Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865 -- Relations with women; Rutledge, Ann, -1835
In the sweet spring weather of 1835, Abraham Lincoln made a memorable
journey. It was the beginning of his summer of love on the winding
banks of the Sangamon. Only one historian has noted it as a happy
interlude in a youth of struggle and unsatisfied longings, but the
tender memory of Ann Rutledge, the girl who awaited him at the end
of it, must have remained with him to the day of his martyrdom.
He was returning from Vandalia, Illinois, then the capital, and his
first term in the state legislature, to the backwoods village of New
Salem that had been his home for four years. The last twenty miles of
the journey, from the town of Springfield, he made on a hired horse.
The landscape through which he rode that April morning still holds
its enchantment; the swift, bright river still winds in and out among
the wooded hills, for the best farming lands lie back of the gravelly
bluffs, on the black loam prairie. But three-quarters of a century
ago central Illinois was an almost primeval world. Settlements
were few and far apart. No locomotive awoke the echoes among the
verdant ridges, no smoke darkened the silver ribbon of the river, no
coal-mine gashed the green hillside. Here and there a wreath of blue
marked the hearth-fire of a forest home, or beyond a gap in the bluff
a log-cabin stood amid the warm brown furrows of a clearing; but for
the most part the Sangamon River road was broken through a sylvan
wilderness.
There were walnut groves then, as there are still oaks and maples.
Among the darker boles the trunks of sycamores gleamed. In the
bottoms the satin foliage of the cottonwood shimmered in the sun,
and willows silvered in the breeze. Honey-locusts, hawthorn and wild
crab-apple trees were in bloom, dogwood made pallid patches in the
glades and red-bud blushed. Wild flowers of low growth carpeted
every grassy slope. The earth exhaled all those mysterious fragrances
with which the year renews its youth. In April the mating season
would be over and the birds silent, a brooding stillness possess
an efflorescent Eden.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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