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friends.
He took his friend James Matheney out into the woods with him one day and, calling up the bitter features of the canvass, protested “vehemently and with great emphasis” that he was anything but aristocratic and proud.
“Why, Jim,” he said, “I am now and always shall be the same Abe Lincoln I was when you first saw me.”
In the campaign of 1844 Lincoln filled the honorable post of Presidential elector, and he extended the limits of his acquaintance by stumping the State.
This was the year the gallant and magnetic Clay went down in defeat.
Lincoln, in the latter end of the canvass, crossed over into Indiana and made several speeches.
He spoke at Rockport and also at Gentryville, where he met the Grigsbys, the Gentrys, and other friends of his boyhood.
The result of the election was a severe disappointment to Mr. Lincoln as well as to all other Whigs.
No election since the foundation of the Government created more widespread regret than the defeat of Clay by Polk.
Men were never before so enlisted in any man's cause, and when the great Whig chieftain went down his followers fled from the field in utter demoralization.
Some doubted the success of popular government, while others, more hopeful still in the face of the general disaster, vowed they would never shave their faces or cut their hair till Henry Clay became President.
As late as 1880 I saw one man who had lived up to his insane resolution.
One political society organized to aid Clay's election sent the defeated candidate an address, in which they assured him that, after the smoke of battle
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