told his friends, who in that locality were very few in number, that “if only they will give me a fair chance to say a few opening words, I’ll fix them all right.”  Before mounting the speaker’s stand he was introduced to many of the crowd, and shook their hands in the usual Western way.  Getting a small company of the rough-looking fellows around him, he opened on them.  “Fellow-citizens of Southern Illinois—­fellow-citizens of the State of Kentucky—­fellow-citizens of Missouri,” he said, in a tone more of conversation than of oratory, looking them straight in the eye, “I am told that there are some of you here present who would like to make trouble for me.  I don’t understand why they should.  I am a plain, common man, like the rest of you; and why should not I have as good a right to speak my sentiments as the rest of you?  Why, good friends, I am one of you; I am not an interloper here!  I was born in Kentucky, raised in Illinois, just like the most of you, and worked my way right along by hard scratching.  I know the people of Kentucky, and I know the people of Southern Illinois, and I think I know the Missourians.  I am one of them, and therefore ought to know them, and they ought to know me better, and if they did know me better they would know that I am not disposed to make them trouble; then why should they, or any one of them, want to make trouble for me?  Don’t do any such foolish thing, fellow-citizens.  Let us be friends, and treat each other like friends.  I am one of the humblest and most peaceable men in the world—­would wrong no man, would interfere with no man’s rights; and all I ask is that, having something to say, you will give me a decent hearing.  And, being Illinoisans, Kentuckians, and Missourians—­brave and gallant people—­I feel sure that you will do that.  And now let us reason together, like the honest fellows we are.”  Having uttered these words, his face the very picture of good-nature and his voice full of sympathetic earnestness, he mounted the speaker’s stand and proceeded to make one of the most impressive speeches against the further extension of slavery that he ever made in his life.  He was listened to attentively; was applauded when he indulged in flashes of humor, and once or twice his eloquent passages were lustily cheered.  His little opening remarks had calmed the threatening storm, had conquered his enemies, and he had smooth sailing.  From that day to the time of his death, Abraham Lincoln held a warm place in the respect of very many of those rough and rude “Egyptians,” and he had no warmer supporters for the Presidency, or while he was President, than they were.