I don’t know who my grandfather was; I am much more concerned to know what his grandson will be.
—from Lincoln’s Own Stories edited by Anthony Gross
God bless my mother; all that I am or ever hope to be I owe to her.
—Remark to William H. Herndon, circa 1850, from Herndon’s Lincoln: The True Story of a Great Life by William H. Herndon and Jesse W. Weik
I regret to learn that you have resolved to not return to Illinois. I shall be very lonesome without you. How miserably things seem to be arranged in this world. If we have no friends, we have no pleasure; and if we have them, we are sure to lose them, and be doubly pained by the loss.
—Letter to Joshua F. Speed, February 25, 1842
I reckon it will scarcely be in our power to visit Kentucky this year. Besides poverty, and the necessity of attending to business, those “coming events” I suspect would be some what in the way. I most heartily wish you and your Fanny would not fail to come. Just let us know the time a week in advance, and we will have a room provided for you at our house, and all be merry together for awhile.
—Letter to Joshua F. Speed, May 18, 1843
My Dear Father:
Your letter of the 7th was received night before last. I very cheerfully send you the twenty dollars, which sum you say is necessary to save your land from sale. It is singular that you should have forgotten a judgment against you; and it is more singular that the plaintiff should have let you forget it so long, particularly as I suppose you always had property enough to satisfy a judgment of that amount. Before you pay it, it would be well to be sure you have not paid, or at least that you cannot prove that you have paid it. Give my love to mother and all the connections.
—Letter to Thomas Lincoln, December 24, 1848
Dear Brother:
When I came into Charleston day before yesterday, I learned that you are anxious to sell the land where you live and move to Missouri. I have been thinking of this ever since, and cannot but think such a notion is utterly foolish. What can you do in Missouri better than here? Is the land any richer? Can you there, any more than here, raise corn and wheat and oats without work? Will anybody there, any more than here, do your work for you? If you intend to go to work, there is no better place than right where you are; if you do not intend to go to work, you cannot get along anywhere. Squirming and crawling about from place to place can do no good. . . . Now, do not misunderstand this letter; I do not write it in any unkindness. I write it in order, if possible, to get you to face the truth, which truth is, you are destitute because you have idled away all your time. Your thousand pretenses for not getting along better are all nonsense; they deceive nobody but yourself. Go to work is the only cure for your case.
—Lincoln’s letter to his stepbrother, John D. Johnston, November 4, 1851
Dear Mary:
In this troublesome world, we are never quite satisfied. When you were here, I thought you hindered me some in attending to business; but now, having nothing but business—no variety—it has grown exceedingly tasteless to me. I hate to sit down and direct documents, and I hate to stay in this old room by myself. . . . And you are entirely free from head-ache? That is good— good considering it is the first spring you have been free from it since we were acquainted. I am afraid you will get so well, and fat, and young, as to be wanting to marry again. Tell Louisa I want her to watch you a little for me. Get weighed, and write me how much you weigh. I did not get rid of the impression of that foolish dream about dear Bobby till I got your letter written the same day. What did he and Eddy think of the little letters father sent them? Don’t let the blessed fellows forget father. . . .
—Letter to Mary Todd Lincoln, April 16, 1848, written to her while she was visiting her family in Kentucky with their two sons
Dear Brother:
Your letter about a mail contract was received yesterday. I have made out a bid for you at $120, guaranteed it myself, got our PM here to certify it, and send it on. . . . As you make no mention of it, I suppose you had not learned that we lost our little boy. He was sick fifty-two days & died the morning of the first day of this month. It was not our first, but our second child. We miss him very much.
—Letter to John D. Johnston, February 23, 1850
My dear Wife:
On my return from Philadelphia, yesterday, where, in my anxiety I had been led to attend the whig convention I found your last letter. I was so tired and sleepy, having ridden all night, that I could not answer it till today; and now I have to do so in the H[ouse]. [of] R[epresentatives]. The leading matter in your letter, is your wish to return to this side of the Mountains. Will you be a good girl in all things, if I consent? Then come along, and that as soon as possible. Having got the idea in my head, I shall be impatient till I see you. . . . Come on just as soon as you can. I want to see you, and our dear— dear boys very much. Every body here wants to see our dear Bobby.
—Letter to Mary Todd Lincoln, June 12, 1848
My dear wife:
Your letter of last Sunday came last night. On that day (Sunday) I wrote the principal part of a letter to you, but did not finish it, or send it till Tuesday, when I had provided a draft for $100 which I sent in it. . . . Write me whether you got the draft, if you shall not have already done so, when this reaches you. Give my kindest regards to your uncle John, and all the family. . . . By the way, you do not intend to do without a girl, because the one you had has left you? Get another as soon as you can to take charge of the dear codgers. Father expected to see you all sooner; but let it pass; stay as long as you please, and come when you please. Kiss and love the dear rascals.
—Letter to Mary Todd Lincoln, July 2, 1848
Dear Brother:
On the day before yesterday I received a letter from Harriett, written at Greenup. She says she has just returned from your house; and that Father is very low, and will hardly recover. She also says you have written me two letters; and that although you do not expect me to come now, you wonder that I do not write. I received both your letters, and although I have not answered them, it is not because I have forgotten them, or been uninterested about them—but because it appeared to me I could write nothing which could do any good. You already know I desire that neither Father or Mother shall be in want of any comfort either in health or sickness while they live; and I feel sure you have not failed to use my name, if necessary, to procure a doctor, or any thing else for Father in his present sickness. My business is such that I could hardly leave home now, if it were not, as it is, that my own wife is sick-abed. (It is a case of baby-sickness, and I suppose is not dangerous.) I sincerely hope Father may yet recover his health. . . . Say to him that if we could meet now, it is doubtful whether it would not be more painful than pleasant; but that if it be his lot to go now, he will soon have a joyous meeting with many loved ones gone before; and where the rest of us, through the help of God, hope ere-long to join them. Write me again when you receive this.
—Lincoln’s letter to his stepbrother John D. Johnston, January 12, 1851. Thomas Lincoln died less than a week later, and Lincoln did not attend the funeral.
Dear Mother:
Chapman tells me he wants you to go and live with him. If I were you I would try it awhile. If you get tired of it (as I think you will not) you can return to your own home. Chapman feels very kindly to you; and I have no doubt he will make your situation very pleasant. Sincerely your son
—Lincoln’s letter to his stepmother after the death of his father, November 4, 1851, from Herndon’s Lincoln: The True Story of a Great Life by William H. Herndon and Jesse W. Weik
My poor boy, he was too good for this earth. God has called him home. I know that he is much better off in heaven, but then we loved him so. It is hard, hard to have him die!
—Spoken at Willie Lincoln’s deathbed, February 20, 1862, from Behind the Scenes, or, Thirty years a Slave, and Four Years in the White House by Elizabeth Keckley
That blow overwhelmed me. It showed me my weakness as I had never before felt it. . . .
—Remark to a friend from a Christian group about the death of his son Willie, from Six Months at the White House with Abraham Lincoln by F. B. Carpenter
Colonel, did you ever dream of a lost friend, and feel that you were holding sweet communion with that friend, and yet have a sad consciousness that it was not a reality?—just so I dream of my boy Willie.
—Remark to army officer three months after Willie’s death, from Six Months at the White House with Abraham Lincoln by F. B. Carpenter
It is my pleasure that my children are free and happy, and unrestrained by parental tyranny. Love is the chain whereby to bind a child to its parents.
—Frequent remark to Mary Todd Lincoln, from Herndon’s Lincoln: The True Story of a Great Life by William H. Herndon and Jesse W. Weik
Think you better put “Tad’s” pistol away. I had an ugly dream about him.
—Telegram to Mary Todd Lincoln, June 9, 1863
Tell dear Tad, poor ‘Nanny Goat,’ is lost; and Mrs. Cuthbert & I are in distress about it. The day you left Nanny was found resting herself, and chewing her little cud, on the middle of Tad’s bed. But now she’s gone!
—Letter to Mary Todd Lincoln, August 8, 1863
My Dear Stanton:
Finding the above signature of Adams in an obscure place in the Mansion this morning and knowing of your weakness for oddities, I am sending it to you, hold on to it.—It will no doubt be much more valuable some day.
—Letter to Edwin M. Stanton, June 14, 1864
Lieut. General Grant:
Please read and answer this letter as though I was not President, but only a friend. My son, now in his twenty-second year, having graduated at Harvard, wishes to see something of the war before it ends. I do not wish to put him in the ranks, nor yet to give him a commission, to which those who have already served long are better entitled, and better qualified to hold. Could he, without embarrassment to you, or detriment to the service, go into your military family with some nominal rank, I, and not the public, furnishing his necessary means? If no, say so without the least hesitation, because I am as anxious, and as deeply interested, that you shall not be encumbered as you can be yourself.
—Letter to General Ulysses S. Grant, January 19, 1865. Grant consented to Lincoln’s request and less than a month later, Robert Lincoln became an assistant adjutant general with the rank of captain.
