Galloway, of Pennsylvania, promised with the rest, and straightway each
night informed the enemy of every move.

Little was done that first day but get acquainted by talking very
cautiously and very politely. The next day a notable member had arrived,
and in a front seat sat Richard Henry Lee, a man you would turn and look
at in any company. Slender and dark, with a brilliant eye and a
profile--and only one man in ten thousand has a profile--Lee was a
gracious presence. His voice was gentle and flexible and luring, and there
was a dignity and poise in his manner that made him easily the foremost
orator of his time.

Near him sat William Livingston, of New Jersey, and John Jay, his
son-in-law, the youngest man in the Congress, with a nose that denoted
character, and all his fame in the future.

The Pennsylvanians were all together, grouped on one side. Duane, of New
York, sat near them, "shy and squint-eyed, very sensible and very artful,"
wrote John Adams that night in his diary.

Then over there sat Christopher Gadsden, of South Carolina, who had
preached independence for full ten years before this, and who, when he
heard that the British soldiers had taken Boston, proposed to raise a
troop at once and fight redcoats wherever found.

"But the British will burn our seaport towns if we antagonize them," some
timid soul explained.

"Our towns are built of brick and wood; if they are burned we can rebuild
them; but liberty once gone is gone forever," he retorted. And the saying