in the road. For a moment I wondered
which way he would go.

Immediately he rose and said with an emphasis that silenced opposition:

"Friends, this thing has been held back long enough. The time has come
when these sentiments should be uttered, and if it is decreed that I
shall go down because of this speech, then let me go down linked to
the truth."

His conscience had prevailed. The speech was delivered. Douglas, the
Democratic candidate, came on from Washington to answer it. That led to
Lincoln's challenge to a joint debate. I was with him through that long
campaign. Douglas was the more finished orator. Lincoln spoke as he split
rails. His conscience was his beetle. It drove his arguments deep into the
souls of his hearers. The great thing about him was his conscience.
Unless his theme were big enough to give it play in noble words he could
be as commonplace as any one. He was built for a tool of God in
tremendous moral issues. He was awkward and diffident in beginning a
speech. Often his hands were locked behind him. He gesticulated more with
his head than his hands. He stood square-toed always. He never walked
about on the platform. He scored his points with the long, bony, index
finger of his right hand. Sometimes he would hang a hand on the lapel
of his coat as if to rest it. Perspiration dripped from his face. His
voice, high pitched at first, mellowed into a pleasant sound.

One sentence in Lincoln's speech at Ottawa thrust "The Little Giant" of
Illinois out of his way forever. It was this pregnant query:

"Can the people of a United States territory in any lawful way and
against the wish of any citizen of the United States exclude slavery from
its limits prior to the formation of a state constitution?"

He knew that Douglas would answer yes and that, doing so, he would
alienate the South and destroy his chance to be President two years
later. That is exactly what came to pass. "The Little Giant's" answer
was the famous "Freeport Heresy." He was elected to the Senate but was
no longer possible as a candidate for the Presidency.

I come now to the last step in the career of my friend and beloved
master. It was the Republican convention of 1860 in Chicago. I was a
delegate. The New Yorkers came in white beaver hats enthusiastic for
Seward, their favorite son. He was the man we dreaded most. Many in the
great crowd were wearing his colors. The delegations were in earnest
session the night before the ball