consistency. Stephen A. Douglas passed through Columbus on his way
to Washington a few days after the surrender of Sumter, and in
response to the calls of a spontaneous gathering of people, spoke to
them from his bedroom window in the American House. There had been
no thought for any of the common surroundings of a public meeting.
There were no torches, no music. A dark crowd of men filled full the
dim-lit street, and called for Douglas with an earnestness of tone
wholly different from the enthusiasm of common political gatherings.
He came half-dressed to his window, and without any light near him,
spoke solemnly to the people upon the terrible crisis which had come
upon the nation. Men of all parties were there: his own followers to
get some light as to their duty; the Breckinridge Democrats ready,
most of them, repentantly to follow a Northern leader, now that
their recent candidate was in the rebellion; [Footnote: Breckinridge
did not formally join the Confederacy till September, but his accord
with the secessionists was well known.] the Republicans eagerly
anxious to know whether so potent an influence was to be
unreservedly on the side of the country. I remember well the serious
solicitude with which I listened to his opening sentences as I
leaned against the railing of the State House park, trying in vain
to get more than a dim outline of the man as he stood at the
unlighted window. His deep sonorous voice rolled down through the
darkness from above us,--an earnest, measured voice, the more
solemn, the more impressive, because we could not see the speaker,
and it came to us literally as "a voice in the night,"--the night of
our country's unspeakable trial. There was no uncertainty in his
tone: the Union must be preserved and the insurrection must be
crushed,--he pledged his hearty support to Mr. Lincoln's
administration in doing this. Other questions must stand aside till
the national authority should be everywhere recognized. I do not