In the convention Douglas’ friends rode roughly over the other aspirants; and when he received the prize they withdrew and accorded him their support.  All of this was the perfection of party organization, to which Douglas, with a leader’s genius, had directed his party from the moment he had set foot in Jacksonville.  Douglas found an opponent in a Whig of Kentucky birth.  A Democrat from Illinois, a Whig from Kentucky—­such was the anomalous situation.  And both agreed about taking over the Oregon territory.  But Douglas was the better campaigner, the more winning personality, the more indefatigable worker.  Like Napoleon, his sleep was intermittent, his meals eaten on the run.  He made speeches for more than a month of successive days.  And he was elected.  A member of Congress at thirty!

I could see that the hard life was wearing upon him.  Perhaps he was too convivial.  There was hard drinking everywhere about him; and he did not abstain.  He had supreme confidence in the lasting character of his own vitality.  He might be ill for a few days occasionally, but he was soon up and actively at work again.  His “integrity is as unspotted as the vestal’s flame—­as untarnished and pure as the driven snow,” said a local newspaper when his methods were assailed, and no one could face him without believing that he had courage that would have its way without stooping to meanness, and vision that saw its objective through the hesitant dreams and sickly qualms of lesser strength.

When I went to Springfield in the fall about my farm I found that Douglas had been seriously ill for some weeks.  The campaign had exhausted him.  There was more gentleness in his manner now than was his wont.  He held my hand warmly and was visibly grateful that I had come.  He was heartened by this fresh evidence of my affectionate interest.  He talked of his plans.  He wished to visit his mother in New York State as soon as he could be about.  He said that he was entering upon a new stage of his life—­upon the beginning of his real career.  He wished to have his mother’s blessing before taking his seat in Congress.

When I next went to Springfield I found him gone.  The place was lonely to me.  I collected my note and wandered about idly; passed the Ridgeway mansion where I had met Abigail; went through the new state house.  The years between seemed so brief but so full of events.  I was twenty-eight, Douglas was thirty; Reverdy had passed forty; Zoe was dead.  My farming days were over.  It all seemed a dream.  My grandmother in England was now in the middle sixties.  There were steamships crossing the Atlantic, the first one four years before.  Great forces here and in Europe, movements of peoples, and interests were flowing to carry Douglas along for some years, and to carry me and all others in their sweep.  I was lonely in Springfield on this trip.  Douglas was gone!  His career here seemed finished, as if he were dead.  Like a camper he had foraged upon the country, made his tent and taken it down.  And now he was gone!  Everywhere there was talk of war with Mexico.  Had Douglas gone forth to bring this about in realization of his dream of America’s greatness?  A man must be made president who would annex Texas.  If there should be war let it come.  The land is ours.  Our people have gone there.  We must seize the whole continent north of the Gulf.