“It ain’t important to my mind what was in that book. What’s important is that Abraham Lincoln was wrestlin’ in those days to find out the truth, wa’n’t content like I was to settle down smotherin’ any reservations that I might a had. He never did that, grappled hard with everything touchin’ religion that came up, no matter which side it was. He never shirked the church if he wa’n’t a member, went regular, used to go to revivals and camp meetings too in those days when he was readin’ the ‘Ruins.’ Most of the boys who didn’t profess went to camp meetings for deviltry--hang around on the edges--playin’ tricks--teasin’ the girls--sometimes gettin’ into regular fights. Mr. Lincoln never joined into any horse play like that. He took it solemn. I reckon he wouldn’t ever hesitated a minute to go forward and ask prayers if he’d really believed that was the way for him to find God. He knew it wa’n’t. The God he was searchin’ for wa’n’t the kind they was preachin’. He was tryin’ to find one that he could reconcile with what he was findin’ out about the world--its ruins--its misery. Clear as day to me that that was what he was after from the start--some kind of plan in things, that he could agree to. “He certainly did have a lot to discourage him--worst was when he lost his sweetheart. I’ve allus figured it out that if Ann Rutledge had lived and married him he’d been a different man--leastwise he’d been happier. He might have even got converted and joined the church, like I did after I courted Ma. A good woman sort of carries a man along when he loves her. It’s a mighty sight easier to believe in the goodness of the Lord and the happiness of man when you’re in love like I’ve allus been, and like he was with that girl. “‘There was no doubt she was a fine girl--no doubt he loved her. When she died he was all broke up for days. I’ve heard his old friends tell how he give up workin’ and readin’--wandered off into the fields talkin’ to himself. Seemed as if he couldn’t bear to think of her covered over with snow--beaten on by rain--wastin’ away--eaten by worms. I tell you he was the kind that saw it all as it was. That’s the hard part of bein’ so honest you see things just as they are--don’t pretend things are different--just as they are. He couldn’t get over it. I believe it’s the Lord’s mercy he didn’t kill himself those days. Everybody thought he was goin’ crazy, but I rather think myself he was wrestlin’ with himself, tryin’ to make himself live. Men like him want to die pretty often. I reckon he must have cried out many a night like Job did, ‘What is mine end that I should prolong my life? My soul chooseth strangling and death rather than life. I loathe it. I would not live alway.’