A good story is told of the occasion on which Lincoln and Douglas spoke in Chicago.  A well-known citizen who on account of his age was known familiarly as “Father Brewster”—­a man of standing, and a member of the Board of Education—­was one of the listeners on the platform.  Lincoln admired the old gentleman very much, and the admiration was mutual.  They sat together while Douglas made the opening speech.  He spoke for more than an hour, and never more brilliantly.  When Lincoln’s turn came he could see that Father Brewster was exceedingly anxious as to the outcome.  Lincoln arose, let out all the joints in his long body, slowly removed his overcoat and laid it across Mr. Brewster’s knees.  “Father Brewster,” he said, “will you hold my overcoat while I stone Stephen?” Everybody shouted and cheered, and even Douglas joined in the laugh at his own expense.

Beneath the humors and excitements of the campaign, the prevailing tone of Lincoln’s thought was deeply serious and reflective.  Toward the close, when indications pointed to his defeat for the Senate, he seemed somewhat depressed, and occasionally his old habitual melancholy would steal over him and impart to his words a touching pathos.  On such an occasion, in one of the smaller cities of Illinois, Douglas, having the first speech, made an unusually brilliant effort.  He carried the crowd with him; and when Lincoln rose to reply, it was evident that he felt his disadvantage—­felt, too, that do what he would final defeat was probable.  He made a good speech, but not one of his best.  Concluding his argument, he stopped and stood silent for a moment, looking around upon the throng of half-indifferent, half-friendly faces before him, with those deep-sunken weary eyes that always seemed full of unshed tears.  Folding his hands, as if they too were tired of the hopeless fight, he said, in his peculiar monotone:  “My friends, it makes little difference, very little difference, whether Judge Douglas or myself is elected to the United States Senate; but the great issue which we have submitted to you to-day is far above and beyond any personal interests or the political fortunes of any man.  And, my friends, that issue will live and breathe and burn when the poor, feeble, stammering tongues of Judge Douglas and myself are silent in the grave.”  The crowd swayed as if smitten by a mighty wind.  The simple words, and the manner in which they were spoken, touched every heart to the core.

Lincoln spoke in all about fifty times during the campaign.  At its close, says Mr. Arnold, “both Douglas and Lincoln visited Chicago.  Douglas was so hoarse that he could hardly articulate, and it was painful to hear him attempt to speak.  Lincoln’s voice was clear and vigorous, and he really seemed in better tone than usual.  His dark complexion was bronzed by the prairie sun and winds; his eye was clear, his step firm, and he looked like a trained athlete, ready to enter, rather than one who had closed, a conflict.”