I am told that my hour is out. It was very short."
Short it was. I thought he had just begun. What would this strange
creature now rising to six feet four inches of awkward angularity say in
reply to this wonderful oration? He opened his great mouth and spoke.
What is this? A falsetto note, a piping instead of the musical thunder
we have heard. He poses strangely, his gestures shoot up and out like
the arms of a dislocated clothes rack. He rises on his toes with a quick
springlike movement, as if he were a puppet loosened by a spring from a
box. He sways from side to side to give emphasis to his words. His mouth
opens to huge proportions in moments of excitement. His black hair falls
over his forehead. His great nose sticks out like a signboard. Is he
scoring?
I know, for I have read the other debates. He is wasting no words; he is
meeting Douglas point by point, whether successfully or not. He seemed
embarrassed, diffident at first. Why not? He is fighting a giant; then
there are ugly faces in the audience, men in drink, slave owners from
Missouri, Democrats who hate sectionalism and loathe the rise of the
Republican party. Whispers are near me: "He amounts to nothing. Douglas
has laid him out. He is scared. The Little Giant has choked him."
But Lincoln goes on. His earnestness deepens, his seriousness becomes
more impressive.
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