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| Edward Baker Lincoln "Eddy" |
Eddy Lincoln never became a statesman, a soldier, or even a schoolboy. History remembers him simply as a gentle child with bright eyes and a shy smile—a boy born in a modest house who vanished before he could grow into the tall, lanky frame his father joked he was destined for. Of the four Lincoln sons, Eddy belonged to Springfield, Illinois, the most. Almost every day of his short life unfolded within its dusty streets and quiet rooms, and when he died in the winter of 1850, the town felt the loss as if a part of its own heart had slipped away.
Edward Baker Lincoln arrived on March 10, 1846, at the home on Eighth and Jackson. [1] The baby was named for Edward Dickinson Baker, the family’s close friend and political ally. [2] At the time, Abraham and Mary were still finding their footing as a young family, with older brother Robert already a whirlwind of energy. Outside, Springfield was a bustling frontier town—lawyers crowding the square and wagons rattling past—but inside, life revolved around the sweet-natured toddler everyone called “Eddy.” [1]
Neighbors remembered him as a deeply affectionate child, one who clung to his mother’s skirts and reached for his father the moment Abraham stepped through the door. Abraham, often away riding the legal circuit, once wrote that Eddy was “of a longer order” than Robert. It was a tender, fatherly observation of the boy’s lanky little frame—one of the few descriptions we have, and it glows with quiet pride. [3]
The most vivid snapshot of Eddy’s personality comes from May 1848. While Abraham was serving in Congress, Mary and the boys were visiting her family in Kentucky. A letter from that trip describes a frail Eddy recovering from a "spell of sickness." During Eddy's recovery, Robert found a stray kitten and brought it inside. Eddy was instantly smitten, “his tenderness broke forth," feeding his new companion tiny bits of bread. [3]
But the joy was short-lived. Mary’s stepmother, Elizabeth Todd—who famously “disliked the whole cat race”—ordered a servant to throw the kitten out. Eddy’s reaction was visceral. As Mary wrote, he protested “long and loud,” heartbroken by the cruelty. In that moment, we see the true Eddy: tender, emotional, and easily moved by the plight of small creatures. In his soft heart, he was his father's son. [3]
The winter of 1849 brought a change no one in the household could ignore. Eddy fell ill again—first with a lingering cough, then with a fever that refused to break. [*] Medical care in 1850 was often more hope than science, and the doctors could do little. Day after day, Mary sat at his bedside, giving him medicine, rubbing balsam on his chest, and feeding him oatmeal and gruel. Abraham, whenever he could be home from the legal circuit, hovered close—reading to his son, soothing him, and trying in vain to coax back that shy, familiar smile. [4]
For fifty-two grueling days, the family watched him fade.
On February 1, 1850, just weeks before his fourth birthday, Eddy died in the upstairs bedroom of the Lincoln home. The house that had once echoed with the chaotic laughter of two young boys fell painfully quiet.
The funeral the next day was simple and somber. The Springfield neighbors came—the same people who had watched the boy toddle across the yard or peek from behind his mother’s skirts. They followed the family to Hutchinson Cemetery, where Eddy was laid to rest beneath a cold, gray winter sky.
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| Eddy Lincoln’s 1st tombstone (Courtesy Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum) |
Shortly after, a local newspaper published a poem titled “Little Eddie” [copied below Works Cited]. For years, many believed Abraham or Mary had penned the verses themselves. Whether the words were theirs or those of a sympathetic friend, the poem captured the raw tenderness of a family facing their first great loss.
Eddy’s death marked a permanent turning point. The family would grow—Willie and Tad would soon arrive, and Robert would eventually grow into a man—but the shadow of that winter never truly lifted. Springfield, which had watched the little boy’s entire life unfold, carried the memory of him, too.
Years later, on the day Abraham Lincoln stood at the Great Western Depot to say farewell to Springfield, his mind turned back to Eddy. Summing up what the town had meant to him, he told the crowd:
"To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried." [6]
Today, Eddy rests with his family at Oak Ridge Cemetery, moved there to be near his father and brothers. But in many ways, he still belongs to the Springfield of the 1840s—the bustling frontier town where he lived, played, and was so deeply loved.
He was, in every sense, the Springfield son.
From the archives of Abraham Lincoln, Storyteller.
Mac
[*] Conclusion: A Note on Eddy’s Illness
No one in the Lincoln home ever knew exactly what carried Eddy away, but the pattern of his decline is familiar to modern historians. The lingering cough, the fever that rose and fell, the slow fading over long winter weeks — all echo what doctors of the time called “consumption,” the illness we now know as tuberculosis. [7]
Springfield saw its share of the disease in those years. It moved quietly through boarding houses, along the legal circuit, and into homes where families gathered close against the cold. A child as gentle and openhearted as Eddy could have caught it anywhere — from a visitor at the door, a hired girl in the kitchen, or someone Abraham met on the road
One question often lingers in the minds of modern readers: if Eddy suffered from tuberculosis, why did neither Abraham, Mary, nor Robert fall ill in the months that followed? The answer lies not in luck, but in what we now understand about the nature of the disease.
Young children, even when gravely sick, almost never spread tuberculosis. Their small lungs simply cannot muster the deep, forceful cough that sends the illness drifting through the air. Adults, on the other hand, can carry the bacteria silently for years without ever showing a sign of sickness. A family might be exposed and never know it. [7]
So while Eddy’s decline bears all the marks of tuberculosis, his presence posed little danger to the people who held him close. Mary could sit beside him for hours, smoothing his hair and whispering comfort. Abraham could gather him gently into his arms when he returned from the circuit. Robert could hover near his brother’s bed, worried and watchful. None of them were likely to fall ill from the child they loved.
In this small mercy, the science of today helps us understand the sorrow of yesterday.
📚 Works Cited
[1] Wikipedia contributors. (n.d.). Edward Baker Lincoln. Wikipedia. Retrieved January 16, 2026 from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Baker_Lincoln
[2] Mr. Lincoln and Friends. (n.d.). Edward D. Baker (1811–1861). Retrieved January 16, 2026 from http://www.mrlincolnandfriends.org/the-friends/edward-d-baker/
[3] "Letter from Mary Lincoln to Abraham Lincoln, May 1848". Lincoln Collection, Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum (Springfield, IL).
[4] Fraga, Kaleena. "Edward Baker Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln’s son who died at just three." All That’s Interesting, February 17, 2022. Retrieved January 16, 2026 from https://allthatsinteresting.com/edward-baker-lincoln
[5] National Park Service. (n.d.). Edward Baker “Eddie” Lincoln. Lincoln Home National Historic Site. Retrieved January 16, 2026 from https://www.nps.gov/liho/learn/historyculture/eddie-lincoln.htm
[6] David Herbert Donald (1995). Lincoln (New York: Simon & Schuster. pp. 107, 153-54. and Roy P. Basler, ed. (1953), The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press), 1:304.
[7] Lincoln, Edith M. (1963) Tuberculosis in Children. (New York, NY: McGraw-Hill).
🌼 “Little Eddie”
(Published in Springfield by the Illinois State Journal shortly after Eddy Lincoln’s death, 1850)
Those midnight stars are sadly dimmed, That late so brilliantly shone, And the crimson tinge from cheek and lip, With the heart’s warm life has flown— The angel death was hovering nigh, And the lovely boy was called to die. The silken waves of his glossy hair Lie still over his marble brow, And the pallid lip and pearly cheek The presence of Death avow. Pure little bud in kindness given, In mercy taken to bloom in heaven. Happier far is the angel child With the harp and the crown of gold, Who warbles now at the Saviour’s feet The glories to us untold. Eddie, meet blossom of heavenly love, Dwells in the spirit-world above. Angel boy—fare thee well, farewell Sweet Eddie, we bid thee adieu! Affection’s wail cannot reach thee now, Deep though it be, and true. Bright is the home to him now given, For “of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”
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