• likeable lincoln •

• likeable lincoln •
Abraham Lincoln was a writer. This is not news. Ask practically anyone if they know who wrote the now iconic phrase, “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” Or this, from his second inaugural address, “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.” and they will tell you–with all of the force of “Duh!” — Abraham Lincoln.
It figures. Just looking at any photograph of the man, with that serious, and at times, even somber expression on the face of he who was then our sixteenth President — and you can’t help but feel the weight of Gravitas, of some serious Dignity–and then, of course, listening to his words, his message, if you will, and again, one would say, it figures.
What is perhaps less well known, what is less well depicted, historically — or may I say, hysterically? — is that our very Mr. Lincoln, our own ‘Honest Abe’, our renowned bean-pole rock star of a President in a stove-pipe hat, that he possessed another quality, all but lost to history: that, hiding his lamp under a bushel, was a man who slummed for fun and profit, who was in fact, a languorous, slouching, capable laugh-riot — I know — improbable as it seems, and for most of us, perhaps, even harder to grasp, or for that matter, even imagine or to believe: who, him? Yep, another Lincoln, that of a laughing, winking, joshing, ironically playful prankster: an affable Abe, a rowdy, dowdy raconteur, a joke-smith, a punster — yeppers, that was he, with a talent for subtle sarcasm, and a propensity for light-hearted or bawdy banter, for off-color innuendo, for dancing on the dangerous edge of double entendre, and tightrope walking over the yawning precipice of fawning good taste, and even for the occasional zinger — kapow! never knew what hit ’em–a grinner, a player, the Spike Jones of Verbal Volleyball, a rimshot with legs in red shoes and dancing feet.
Like Mark Twain, Lincoln’s humor was first rate, and of the highest caliber. He made of himself, a man of the people, an accessible, likeable Everyman — having earned a living as a sometime boatman, as a shopkeeper, as a soldier in the Black Hawk War, as the owner/proprietor of a general store, as an attorney, these incarnations were, doubtless, his opportunity, his education of amuse: picture, if you will filling the hours with repartee, on those long winter days and nights around the Franklin stove, or around a campfire, or over a shop counter, affably shooting the bull, making with the friendly, crocheting candor, stretching credulity, just to pass the time, and to become more and more, over time, a man of the People, little by little, learning what makes us tick, we humans, and, when nothing is working: of humility. A proverbial ‘Conversity University’. He learned how to make friends, needless to say, and how to treat folks as friends, so as to keep them, molding all of these elements into the most beautiful of human creations: an extended family.
His reputation as a maker of jokes, as a story teller, as a placid entertainer, as a mellow, mantel-leaning, smoke-blowing country philosopher, an~All-Aboard!~even-tempered, social engineer- – come to think of it — goes some way to making it seem real, to explaining to some extent his meteoric rise in politics, his otherwise inexplicable popularity, his easy way of winning over the people, of depicting himself as an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances, of winning — under the worst of possible circumstances, a nation at war — the trust of a people — a talent that for thirty years before becoming the most powerful leader in the free world, held him in good stead with his public–his ‘fans’, if you will — with his friends, fellow politicians, and constituents.
Lincoln was a master at spinning a yarn, and not unfunny, too. Consider, here, if you will, the letter written by him to his friend, Mrs. O.H. Browning, from Springfield, Illinois, dated April 1, (April Fool’s Day?) 1838, when still a young man, about his misadventures with the ‘dating scene’ of his day, such as it was. With a friendly wink and a joshing shrug, he pokes gentle fun at himself and at love, with its conventions and constraints, with its arranged meetings, and blind dates (with a certain so and so’s sister), skillfully making himself out to be the fool, and not without a self-deprecating nod to, as he saw it, his gangly awkwardness, his painful shyness, around the ‘fairer sex’ and, as he tells it, by brag, by compensation, by misdirection, by disclaiming its opposite, of his gigantically, monumentally, face-palming social ineptitude. The Don Juan of Dunces.
Note how he eases into it.
He writes, “Dear Madam, Without apologizing for being egotistical, I shall make the history of so much of my life as has elapsed since I saw you the subject of this letter. And, by the way, I now discover that in order to give a full and intelligible account of the things I have done and suffered since I saw you, I shall necessarily have to relate some that happened before.
It was, then, in the autumn of 1836 that a married lady of my acquaintance, and who was a great friend of mine, being about to pay a visit to her father and other relatives residing in Kentucky, proposed to me that on her return she would bring a sister of hers with her on condition that I would engage to become her brother-in-law with all convenient dispatch. I, of course, accepted the proposal, for you know I could not have done otherwise had I really been averse to it; but privately, between you and me, I was most confoundedly well pleased with the project. I had seen the said sister some three years before, thought her intelligent and agreeable, and saw no good objection to plodding life through hand-in-hand with her. Time passed on, the lady took her journey, and in due time returned, sister in company, sure enough. This astonished me a little, for it appeared to me that her coming so readily showed that she was a trifle too willing, but on reflection it occurred to me that she might have been prevailed on by her married sister to come, without anything concerning me having been mentioned to her, and so I concluded that if no other objection presented itself, I would consent to waive this. All this occurred to me on hearing of her arrival in the neighborhood — for, be it remembered, I had not yet seen her, except about three years previous, as above mentioned. In a few days we had an interview, and, although I had seen her before, she did not look as my imagination had pictured her. I knew she was over-size, but she now appeared a fair match for Falstaff. I knew she was called an “old maid,” and I felt no doubt of the truth of at least half of the appellation, but now, when I beheld her, I could not for my life avoid thinking of my mother; and this, not from withered features — for her skin was too full of fat to permit of its contracting into wrinkles — but from her want of teeth, weather-beaten appearance in general, and from a kind of notion that ran in my head that nothing could have commenced at the size of infancy and reached her present bulk in less than thirty-five or forty years; and, in short, I was not at all pleased with her. But what could I do? I had told her sister that I would take her for better or for worse, and I made a point of honour and conscience in all things to stick to my word, especially if others had been induced to act on it, which in this case I had no doubt they had, for I was now fairly convinced that no other man on earth would have her, and hence the conclusion that they were bent on holding me to my bargain. “Well,” thought I, “I have said it, and, be the consequences what they may, it shall not be my fault if I fail to do it.” At once I determined to consider her my wife, and this done, all my powers of discovery were put to work in search of perfections in her which might be fairly set off against her defects. I tried to imagine her handsome, which, but for her unfortunate corpulency, was actually true. Exclusive of this, no woman that I have ever seen has a finer face. I also tried to convince myself that the mind was much more to be valued than the person, and in this she was not inferior, as I could discover, to any with whom I had been acquainted.
Shortly after this, without attempting to come to any positive understanding with her, I set out for Vandalia, when and where you first saw me. During my stay there I had letters from her which did not change my opinion of either her intellect or intention, but, on the contrary, confirmed it in both.
All this while, although I was fixed “firm as the surge-repelling rock” in my resolution, I found I was continually repenting the rashness which had led me to make it. Through life I have been in no bondage, either real or imaginary, from the thraldom of which I so much desired to be free. After my return home I saw nothing to change my opinion of her in any particular. She was the same, and so was I. I now spent my time in planning how I might get along in life after my contemplated change of circumstances should have taken place, and how I might procrastinate the evil day for a time, which I really dreaded as much, perhaps more, than an Irishman does the halter.
After all my sufferings upon this deeply interesting subject, here I am, wholly, unexpectedly, completely out of the “scrape,” and I now want to know if you can guess how I got out of it–out, clear, in every sense of the term–no violation of word, honour, or conscience. I don’t believe you can guess, and so I might as well tell you at once. As the lawyer says, it was done in the manner following, to wit: After I had delayed the matter as long as I thought I could in honour do (which, by the way, had brought me round into the last fall), I concluded I might as well bring it to a consummation without further delay, and so I mustered my resolution and made the proposal to her direct; but, shocking to relate, she answered, No. At first I supposed she did it through an affectation of modesty, which I thought but ill became her under the peculiar circumstances of the case, but on my renewal of the charge I found that she repelled it with greater force than before. I tried it again and again, but with the same success, or rather with the same want of success.
I finally was forced to give it up, at which I very unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond endurance. I was mortified, it seemed to me, in a hundred different ways. My vanity was deeply wounded by the reflection that I had so long been too stupid to discover her intentions, and at the same time that I understood them perfectly; and also that she, whom I had taught myself to believe nobody else would have, had actually rejected me with all my fancied greatness. And, to cap the whole, I then for the first time began to suspect that I was really a little in love with her. But let it all go! I’ll try and outlive it. Others have been made fools of by the girls, but this can never in truth be said of me. I most emphatically, in this instance, made a fool of myself. I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason — I can never be satisfied with anyone who would be blockhead enough to have me.
When you receive this, write me a long yarn about something to amuse me. Give my respects to Mr. Browning.
Warmest regards,
Abe Lincoln ”

~ Tim Burchfield



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