And yet, what was wrong?  He had been popular at Washington, in the same way in which he had been popular at Springfield.  Why had the same sort of success inspired him at Springfield and humiliated him at Washington?  The answer was in the difference between the two worlds.  Companionableness, story-telling, at Springfield, led to influence; at Washington it led only to applause.  At Springfield it was a means; at Washington it was an end.  The narrow circle gave the good fellow an opportunity to reveal at his leisure everything else that was in him; the larger circle ruthlessly put him in his place as a good fellow and nothing more.  The truth was that in the Washington of the ’forties, neither the inner nor the outer Lincoln could by itself find lodgment.  Neither the lonely mystical thinker nor the captivating buffoon could do more than ripple its surface.  As superficial as Springfield, it lacked Springfield’s impulsive generosity.  To the long record of its obtuseness it had added another item.  The gods had sent it a great man and it had no eyes to see.  It was destined to repeat the performance.

And so Lincoln came home, disappointed, disillusioned.  He had not succeeded in establishing the slightest claim, either upon the country or his party.  Without such claim he had no ground for attempting reelection.  The frivolity of the Whig machine in the Sangamon region was evinced by their rotation agreement.  Out of such grossly personal politics Lincoln had gone to Washington; into this essentially corrupt system he relapsed.  He faced, politically, a blank wall.  And he had within him as yet, no consciousness of any power that might cleave the wall asunder.  What was he to do next?

At this dangerous moment—­so plainly the end of a chapter—­he was offered the governorship of the new Territory of Oregon.  For the first time he found himself at a definite parting of the ways, where a sheer act of will was to decide things; where the pressure of circumstance was of secondary importance.

In response to this crisis, an overlooked part of him appeared.  The inheritance from his mother, from the forest, had always been obvious.  But, after all, he was the son not only of Nancy and of the lonely stars, but also of shifty, drifty Thomas the unstable.  If it was not his paternal inheritance that revived in him at this moment of confessed failure, it was something of the same sort.  Just as Thomas had always by way of extricating himself from a failure taken to the road, now Abraham, at a psychological crisis, felt the same wanderlust, and he threatened to go adrift.  Some of his friends urged him to accept.  “You will capture the new community,” said they, “and when Oregon becomes a State, you will go to Washington as its first Senator.”  What a glorified application of the true Thomasian line of thought.  Lincoln hesitated—­hesitated—­

And then the forcible little lady who had married him put her foot down.  Go out to that far-away backwoods, just when they were beginning to get on in the world; when real prosperity at Springfield was surely within their grasp; when they were at last becoming people of importance, who should be able to keep their own carriage?  Not much!