te that he was, he stood next to Lincoln, and none of his
competitors had a following so evenly distributed throughout the whole
country.

When all was over, he could not rest, for he was still the first man in
Congress, but hurried back to Washington and joined in the anxious
conferences of such as were striving for a peaceable settlement. When
South Carolina seceded, he announced plainly enough that he did not
believe in the right of secession or consider that there was any
grievance sufficient to justify the act. But he was for concessions if
they would save the country from civil war. Crittenden, of Kentucky,
coming forward after the manner of Clay with a series of amendments to
the Constitution, and another Committee of Thirteen being named, Douglas
was ready to play the same part he had played in 1850. But the plan
could not pass the Senate, and one after another the cotton States
followed South Carolina. Then he labored with the men of the border
States, and broke his last lance with Breckinridge, who, when he ceased
to be Vice-President, came down for a little while upon the floor as a
senator to defend the men whom he was about to join in arms against
their country. Douglas engaged him with all the old fire and force, and
worsted him in the debate.

His bearing toward Lincoln was generous and manly. When Lincoln, rising
to pronounce his first inaugural address, looked awkwardly about him for
a place to bestow his hat that he might adjust his glasses to read those
noble paragraphs, Douglas came forward and took it from his hand. The
graceful courtesy won him praise; and that was his attitude toward the
new administration. The day Sumter was fired on, he went to the
President to offer his help and counsel. There is reason to believe that
during those fearful early days of power and trial Lincoln came into a
better opinion of his rival.

The help of Douglas was of moment, for he had the right to speak for
the Democrats of the North. On his way homeward, he was everywhere
besought to speak. Once, he was aroused from sleep to address an Ohio
regiment marching to the front, and his great voice rolled down upon
them, aligned beneath him in the darkness, a word of loyalty and
courage. At Chicago he spoke firmly and finally, for himself and for his
party. While the hope of compromise lingered, he had gone to the extreme
of magnanimity, but the time for conciliation was past. "There can be no
neutrals in this war," he