From the time of the Democratic split in the Baltimore Convention, Mr. Lincoln, as well as every other politician of the smallest sagacity, knew that his success was as certain as any future could be. At the end of October, most of the States had clearly voted in a way which left no lingering doubts of the final result in November. If there ever was a time in his life when ambition charmed his whole heart,--if it could ever be said of him that 'hope elevated and joy brightened his crest,' it was on the eve of that election which he saw was to lift him at last to the high place for which he had sighed and struggled so long. It was not then that he would mourn and weep because he was in danger of not getting the votes of the ministers and members of the churches he had known during many years for his steadfast opponents: he did not need them, and had not expected them. Those who understood him best are very sure that he never, under any circumstances, could have fallen into such weakness--not even when his fortunes were at the lowest point of depression--as to play the part of a hypocrite for their support. Neither is it possible that he was at any loss about the reasons which religious men had for refusing him their support; and, if he had said that he could not understand it at all, he must have spoken falsely. But the worst part of the tale is Mr. Lincoln's acknowledgment that his 'friends generally were deceived concerning his religious sentiments, and that he was obliged to appear different to them.'