moment within the door, and immediately emerge upon the stage with a
composed bustle, moving the seats, taking off their coats, sedately
interchanging little jests, and finally seating themselves, and gazing
at the audience evidently with a feeling of doubt whether the honor of
the position compensates for its great disadvantage; for to sit behind
an orator is to hear, without seeing, an actor.

The audience is now waiting, both upon the stage and in the boxes,
with patient expectation. There is little talking, but a tension of
heads towards the stage. The last word is spoken there, the last joke
expires; all attention is concentrated upon an expected object. The
edge of eagerness is not suffered to turn, but precisely at the right
moment a figure with a dark head and another with a gray head are seen
at the depth of the stage, advancing through the aisle towards the
foot-lights and the audience. They are the president of the society
and the orator. The audience applauds. It is not a burst of
enthusiasm; it is rather applausive appreciation of acknowledged
merit. The gray-headed orator bows gravely and slightly, lays a roll
of MS. upon the table, then he and the president seat themselves side
by side. For a moment they converse, evidently complimenting the
brilliant audience. The orator, also, evidently says that the table is
right, that the light is right, that the glass of water is right, and
finally that he is ready.

In a few neat words "the honored son of Massachusetts" is introduced,
and he rises and moves a few steps forward. Standing for a moment, he
bows to the applause. He is dressed entirely in black; wearing a
dress-coat, and not a frock. Before he says a word, although it is but
a moment, a sudden flash of memory reveals to the attentive Easy Chair
all that he has heard and read of the orator before him; how he