Read Online Abraham Lincoln by Stephen B. Oates - Free Book Online Page B

“Mortality,” written by the Scotsman William Knox.
    So the multitude goes, like the flower or 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 .
    For we are the same things our fathers have been ;
    We see the same sights our fathers have seen ;
    We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun ,
    And run the same course our fathers have run….
    They died—ah! they died;—we, things that are now ,
    That walk on the turf that lies over their brow ,
    And make in their dwellings a transient abode ,
    Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road .
    Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain ,
    Are mingled together in sunshine and rain :
    And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge ,
    Still follow each other like surge upon surge .
    â€™ Tis the wink of an eye; ’tis the draught of a breath
    From the blossom 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 ?
    Preoccupied with death, Lincoln was also afraid of insanity, afraid (as he phrased it) of “the pangs that kill the mind.” In his late thirties, he wrote and rewrote a poem about a boyhood friend named Matthew Gentry, who became deranged and was locked “in mental night,” condemned to a living death, spinning out of control in some inner void. Lincoln had a morbid fascination with Gentry’s condition, writing about how Gentry was more an object of dread than death itself: “A human form with reason fled, while wretched life remains.” Yes, Lincoln was fascinated with madness, troubled by it, afraid that what had happened to Matthew could also happen to him—his own reason destroyed, Lincoln spinning in mindless night without the power to know.
    This also explains why Lincoln was a teetotaler. Liquor left him “flabby and undone,” he said, blurring his mind and threatening his self-control. And he dreaded and avoided anything which threatened that. In one memorable speech, he heralded some great and distant day when all passions would be subdued, when reason would triumph and “ mind , all conquering mind ” would rule the earth.
    It is true that Lincoln told folksy anecdotes to illustrate his points. But humor was also tremendous therapy for his depression—it was a device to “whistle down sadness,” as Judge Davis put it. Said Lincoln himself: “I laugh because I must not weep—that’s all, that’s all.” He remarked on another occasion: “I tell you the truth when I say that a funny story, if it has the element of genuine wit, has the same effect on me that I suppose a good square drink of whiskey has on an old toper; it puts new life into me.”
    An expert storyteller, Lincoln could work an audience with exquisite skill. As he related his yarns, fun danced in his eyes and grotesque expressions appeared on his face, until all his features appeared to take part in his performance. When telling a story, a friend said, mirth “seemed to diffuse itself all over him, like a spontaneous tickle.”
    On the political platform, Lincoln did like to spin tales that stressed some moral about human nature. But he also honed his humor into a potent political weapon. He was a master of ironic wit, of reducing a specious argument to its absurdity. “He can rake a sophism out of its hole better than all the trained logicians of all schools,” chuckled a young admirer. Some examples: The claim that the Mexican War was not aggressive reminded Lincoln of the farmer who said, “I ain’t greedy ’bout land, I only just wants what jines mine.” On state sovereignty: “Advocates of that theory always reminded [me] of the fellow who contended that the proper place for the big kettle was inside of the little one.” On the inconsistent politics of