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Updated: May 7, 2025
From this bivouac, a very remarkable peaked hill, called Woolling, which I named Mount Elain, bore North 162 degrees 15 minutes East magnetic, distant about twenty miles; and two conspicuous hills, close together, called Yeadie and Bulgar, bore North 105 degrees East magnetic. Dense thickets, acacia, cypress, etc., sandy soil with spinifex, most of the way. 25th.
Now it so happened that some three miles out from New Salem lay Clary's Grove, the haunt of a gang of frontier ruffians of the familiar type, among whom one Jack Armstrong was champion bully. Offut's boasting soon rendered an encounter between Lincoln and Armstrong inevitable, though Lincoln did his best to avoid it, and declared his aversion to "this woolling and pulling."
Instead of echoing his pious platitudes with murmurs of assent and approval, they had been very polite, and also very reticent and distant; and Mr. Woolling that was his name had said in confidence to Mrs.
Lincoln, who disapproved of all this "woolling and pulling," as he called it, and had no desire to come to blows with his neighbors, put off the encounter as long as possible. At length even his good temper was powerless to avert it, and the wrestling-match took place.
Woolling was, in truth, not the type of the tall, rugged-featured man who sat on the platform pulpit, and Mildred, at first, was not prepossessed in his favor, but as he rose and began to speak she felt the magnetism of a large heart and brain; and when he began to preach she found herself yielding to the power of manly Christian thought, expressed in honest Saxon words devoid of any trace of affectation, scholasticism, and set phraseology.
I and some friends have classes at a mission chapel not far from here, and all I ask at first is that you and Mrs. Jocelyn attend service at the chapel and see how you like us and how you like our minister." "Is is his name Mr. Woolling?" faltered Mildred. A slight, evanescent smile flitted across the visitor's face. "No," she said, "that is not his name.
The Church deserves slight progress if it fails to send its best and most gifted men and women among the poor and vicious. Mr. Woolling was a sincere well-meaning man, but he no more knew how to catch men with a Christ-like magnetism and guile than how to render one of Beethoven's symphonies; and he was so constituted that he could never learn.
Jocelyn would have been resentfully aware of the fact; but they were "kissable" children, and no one knew it better than the fond mother, who was won completely by the spontaneity of the act. "Millie, I think I'd go to her church, even if Mr. Woolling were the minister," she said, with her sweet laugh.
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