But while all this misery was upon him his ambition rose to higher aims.  He walked many miles to borrow from a schoolmaster a grammar with which to improve his language.  A lawyer lent him a copy of Blackstone, and he began to study law.

People would look wonderingly at the grotesque figure lying in the grass, “with his feet up a tree,” or sitting on a fence, as, absorbed in a book, he learned to construct correct sentences and made himself a jurist.  At once he gained a little practice, pettifogging before a justice of the peace for friends, without expecting a fee.  Judicial functions, too, were thrust upon him, but only at horse-races or wrestling matches, where his acknowledged honesty and fairness gave his verdicts undisputed authority.  His popularity grew apace, and soon he could be a candidate for the Legislature again.  Although he called himself a Whig, an ardent admirer of Henry Clay, his clever stump speeches won him the election in the strongly Democratic district.  Then for the first time, perhaps, he thought seriously of his outward appearance.  So far he had been content with a garb of “Kentucky jeans,” not seldom ragged, usually patched, and always shabby.  Now, he borrowed some money from a friend to buy a new suit of clothes—­“store clothes” fit for a Sangamon County statesman; and thus adorned he set out for the state capital, Vandalia, to take his seat among the lawmakers.

His legislative career, which stretched over several sessions—­for he was thrice re-elected, in 1836, 1838, and 1840—­was not remarkably brilliant.  He did, indeed, not lack ambition.  He dreamed even of making himself “the De Witt Clinton of Illinois,” and he actually distinguished himself by zealous and effective work in those “log-rolling” operations by which the young State received “a general system of internal improvements” in the shape of railroads, canals, and banks,—­a reckless policy, burdening the State with debt, and producing the usual crop of political demoralization, but a policy characteristic of the time and the impatiently enterprising spirit of the Western people.  Lincoln, no doubt with the best intentions, but with little knowledge of the subject, simply followed the popular current.  The achievement in which, perhaps, he gloried most was the removal of the State government from Vandalia to Springfield; one of those triumphs of political management which are apt to be the pride of the small politician’s statesmanship.  One thing, however, he did in which his true nature asserted itself, and which gave distinct promise of the future pursuit of high aims.  Against an overwhelming preponderance of sentiment in the Legislature, followed by only one other member, he recorded his protest against a proslavery resolution,—­that protest declaring “the institution of slavery to be founded on both injustice and bad policy.”  This was not only the irrepressible voice of his conscience; it was true moral valor, too; for at that time, in