words of a perfectly neutral tint. There was not a single one which
was peculiarly picturesque or vivid; no electric phrase that sent the
whole striking scene shuddering home to every hearer; no sudden light
of burning epithet, no sad elegiac music. The passage was purely
academic. Each word was choice; each detail was finished; it was
properly cumulative to its climax; and when that was reached, loud
applause followed. It was general, but not enthusiastic. No one could
fail to admire the skill with which the sentence was constructed; and
so elaborate a piece of workmanship justly challenged high praise. But
still--still, do you get any thrill from the most perfect mosaic?

Then followed a caustic and brilliant sketch of the attitude of
Virginia in this war. In this part of his discourse the orator was
himself an historic personage; for it was to him, when editor of the
_North American Review_, that James Madison wrote his letter
explanatory of the Virginia resolutions of '98. The wit that sparkled
then in the pages of the _Review_ glittered now along the speech. Here
was Junius turned gentleman and transfixing a State with satire. The
action of the orator was unchanged. But, in one passage, after
describing the wrongs wrought by rebels upon the country, he turned,
with upraised hand, to the rows of white-cravated clergymen who sat
behind him, and apostrophized them: "Tell me, ministers of the living
God, may we not without a breach of Christian charity exclaim,

"'Is there not some hidden curse,
Some chosen thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath to blast the man
That seeks his greatness in his country's ruin?'"

This passage was uttered with more force than any in the oration. The