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R E C E N T L Y

The new Dublin
By David Moore
Cappuccinos, computers and quaffing with stars
(03/17/98)

The elf of Sligo
By C.J. Sullivan
An Irish lesson in fairies, giants, queens and Yeats
(03/16/98)

Mondo Weirdo
By "Au Chateau"
The case of the permutating toilet
(03/13/98)

Auckland unplugged
By Cameron Williamson
Life in a city without electricity
(03/12/98)

A romp in Rome
By Fiona Morgan
An American feminist is liberated by Italian men
(03/11/98)

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__ MR. LINCOLN'S NEIGHBORHOOD .|. PAGE 2 OF 2

The streets might be empty, the mist lay low, the restaurants were deserted, the doors of the First Presbyterian Church were locked, but there before me stood one of the best-known and best-loved houses in all America at Eighth and Jackson streets, Springfield, Ill., the only house Abraham Lincoln, Esq., ever owned in his life. O Captain, my Captain! O sweetest wisest soul! From that moment on I saw Springfield through new eyes, and every symptom of its prairie origins, every dismal wisecrack I pretended to laugh at, the very silhouette of the Springfield Hilton Hotel, looming apparently lifeless above me, I saw as emblems or products or origins of the Gettysburg Address.

Of course Springfield never lets you forget that Lincoln was the most famous of all its citizens. There are Abe Lincoln markers all over the place, an Abe Lincoln Garage, an Abe Lincoln hairdresser, Lincoln's tomb of course, Lincoln's law office, the railway station where Lincoln set off for the presidency in Washington, D.C. For me, though, skeptic that I was about the attractions of prairie culture, what made the place so marvelous was the fact that out of an environment so fustian, so fascinating a hero should have emerged. Like it or not, when we consider Springfield and all it represents, we must remember that for 25 years Abraham Lincoln was part of it.

I bumped once again, for instance, into that man from the train, who did indeed turn out to be a lawyer, and I realized now that he was just the kind of man Lincoln might have had as a partner long ago. I thought again about that philosopher of the station yard, and easily imagined the two of them outdoing each other in prairie anecdote. At the Caffe Capitol one day I introduced myself to the assembled Poetry Society of Springfield, a very hospitable crew, and could easily imagine old Abe, holding an awful ode of his own, unfolding his lanky limbs to greet me. In Downtown News & Books I swear I saw him dropping in for the day's State Journal Register (which has his portrait on its masthead).

A day or two later, several hundred adolescents, attendants at some kind of church convention, unleashed themselves upon the Springfield Hilton, monopolizing the elevators, sitting in corridors eating pizza, laughing and shouting and ringing random telephones in the small hours; but even as I swore at them and resolved to claim my money back from the management in the morning, it occurred to me that young Abe, visiting the big city from his log cabin home down the Sangamo River, might perhaps have let off his American high spirits in rather the same way.

I will be frank with you. I was not altogether at a loose end when I went to Springfield. Actually I went there because I was having trouble with Lincoln. Somehow I could not reconcile his historical presence with the United States that he, more than anyone, bequeathed to us. His gentle character seemed incompatible with the style of modern America, or for that matter with the style of the prairie society he sprang from. The more I read about him, the more I saw of the United States today, the more it seemed to me that he must have been some kind of historical freak, one of those prodigies who appear to have no connection with their own origins, but are flung into the world at God's whim.

My few days in Springfield taught me otherwise. Late one night I went wandering around Mr. Lincoln's Neighborhood all by myself. So inescapable is his presence still, even in the imagination, that over the years countless people have reported seeing his ghost down on Eighth Street. I cannot claim a similar experience -- the whole neighborhood has been prettified, sanitized and made suitable for tour group experiences by the National Park Service -- but I did most powerfully sense his influence lingering there. And when I pottered somewhat aimlessly toward Capitol Avenue, just around the corner I looked up and saw, magnificently floodlit, the not very beautiful dome of the Illinois State Capitol, which is said to be considerably higher than -- oh, but I told you that before.

I was greatly stirred, despite myself. Lincoln never even set eyes upon that structure (it went up after his time), but for all the shenanigans that, I do not doubt, go on inside it -- for all the rogues and scoundrels who have been, at one time or another, elected to its membership; for all the corruptions that it has witnessed and the conspiracies that it has fostered -- still as I looked at it, that night in Springfield, I remembered that out of that very milieu, his genius recognized if not cherished by those very people, Honest Abe went off to Washington and the possession of the ages.

I returned to Chicago again myself on the Ann Rutledge, which is named, by the way, for Lincoln's original girlfriend, probably one of those screaming harpies who kept me so furiously awake all night in Room 2212.
SALON | March 18, 1998

Wanderlust Contributing Editor Jan Morris is the author of some 30 works of history and travel literature, including "Hong Kong," "Venice" and "Pax Britannica." Her most recent book is "Fifty Years of Europe."