order, but says it
should call for 200,000 men. He knows the South!

"What do you wish me to do?" he asked Lincoln. Lincoln thinks it would
be well if Douglas used his great influence to appeal to doubtful
sections, or wavering peoples. In obedience to this suggestion Douglas
sets off for Illinois.

I have preceded him. I know what war means. I know the processes, the
psychologies, the technique. Bands are playing, men are enlisting and
marching in Chicago. Orators are talking, women are singing and sewing.
Shrouds and coffins must be made as well as caps and cloaks. Iron must
be cast, nitrate dug, thousands of laborers set to work to hammer, to
nail, to mold, to fashion engines of destruction. Nurses must be
trained, for there will be blood to stanch, wounds to dress, and the
dying to comfort. That Captain Grant whom I saw in St. Louis years ago
has come to Springfield from Galena, left his tannery for the war. He is
training some regiments for the service. Amos, Reverdy's boy, has joined
the army, and Jonas too. Reverdy writes me about it. Sarah is full of
anger, resentment, terror, and sorrow against this huge thing that has
broken over her hearth and taken her sons. I am too old to fight. But I
have money to give. I throw myself into the work with the hope of
forgetting myself, my losses, my loneliness, my life. What can I do for
Douglas? I have this wealth. He is now broken financially. When he
returns to Chicago I must open my purse to him. What other use have I
for money but to give it to this war, or to Douglas?

Douglas comes back from southern Illinois where he has been speaking. He
is going to address a Chicago audience. It is not likely that they will
hoot him now. After some difficulty I find him. His face lights up with
a certain gladness as he sees me. But he is a dying eagle that ruffles
its feathers when food is offered it; then sinks back upon its broken
wing when it sees that it cannot eat. What is my friendship now to him?
What is any earthly thing to him? He bears the sorrows of earth without
the consolation that any Heaven can cure them. His voice is hoarse, his
face is worn and streaked with agony. His eyes look through me, over me,
beyond me. He sees me, but what am I? His hair is gray--much grayer than
mine. He is only 48 but he is an old man. He has no place in life now
but to save the Union. All his strength and activity have come to this
simple faith, as simple as the faith of a child. He