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Douglas grows fainter and weaker. The well directed and firmly planted blows of Lincoln begin to tell, and the Senator is evidently sick. We are not sure that he will come to time at Alton. By assiduous rubbing, sponging and sweating, and by the judicious use of stimulants, he may be brought to the scratch; but his condition is pitiable indeed. So severe have been his repeated punishments that his recollection evidently fails. He has forgotten a part of his speech! His usual epithets do not come to his tongue’s end – his usual falsehoods he failed to utter. Not once did he call Trumbull a liar and a sneak; not half of his time was devoted to “nigger equality” and “amalgamation,” (Poor Little Dug.) If any doubt let them read the verbatim report of the speech which we print to-day. It is a rehash of what he has said before, but with the usual spice of epithets and personalities omitted. Not a new point, not a states-man-like argument, not an attempt at an ex-position of the policy of his party, not a line or a sentence that is worth remembering. All is stale, flat, second-handed and weak. His dodges and quibblings are less adroit than usual. He does not even falsify with his ordinary boldness and ingenuity. It is lucky that he has but one other day of torture to endure – that the drubbings which he is receiving are to come to an end. Three more meetings, and Douglas would be done for.
While the “Giant” is proving his lack of wind and muscle, Old Abe is as fresh, vigorous and elastic as when the contest began. He is in fact but just beginning to warm up to his work. His blows grow heavier and are better aimed than when he first commenced striking out. It is a pity that, by the terms of agreement, he must be hauled off at the end of to-day’s debate. We have some curiosity to know what he would do when he is at his best. But until he gets into the Senate, and has a chance to cope with men of real power, our curiosity must remain unsatisfied.
