and hear Patrick Henry, with uplifted finger, shouting, "Charles First
had his Cromwell, and George Third--may take warning by his example!"
would it be, could it be, even with all our expectation, what we
believe it to have been? After the tremendous blare of trumpets in
advance that shake our very souls within us, no ordinary mortal can
satisfy the transcendent anticipation. We lift the leathern curtain of
St. Peter's, and catching our breath, look in. Alas! we see plainly
the other end of the great church, but with secret disappointment,
because we imagined there would be but a dim immensity of space. For
the first time we behold Niagara, and resentfully we ask, "Is that
all?" The illimitable expectation is too bewildering an overture. So
the eyes with which the Easy Chair saw were touched with glamour. The
ears with which it heard were full of eloquence beyond that of mortal
lips. And there was the orator just beginning to speak. It was not
fair; no, it was not fair.

The first words were clearly cut, simply and perfectly articulated.
"It is often said that the day for speaking has passed, and that of
action has arrived." It was a direct, plain introduction; not a florid
exordium. The voice was clear and cold and distinct; not especially
musical, not at all magnetic. The orator was incessantly moving; not
rushing vehemently forward or stepping defiantly backward, with that
quaint planting of the foot, like Beecher; but restlessly changing his
place, with smooth and rounded but monotonous movement. The arms and
hands moved harmonious with the body, not with especial reference to
what was said, but apparently because there must be action. The first
part of the discourse was strictly a lucid narrative of events and
causes: a compact and calm chapter of our political history by a man
as well versed in it as any man in the country; and it culminated in a
description of the fall of Sumter. This was an elaborate picture in