n. What is the matter with Seward? We had heard there was plenty
of Seward money in Pennsylvania. Yarnell had told me so. Why doesn't the
machinery work? Ohio falls off seven votes for Chase; Bates loses
thirteen of his Missouri votes. Vermont throws her whole vote to
Lincoln, and the Stentor from the Illinois River bottoms raises a
thunder of applause. But Tom Hyer has now arrived and the Seward chorus
is working.

The vote is announced: Seward has 184-1/2; Lincoln 181; necessary to a
choice, 233. Seward is ruined. Tom Hyer is down. The band, the banners
are for nothing. All the Seward money is for nothing. To be Governor,
Senator, the leading man of the party for years, the great debater of
the Senate, the author of the irrepressible conflict, the most dreaded
enemy of the South--all this goes up and out in a second like a poor
sulphur match in a gale. Seward is ruined. A country lawyer from
Springfield, Illinois, once a state legislator, once a Congressman, has
killed him in two blows. What has done it? The irrepressible conflict.
It has crushed him before it crushed many more, old and young throughout
the land. He is too famous. His words are too well known. The house
divided against itself is not so well known. Lincoln is obscure. He is a
trim new champion of fifty-one years of age, ready after some fifteen or
more years of resting and training, for a great fight.

Yet may not Greeley's Bates still come in? A horse not so swiftly
running before now has a chance. Where would Seward's strength be thrown
now that he cannot use it for himself? Can he throw it to any one? No!
For the third ballot gives Seward 180 and Lincoln 231-1/2. But Seward is
still holding on. Ohio has been sticking to Chase. The vote is not
announced by the chair. But hundreds of pencils have kept the score. And
just about as it is to be announced, Ohio throws four votes from Chase
to Lincoln. Lincoln is nominated! The West of Douglas has won.

The convention goes mad. The Illinois River roars like waters over a
thousand dams. Lake Michigan shouters make the rafters tremble. A cannon
is fired from the roof. But no one inside hears it. We go forth to the
street. Masses are yelling and crying with delight. Old Abe from
Illinois is nominated. Chicago is delirious with joy. From the Tremont
House a hundred guns are fired. Processions start; everywhere men are
bearing rails. Bands play. Drink flows like sudden freshets. Yarnell
passes at a distance.