martial for a quarrel with a brother officer. Possibly, these words, addressed to the culprit, may have been suggested by his own unwelcome experience:

"The advice of a father to his son, 'Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, bear it that the opposed may beware of thee,' is good, but not the best. Quarrel not at all. No man resolved to make the most of himself can spare time for personal contention. Still less can he afford to take all the consequences, including the vitiating of his temper and the loss of self-control. Yield larger things to which you can show no more than equal right; and yield lesser ones though clearly your own. Better give your path to a dog than be bitten by him in contesting for the right. Even killing the dog would not cure the bite."

But out of the Shields affair, we may understand, issued the marriage of Lincoln and Miss Todd. The young lady was bright, vivacious, and roguish. Her knight had shown his readiness to fight for her, although, with genuine Kentucky spirit, she had declared her own willingness to cross weapons with the redoubtable young Irishman, if need be. The paper duel took place late in September; the young couple were married November 4, 1840. The newly married pair took lodgings in the Globe Tavern, a well-known and modest boarding-place not far from the statehouse. In a letter written to a friend, about this time, Lincoln speaks of his happiness in the married state, of his comforts, and of the cheapness of their living, which, he says, "is only four dollars a week for board and lodging." On these

modest terms did the future President begin married life. Mrs. Lincoln was indeed a helpmate. Her good management and thoughtfulness admirably supplemented her husband's unworldly absent-mindedness. They were always what some people call "an oldfashioned couple," content with each other, a devoted husband and wife, to the end of their life together.

To Lincoln's inexpressible satisfaction, Harrison was elected in 1840. The hard-cider and log-cabin campaign was not fought through, however, without many a hard struggle. The Democrats were overwhelmed at last. The Whigs, after their long exclusion from power, were correspondingly elated. It was during this canvass that the old term of derision "Locofoco" was again applied to the Democrats. In 1834, so runs the tale, a party of Democratic agitators were assembled in Tammany Hall, New York, resolved on some very high-handed political measure. The more moderate, after vainly attempting to stem the tide, turned off the gas all at once. In those days, friction matches were a new invention and were called "Locofoco matches," probably from the Latin loco foco, in lieu of fire. Those who were in favor of extreme measures drew their "Locofocos" from their pockets, relighted the gas, and the radicals carried their point. From this, the term Locofoco spread all over the country; and it is worthy of remark that Mr. Lincoln, clinging as he did to old-fashioned phrases, frequently, even during the Civil War, referred to Democrats by their old name of Locofocos.

The log-cabin campaign having terminated to

Lincoln's satisfaction, he spent the winter of his first year of marriage very happily, as well as very busily. Yet he found time to write an occasional newspaper article on the growing power of the political South, and, later on, to compose and deliver a very excellent temperance address. About this time, too, possibly. this very winter, he wrote a lecture for a lyceum, designed to show that there was nothing new under the sun, that everything that was claimed as a new invention had existed at some period, possibly very remote, in the history of the world. This lecture was not intended to be taken in cold-blooded earnest, but as a bit of pleasantry, mixed with much sober fact. The temperance address, however, was a serious composition. Lincoln never, even to the day of his death, could be persuaded to partake of spirits or wine. He set out in life, surrounded by drunkards and moderate tipplers, determined that he would resist the temptation to drink of these insidious beverages. He made no promises, but, after a few years of manhood (as he used to say), when his associates had become accustomed to his abstemious habits, he had neither temptation nor desire to drink. That part of Lincoln's lecture—which was delivered in the Second Presbyterian Church, Springfield, February 22, 1842-that refers to the drinking usages of society is interesting. He said:

"Let us see. I have not inquired at what period of time the use of intoxicating liquors commenced; nor is it important to know. It is sufficient that to all of us who now inhabit the world, the practice of drinking them is just as old as the world itself—that is, we have seen the

one just as long as we have seen the other. When all such of us as have now reached the years of maturity first opened our eyes upon the stage of existence we found intoxicating liquor recognized by everybody, used by everybody, repudiated by nobody. It commonly entered into the first draught of the infant, and the last draught of the dying man. From the sideboard of the parson down to the ragged pocket of the homeless loafer, it was constantly found. Physicians prescribed it in this, that, and the other disease; government provided it for soldiers and sailors; and to have a rolling or raising, a husking or 'hoe-down' anywhere about without it was positively insufferable. So, too, it was everywhere a respectable article of manufacture and merchandise. The making of it was regarded as an honorable livelihood, and he who could make most was the most enterprising and respectable. Large and small manufactories of it were everywhere erected, in which all the earthly goods of their owners were invested. Wagons drew it from town to town; boats bore it from clime to clime, and the winds wafted it from nation to nation; and merchants bought and sold it, by wholesale and retail, with precisely the same feelings, on the part of the seller, buyer, and bystander, as are felt at the selling and buying of ploughs, beef, bacon, or any other of the real necessities of life. Universal public opinion not only tolerated, but recognized and adopted its use."

In June, 1842, Lincoln met Martin Van Buren, then out of office. It was the first time that Lincoln had ever seen the much-hated Democratic ex-President, and he was accustomed to say, in after years, that it was no wonder that Van Buren's admirers called him "the little magician," for, according to

Lincoln, Van Buren's manners were so affable and delightful that "he could charm the birds off the trees." But, if Lincoln was pleased with Van Buren, the ex-President was no less gratified by his meeting with the young Whig leader of central Illinois. Being weatherbound at a small town not far from Springfield, the ex-President was forced to remain overnight. Some of his Springfield friends hearing of Mr. Van Buren's plight, made up a party, and, taking with them some refreshments, left Springfield for the village aforementioned. Knowing Lincoln's good-nature, as well as his powers of entertaining, they besought his assistance to lighten the weary ours of the ex-President's stay at the wretched inn where he was detained. Lincoln, always ready to do a good turn, went out with the party, and, as it is recorded by one of the company, entertained the wayfarers far into the night with Western anecdotes, funny stories, and graphic descriptions of wild life on the frontier. Van Buren was surprised and delighted, saying that the only drawback to his enjoyment was that his sides were sore, from laughing at Lincoln's stories, for a week thereafter. The Democratic ex-President and the Whig leader parted on such excellent terms that they ever after cherished pleasant recollections of that night.

Lincoln had long desired to go to Congress, but it so happened that his dearest friends, also Whigs, were equally anxious to go from the district in which they all lived. This was known as the Sangamon district, and from 1839 to 1850 it was represented by men of marked ability. Edward D. Baker was chosen in