is imagination as well as
with his eyes is clear from certain words spoken in the Senate Chamber
at Trenton in 1861. "May I be pardoned," said Mr. Lincoln, "if on this
occasion I mention that way back in my childhood, the earliest days of
my being able to read, I got hold of a small book, such a one as few
of the members have ever seen,--Weems's 'Life of Washington.' I
remember all the accounts there given of the battle-fields and
struggles for the liberties of the country; and none fixed themselves
upon my imagination so deeply as the struggle here at Trenton, New
Jersey. The crossing of the river, the contest with the Hessians, the
great hardships endured at that time,--all fixed themselves on my
memory more than any single Revolutionary event; and you all know, for
you have all been boys, how those early impressions last longer than
any others."

"When Abe and I returned to the house from work," writes John Hanks,
"he would go to the cupboard, snatch a piece of corn bread, sit down,
take a book, cock his legs up as high as his head, and read. We
grubbed, plowed, weeded, and worked together barefooted in the field.
Whenever Abe had a chance in the field while at work, or at the house,
he would stop and read." And this habit was kept up until Mr. Lincoln
had found both his life work and his individual expression. Later he
devoured Shakespeare and Burns; and the poetry of these masters of the
dramatic and lyric form, sprung like himself from the common soil,
and like him self-trained and directed, furnished a kind of running
accompaniment to his work and his play. What he read he not only held
tenaciously, but took into his imagination and incorporated into
himself. His familiar talk was enriched with frequent and striking
illustrations from the Bible and "AEsop's Fables."

This passion for knowledge and for companionship with the great
writers would have gone for nothing, so far as the boy's training in
expression was concerned, if he had contented himself with
acquisition; but he turned everything to account. He was as eager for
expression as for the material of expression; more eager to write and
to talk than to read. Bits of paper, stray sheets, even boards served
his purpose. He was continually transcribing with his own hand
thoughts or phrases which had impressed him. Everything within reach
bore evidence of his passion for reading, and for writing as well. The
flat sides of logs, the surface of the broad wooden