporary receiving vault was completed by December to free up the space in the cemetery’s public receiving vault. The remains of Abraham, Willie, and Eddie were all placed in the private temporary vault that month. Mary had carried out her husband’s wishes for “a quiet place.”

Some of our ‘knowledge’ about Lincoln comes along later rather than sooner.  The newspaper page pictured here is in Hebrew, dated 9 January 1979 (5739 in the ancient Jewish calendar).  This was given to the Presidential Library many years ago without a source, but it seems to have been published in New York.  It is in fairly simple language, likely meant for recent Russian-Jewish immigrants learning Hebrew.  Tens of thousands of people made that migration in the 1970s, many of them to Brooklyn.

The strong yet humble president.

Teaching immigrants about their new culture requires history, humor, and perhaps a little fudging.  The paper is called Gate to the Beginning and the column shown here is “Little Stories About Great Men.”  It includes an anecdote about Hans Christian Anderson with a Danish Jew, and another about a Zionist.  The Lincoln story does not mention that his birthday would occur the next month, but perhaps in 1979 that anniversary was still so well ingrained in all American life (before the confected ‘Presidents Holiday’ that mushes Washington and Lincoln together) that even an immigrant knew.

The story puts Lincoln in the White House blacking his own boots.  In walks an important politician who blurts, “What!  You shine your own boots?”  To which the humble railsplitter quips, “And what did you think?  That I would shine the boots of others?”

We owe Rabbi Michael Datz of Springfield, Illinois, many thanks for translating this tale.  To his ear the wording trades on the old-New York Yiddish phrasing heard in so many movies and plays, ‘And what should I / And why would I …?’  The historian of Lincoln might recognize a couple of other themes.  First, Paul Zall’s highly useful Abe Lincoln Laughing: Humorous Anecdotes from Original Sources by and about Abraham Lincoln (1995) traces the origin of this tale to an unsigned 1909 magazine piece.  Two other works the next year retold and reworded it.  In the three versions, the shocked visitor to the White House was variously said to have been Senator Sumner, Secretary Chase, and British minister Lord Lyons.

With confusion like that, we can never say if the incident occurred.  Lincoln’s Centennial spawned a profusion of dubious ‘new sources’ like this.  But the second theme a Lincolnist can divine is that immigrants old or new might need this ‘teachable moment’ after arriving in an American city where the sight of black men shining others’ shoes was not uncommon.  This particular ‘Great Man’ of the American past had been strong enough to free the slaves and humble enough to do his own menial chore.  Whether the exact quip about the boots was authentic, or somehow got fudged in the retelling, it harmonizes with what we veritably know about Lincoln’s character and deeds.  Lincoln believed in the political and legal equality of black and white; many people believed it in 1909; more believed it in 1979; still more believe it today.  And why should we doubt such tales?

In April, Steven Spielberg announced Sally Field as his choice to play the president’s wife in Lincoln, the feature film coming in 2012 to a theater near you.   The director said he’d always wanted her for the part.  Why?  Because the two-time Oscar recipient could capture “all the fragility and complexity that was Mary Todd Lincoln.”

There’s no telling how much screen time Sally Field will actually get in the picture, based on Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals.  Goodwin’s story centers on Lincoln, his 1860 Republican presidential competitors (Edward Bates, Salmon Chase, and William Seward), and his Secretary of War Edwin Stanton.  But selecting Field to star opposite Daniel Day-Lewis, an “Abraham” with two Oscars of his own, suggests that Spielberg may intend more than a passing glance at Mary. 

Given Field’s stature in American popular culture, even a few scenes in such a high-profile venture will affect the image of Mrs. Lincoln for a long time to come.  Let’s hope that the screenplay by Pulitzer Prize-winner Tony Kushner, and Spielberg’s direction, will bring out the full “complexity” of Mary’s “fragility.” 

For all her temperamental swings and failures of judgment, this perpetually insecure soul — emotionally shredded, like her husband, by the death of their 11-year-old son Willie in early 1862, and badgered by Washington critics as a pathetic Western parvenu, if not also a closet secessionist — managed somehow to keep her husband’s health and the Union’s welfare hovering near the front of her mind. 

Too often her ups and downs are reduced to individual craziness, the product of her Todd family’s history of mental distress, aggravated by personal setbacks beginning when she was six with the loss of her mother.  A discombobulated Mary is easily positioned, after Willie’s death, as a spiritualist crank and a continuing burden on her long-suffering spouse.

Lincoln’s forbearance in the face of her tongue-lashings and manic shopping binges bolsters his image as a selfless saint, safely detached from her disorders.  But anyone who has ever been in a decades-long relationship will suspect this picture is one-sided.

Her splenetic displays, and his high-minded silence or forlorn withdrawal, were likely built into the relationship they’d created with one another.  The sparks were part of the substance.

The essential corrective to the portrayal of Mary as an out-of-control, self-aggrandizing deviant — the perfect foil for a charitable servant of the people — is to insist on her intimate ties with Abraham over 22 years of marriage.  In Springfield those ties included political as well as domestic intercourse.  In Washington, she gradually lost her political role, but her civic enthusiasm, and her ardor for her husband’s success and well-being, never waned. 

There’s no reason to think their “scenes,” as Mary labeled one of their White House spats, prevented them from enjoying, and needing, one another’s company.  There’s every reason to believe their angry standoffs were followed, at least some of the time, by eager reconciliation.  Their complexity as a couple helped shape her fragility as an individual.

Any depiction that takes Mrs. Lincoln as the nutty nuisance, the bothersome drag on the forgiving Mr. Lincoln, distorts their quarter-century of impassioned partnership.  So does any portrayal that misses Mary’s ongoing public engagement after Abraham stopped soliciting (or even listening to) her political judgments.

Goodwin’s engrossing Team of Rivals devotes only a few pages to Mary, but it gives Kushner and Spielberg all the evidence they’ll need to show that this long marriage kept being renewed by mutual fervor for politics and public service.

Mary and Abraham had both fallen for Henry Clay’s Whig politics long before they fell for each other.  They fell for each other in part because of their shared political vision.  Once in the national capital, she sought out new ways to exercise her political passions.  After Willie’s death, she poured herself all the more intensively into one of them: hospital work.  

As historian Michael Burlingame points out in his biography Abraham Lincoln:  A Life (vol. II, p. 495), “she won [occasional newspaper] praise for ‘the generous devotion with which she has tenderly cared for the sick and wounded soldiers.’”  Praise came from her husband too, writes Burlingame: “Lincoln gave her $1,000 out of his own pocket to buy Christmas turkeys for the hospitalized troops and helped her distribute them.”

One result of Mary’s inattention to publicity: no contemporary illustration of her hospital work exists. This 1861 scene of volunteers and visitors was probably less ghastly than what she usually saw.

Catherine Clinton (Mrs. Lincoln: A Life, p. 196) observes that Mary “visited the hospitals two or three times a week,” undeterred by what one newspaper called “the fear of contagion and the outcries of pestilence.”

In Team of Rivals (p. 457), Goodwin notes that Mary brought the men “baskets of fruit, food, and fresh flowers . . . to mask the pervasive stench of disinfectant and decay.”  She sat down beside them to write letters to their families.  One young man learned who she was only after the letter bearing her signature had been delivered. 

Urged by Lincoln secretary William Stoddard to curry general favor for her labors, Mary stuck with relative anonymity, having found, as Goodwin writes, “something more gratifying than public acknowledgment (p. 459).”  She got the reward of registering firsthand the soldiers’ devotion to her husband and their fidelity to the Union cause.

In Lincoln, Spielberg and Kushner have the rare chance to give us the Mary who made her husband proud alongside the Mary who made him fret.  The Lincolns collaborated in family building and public service.  She shored him up even as she weighed him down.  He let her find new purpose even as he left her aside, to embark on a presidential calling all his own.

A film centered on civilian leaders in wartime cannot attempt a full treatment of the Lincoln marriage.  But it can let Sally Field signal a fully human Mary, courageous as well as distraught.

Recently, the Lincoln Tomb State Historic Site resurrected the Lincoln Monument Association to serve as a support group for the Lincoln Tomb as well as the War Memorials within Oak Ridge Cemetery.  In referencing the original National Lincoln Monument Association, it is worth reviewing the goals and purposes of the founding organization.

According to her certificate, Susan Torrence became one of thousands who contributed 50 cents to help build the Monument.

Planning that had been undertaken by committee required something more permanent for addressing the long-term issues of designing, funding, constructing, and maintaining an appropriate memorial to Abraham Lincoln.  While committees continued to address the immediate needs of Lincoln’s funeral arrangements, a group of 13 which later expanded to 15 members drew up articles of incorporation.  On May 11, 1865, The National Lincoln Monument Association came into existence as a voluntary society.  Their mission was “to construct a Monument to the memory of Abraham Lincoln, in the city of Springfield, State of Illinois.”  A board of directors was created who would serve a term of 20 years.

The board elected four officers to direct the affairs of the Association.  Governor Richard J. Oglesby was the clear favorite for President.  Jesse K. Dubois, who was a neighbor of Lincoln’s and long-time political associate, became Vice President.  Clinton L. Conkling, a friend of Robert Todd Lincoln and son of James C. Conkling, was elected secretary but not a member of the Association board.  He stepped down at the end of 1865 and was replaced by O. M. Hatch.  James H. Beveridge, who served as the Illinois State Treasurer under Governor Oglesby, became treasurer for the National Lincoln Monument Association.

More than elections occurred at the May 11^th meeting.  Bylaws were approved to govern the Association, “agents appointed to collect funds, agricultural and horticultural societies called on to contribute, and the Treasurer directed to invest funds — which were already beginning to reach the treasury — in United States securities.”  A great deal of progress had been made in a very short period of time.  But just as things appeared to be in good order, an incident occurred that threatened to undo the entire project.  (To be continued.)

THE NATIONAL LINCOLN MONUMENT ASSOCIATION
BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Richard J. Oglesby was a political associate of Lincoln’s.  He gained honor and distinction for his service in the Civil War, returning to Illinois to be elected Governor in 1864.

Orlin H. Miner served as Illinois State Auditor under Governor Oglesby.

John Todd Stuart served in the Illinois legislature, the U.S. House of Representatives, and was a leading lawyer in Illinois.

Jesse K. Dubois served in the Illinois legislature, was receiver of the U.S. Land Office, then Auditor for the State of Illinois, and was a close associate of Lincoln.

James C. Conkling served as mayor of Springfield, in the Illinois legislature, and was a leading lawyer and businessman in the city.

John Williams was a banker.

Jacob Bunn was a banker and eventually became Mrs. Lincoln’s conservator.

Sharon Tyndale served as Illinois Secretary of State under Governor Oglesby.

Newton Bateman was Superintendent of Public Instruction for the State of Illinois and was a friend of Abraham Lincoln.

Samuel H. Treat served as a Judge of the U.S. Court for Illinois.

Ozias Mather Hatch served as Illinois Secretary of State and was a close political confidant and ally to Abraham Lincoln.

S. H. Melvin was a prominent merchant, banker, and railroad man.

James H. Beveridge served as Illinois Treasurer for Governor Oglesby.

Thomas J. Dennis was mayor of Springfield and an accomplished architect.

David L. Phillips served as the U.S. Marshal for the Southern District of Illinois.

According to his private secretaries and some close friends, President Lincoln had a deserved reputation for bending to women’s plaints and complaints.  William Lee Miller, in his study President Lincoln: The Duty of a Statesman (2008), reviews a notable case in which urgent pleas by the wife and daughter of a condemned man did not succeed in making the chief executive yield; the man concerned was a slave-dealer whose death by hanging went forward as planned.  Much more frequent was the type of case in which the president wrote out a pass for a lady to visit someone behind enemy lines or asked the War Department to remit part of a soldier’s sentence.  He did not like to dismiss a sincere need.

But there is a unique case in which the usually humble president wrote out his true feelings about one lady visitor.  And it is the only case in which we have record that Lincoln wrote the pejorative word “saucy.”  This short note to himself now belongs to the Library of Congress:

ExecutiveMansion
Washington. Aug. 23, 1862.

To-day, Mrs. Major Paul, of the Regular Army calls and urges the appointment of her husband as a Brig. Genl.  She is a saucy woman and I am afraid she will keep tormenting till I may have to do it.   (Collected Works, v. 5, pp. 390-391).

The prognosticator of his own actions was correct: Paul became a brigadier general as of September 5, 1862.

There are two wrinkles to, and perhaps a defense of, Lincoln’s mood in the case.  Just 12 days earlier, he had written to Major General Halleck to state that “Lieut. Col. Paul,” a graduate of West Point, wanted to be posted to active service.  Did the officer’s wife not know that her husband had already been promoted to a colonelcy?  Or was she still referring to him in Lincoln’s presence as a mere major, to underscore her complaint?

A recent act of selflessness by the (female) owner of an original document signed by Lincoln throws a glimmer of light upon this situation.  The complete Papers of Abraham Lincoln project, based here at the Presidential Library, now has a full-color scan of the document, thanks to the private owner.  For one does not jump from major to brigadier general without making the requisite stop at the corner marked ‘colonel.’  Lincoln, ever the diligent signer of military commissions, had already signed Paul’s promotion to lieutenant colonel in the 8^th U.S. Infantry – back on 2 July 1862.

How to explain Mrs. ‘Major’ Paul’s visit on 23 August with her complaint – her lament, prod, push, case, demand — that her husband be promoted?  He had been a lieutenant colonel for 7 weeks before the saucy wife visited the Executive Mansion and referred to her husband as a major.  Was the promotion lost in a file?  Was he refusing to accept it, and holding out for immediate elevation to brigadier general?  Had Edwin Stanton, who duly co-signed the promotion to colonel, held it up because of Paul’s service with the unproductive McClellan in eastern Virginia that season?  Or was this bureaucratic delay caused by two men, Lincoln and Stanton, and many others much less well-known, who were worked to distraction by the demands of war?

Cultural differences may have entered into this matter.  Was this Gabriel René Paul a Frenchman, or of French extraction?  Was his wife?  Did she treat a rube Anglo-Kentuckian like Lincoln with disdain?  Was her aggrieved tone simply less deferential than the president was accustomed to?

The timetable was this: Paul started the year 1862 as a major.  In early July 1862 Lincoln signed his commission promoting him to lieutenant colonel.  In early August Lincoln may have seen him personally and referred to him as Lieut. Col. in addressing Major General Halleck on his behalf.  In late August Mrs. Paul arrived to demand that her husband, ‘Major Paul,’ jump to brigadier general.  And in fact on 5 Sept. 1862 he was thus promoted.

Who was at fault for this minor contretemps?  Is Lincoln’s note-to-self the evidence that he had already forgotten about Paul’s first promotion?  Or was Mrs. Paul lying about his low rank?  Or was she unaware of her husband’s half-way promotion?  Had the soldier himself not even been informed of his promotion?

The handwriting on Lincoln’s “saucy” note is shaky.  He likely made it late in the day.  Earlier the same day, General Charles P. Stone approached Lincoln to ask why he had been arrested.  And this was all on the day after Lincoln had penned his justly famed public letter to Horace Greeley of the New York Tribune, explaining and yet not explaining why he did or did not free the slaves – to save the Union.  Greeley was blunt in print about Lincoln’s motives; Mrs. Paul was blunt in person about her husband’s wishes.  Perhaps Lincoln actually wanted to call Greeley “saucy.”  Thus, a wholly separate timetable was superimposed within the Pauls’ complaints and promotions: that of Lincoln’s timetable for the nerve-testing policy for emancipation, from conception (mid-June 1862) to announcement to Cabinet (22 July) to fending off Greeley’s demands (22 August) to revealing the plan to the public (22 September).  All the while trying to get McClellan to pursue Robert E. Lee.

Blinded Brig. Gen. Paul asks another favor of Lincoln, 1865, and is accommodated again.

Brigadier General Paul did valorous service, as seen in the illustration here.  He was nearly blinded at Gettysburg.   Had he remained a major or lieutenant-colonel, perhaps he would have been standing elsewhere at Gettysburg.  The end of the war found him quietly stationed in Kentucky. Let us hope that he and his wife were satisfied.

Everyone loves a winner, which may account for the continuous battle over who owns the Lincoln story.  Three states — Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois — claim to have been crucial influences upon Abraham Lincoln during his formative years.  The Illinois General Assembly wisely adopted the slogan “Land of Lincoln” in 1955 and had it placed on license plates, ensuring its wide promotion.  To make certain that no other state would infringe on the claim, Congress passed a special act that same year giving Illinois the exclusive use to the phrase “Land of Lincoln.” 

Writers have also been territorial about the Sixteenth President.  John G. Nicolay, Lincoln’s private secretary, was incensed at Ida Tarbell in the 1890s when he discovered that she intended to write a popular biography of Abraham Lincoln.  Nicolay, having recently finished a 10-volume Lincoln biography with John Hay, protested to Tarbell that “you are invading my field.”  His real concern was that a competing Lincoln biography diminishes “the value of my property.”

Not the same old Lincoln story for a new book and movie, opening June 2012.

Perhaps only a handful of Lincoln books have made the kind of sales that give one pause.  Carl Sandburg, David Herbert Donald, and Doris Kearns Goodwin come immediately to mind.  The recent announcements that two feature-length films are now in production — Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter and Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln, a loosely based adaptation of the Goodwin bestseller — recalls an earlier era when two other Lincoln films were in production at the same time.

 Starring Raymond Massey, Robert Sherwood’s play Abe Lincoln in Illinois was a Broadway hit in the fall of 1938.  New York critics and audiences applauded Massey’s dramatic interpretation of a young Abraham Lincoln.  Hollywood frequently took Broadway hits and quickly turned them into motion pictures.  RKO Pictures wasted no time in purchasing the film rights and began production.  Little did they know that screenwriter Howard Estabrook had written a screenplay in 1935 for Fox Film Corporation entitled Young Lincoln.  But production ceased when Fox merged with Twentieth Century to become Twentieth Century-Fox.  Screenwriter Lamar Trotti, who had finished production of a biopic on Alexander Graham Bell in November 1938, then began rewriting Estabrook’s script, which had taken on the new title Lawyer of the West.  Darryl Zanuck, the producer of the film, changed the name of the film to Young Mr. Lincoln.

The competing Lincoln films resulted in a lawsuit in which Robert Sherwood sued Twentieth Century-Fox.  Sherwood claimed that the Twentieth Century-Fox film was a blatant facsimile of Sherwood’s play, using the same plot elements, a similar title, and similar promotional campaign, and drawing upon the popularity of Lincoln created by Sherwood’s play.  Sherwood said that “there was little public interest in any portion of the life of Lincoln” until his play generated a widespread public awareness.  In many respects, Sherwood’s assertions were similar to those of John G. Nicolay: “you are invading my field” and diminishing “the value of my property.”

Twentieth Century-Fox countered with the obvious fact that Lincoln’s historical life was in the public domain.  All of the facts and events relating to Lincoln’s life would be similar in any biographical film.  Moreover, the claim that Lincoln was unknown to the larger public until Sherwood’s play appeared was easily dismissed with an abridged listing of films and major plays and books published on Lincoln from 1900 to 1939.  Among those dealing with Lincoln’s early life were Carl Sandburg’s 2-volume work The Prairie Years (1926), D. W. Griffith’s 1930 film Abraham Lincoln, and John Drinkwater’s 1919 hit play Abraham Lincoln.  The court sided with Twentieth Century-Fox, allowing the John Ford film that starred Henry Fonda to move toward release a year before Abe Lincoln in Illinois.  And Sherwood need not have worried, since both films were eagerly embraced by audiences.

As early as 1841, people began applying this stalwart phrase to Lincoln.  On New Year’s Day of that year, the Quincy, Illinois Whig described the 31-year-old from Springfield as “a self-made man, and one of the ablest” among all the lawyers and elected officials in the state. 

The Whig didn’t need to explain what “self-made” meant.  The paper presumed everyone knew the term.  Having entered common usage by the late 1820s, it had become a verbal staple, a handy way to praise resourceful men and the nation that had succored them.

Self-made public servants like Lincoln showed to the satisfaction of many that republican liberty really did rule in the U.S., at least in the North and West.  The chance to ascend in public responsibility and esteem wasn’t limited to the privileged few.  Aristocracy was following monarchy into the dustbin of history.

Disciplined climbers could now rise to distinction without benefit of family fortune or cronyism.  All they needed was well-engraved inner character.  The self-made man, wrote the prolific commercial author John Frost in his Self-Made Men of America (1848), was “one who has rendered himself accomplished, eminent, rich, or great by his own unaided efforts.”         

Lincoln took pride in having risen from a low rung on the social ladder, and said so repeatedly.  But he made no pretense of having accomplished that feat without help.  True, he’d done it with little material aid from his family, and like many young men of his era, he’d done it by self-consciously distancing himself from his father.  (Thomas Lincoln did pass along some vital social capital: the storytelling gift that proved integral to his son’s success.)

When 22, Lincoln strode into New Salem, Illinois, in 1831, “penniless” and “friendless,” as he later wrote.  Yet he soon attracted eager backing.  William Lee Miller, in his book Lincoln’s Virtues (pp. 24-25), gives a nice summary of all the “boosts and helps and open doors and befriendings” that launched Lincoln on his path to public renown. 

After a decade in Illinois, having just been crowned by the Quincy Whig as “one of the ablest” self-made men in the state, Lincoln gave an address in Springfield that spelled out the social underpinnings of self-making.  Speaking to the Washingtonian Society, a temperance group, on Washington’s Birthday 1842, he urged all citizens to join the Society by signing its pledge to abstain from spirits. 

Those struggling to escape the lure of liquor, said Lincoln, couldn’t be expected to make their way unassisted.  They needed the active support of a united community, including people like himself who’d never been tempted by drink.  Lincoln took no credit for his own sobriety, attributing it to luck rather than self-discipline.  “Such of us as have never fallen victims [sic] have been spared more from the absence of appetite, than from any mental or moral superiority over those who have.” 

And he extended his point beyond the issue of alcohol.  Everyone, even the morally proficient, had learned self-control by taking their cues from “other people’s actions.”  Everybody absorbed community norms by letting the influence of respected models seep into them.  Self-making amounted to a social achievement, not just an individual one. 

True, Lincoln always held, as he told a small group of free black men whom he invited to the White House 20 years later, that “success does not as much depend on external help as on self-reliance.”  His own experience taught him that relentless resolve lay behind the push for personal advancement.   

But those starting out with limited means — whether freed slaves or penniless migrants — would likely need some “external help.”  Without self-discipline they would surely fail; yet without the moral example and material help of others, self-discipline would languish like seed on rocky ground.

When Lincoln departed from Springfield as president-elect in 1861, he uttered his famous farewell remarks.  Once again, as in the 1842 temperance speech, he underlined the social foundations of self-making.  Speaking from the rear platform of his train on the day before his 52^nd birthday, he thanked his Springfield neighbors for making him into the “old man” he’d become.

“To you, dear friends,” he said in one version of his remarks, “I owe all that I have, all that I am.”  “To this place and the kindness of these people,” he says in another version, “I owe every thing.”

A third version, which appeared in the east-coast press on February 12, 1861, has him saying “to this people I owe all that I am.”  That’s the phrasing put on this late-1860s pocket-sized card, which mistakenly gives the date of publication — his birthday — as the date of delivery.

 Of course, after his death Lincoln couldn’t offer any more correctives to the notion that he’d risen without help.  Americans preferred to cherish him post-mortem as the paragon of self-containment, the brooding genius with the generous heart and steely will.

Another famous self-made man, Frederick Douglass, left one of many testimonials to Lincoln’s unassisted mastery in constructing himself.  Writing a year after the president’s assassination, he praised Lincoln as so self-sufficient, so original, that he had reinvented even the process of self-creation.

“One great charm of his life,” wrote Douglass, “is that he was indebted to himself for himself.  He was the architect of his own fortune, a self-made man, a flat boat captain, a splitter of rails, a man of toil, one who travelled far but made the road on which he traveled — one who ascended high, but with hard hands and honest work built the ladder on which he climbed.  Flung upon the sea of life in the midnight storm, without oars or life preservers he bravely buffeted the billows — and with sinewy arms swam in safety, where other men despair and sink.”