COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHED, JANUARY, 1909
NOTE
THIS STORY FIRST APPEARED IN THE “LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL” UNDER THE TITLE “THE LOVE STORY OF ANN RUTLEDGE.”
ILLUSTRATIONS
| “‘I cannot bear to think of her out there alone in the storm’” | [Frontispiece] |
| FACING PAGE | |
| Above the dam at New Salem | [6] |
| The grammar which Lincoln studied as a young man | [16] |
| New Salem, Ill., where Lincoln was postmaster | [20] |
| Squire Bowling Green’s cabin, near New Salem, Ill., as it is to-day | [32] |
| The top of the hill, New Salem | [36] |
| Gutzon Borglum’s conception of Lincoln | [46] |
| The grave of Ann Rutledge, Oakland Cemetery, Petersburg, Ill. | [56] |
Lincoln’s Love Story
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.