with exact fidelity, are the work of a mind singularly gifted,
finely balanced, and thoroughly practiced in that special
department of effort. The greatness of Daniel Webster was more
apparent in his power to state a fact, or to present a truth,
than in any other characteristic of his gigantic nature. It was
the power of truth that won for him his forensic victories.
Whenever he was truest to truth, then was truth truest to him. He
was a man who implicitly believed in the power of truth to take
care of itself when it had been fairly presented; and the failures
of his life always grew out of his attempts to make falsehood look
like truth--a field of effort in which the most gifted of his
cotemporaries won the most brilliant of his triumphs.

The men are comparatively few who are in the habit of telling the
truth. We all lie, every day of our lives--almost in every
sentence we utter--not consciously and criminally, perhaps, but
really, in that our language fails to represent truth, and state
facts correctly. Our truths are half-truths, or distorted truths,
or exaggerated truths, or sophisticated truths. Much of this is
owing to carelessness, much to habit, and, more than has generally
been supposed, to mental incapacity. I have known eminent men who
had not the power to state a fact, in its whole volume and
outline, because, first, they could not comprehend it perfectly,
and, second, because their power of expression was limited. The
lenses by which they apprehended their facts were not adjusted
properly, so they saw every thing with a blur. Definite outlines,
cleanly cut edges, exact apprehension of volume and weight, nice
measurement of relations, were matters outside of their
observation and experience. They had broad minds, but bungling;
and their language was no better than their apprehensions--usually