“In the winter of 1840 and 1841,” writes Speed, “he was unhappy about the engagement to his wife—­not being entirely satisfied that his heart was going with his hand.  How much he suffered then on that account, none knew so well as myself; he disclosed his whole heart to me.  In the summer of 1841 I became engaged to my wife.  He was here on a visit when I courted her; and strange to say, something of the same feeling which I regarded as so foolish in him took possession of me, and kept me very unhappy from the time of my engagement until I was married.  This will explain the deep interest he manifested in his letters on my account....  One thing is plainly discernible; if I had not been married and happy, far more happy than I ever expected to be, he would not have married.”

Whether or not Speed was entirely right in his final conclusion, it is plain that he and Lincoln were remarkably alike in temperament; that whatever had caused the break in Lincoln’s engagement was repeated in his friend’s experience when the latter reached a certain degree of emotional tension; that this paralleling of Lincoln’s own experience in the experience of the friend so like himself, broke tip for once the solitude of his inner life and delivered him from some dire inward terror.  Both men were deeply introspective.  Each had that overpowering sense of the emotional responsibilities of marriage, which is bred in the bone of certain hyper-sensitive types—­at least in the Anglo-Saxon race.  But neither realized this trait in himself until, having blithely pursued his impulse to the point of committal, his spiritual conscience suddenly awakened and he asked of his heart, “Do I truly love her?  Am I perfectly sure the emotion is permanent?”

It is on this speculation that the unique group of the intimate letters to Speed are developed.  They were written after Lincoln’s return to Springfield, while Speed was wrestling with the demon of self-analysis.  In the period which they cover, Lincoln delivered himself from that same demon and recovered Serenity.  Before long he was writing:  “I know what the painful point with you is at all times when you are unhappy; it is an apprehension that you do not love her as you should.  What nonsense!  How came you to court her?  Was it because you thought she deserved it and that you had given her reason to expect it?  If it was for that, why did not the same reason make you court Ann Todd, and at least twenty others of whom you can think, to whom it would apply with greater force than to her?  Did you court her for her wealth?  Why, you said she had none.  But you say you reasoned yourself into it.  What do you mean by that?  Was it not that you found yourself unable to reason yourself out of it?” And much more of the same shrewd sensible sort,—­a picture unintentionally of his own state of mind no less than of his friend’s.