The last nose is blown 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 one with a gray head are seen at the depth of the stage, advancing through the aisle toward the footlights and the audience. They are the president of the society and the orator. The audience applauds. It is not a burst of welcome; it is rather applausive appreciation of unquestionable 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. The first words are clearly cut, simply and perfectly articulated. 'It is often said that the day for speaking is past, 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 special reference to what was said, but apparently because there must be action. But the first part of the discourse was strictly a lucid narrative of events and causes; there was no just opportunity for action. It seemed therefore superfluous, tending to

A BRILLIANT MOSAIC.

495

alienate attention. The discourse itself, so far, was a compact and calm history by a man as well versed in it as any man in the country; and it culminated in a description of Sumpter. This was an elaborate picture, in 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 dismal scene shuddering home to every hearer; no sudden light of burning epithet, no sad elegiac music. It 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 a 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. It was Junius turned gentleman and transfixing a State with sarcasm. The action was much the same. But after, in one passage, 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?'

496

WAKING UP THE AUDIENCE.

This passage was uttered with more force than any in the oration. The orator's hands were clasped and raised; he moved more rapidly across the stage; it was spoken with artistic energy, and loudly applauded. Thus far the admirable clearness of statement, and perfect propriety of speech, added to the personal prestige which surrounds any man so distinguished as the orator, had secured a well-bred attention. But there was not yet that eager fixed intentness, sensitive to every tone and shifting humor of the speaker, which shows that he thoroughly possesses and controls the audience. There was none of that charmed silence, in which the very heart and soul seem to be listening; and at any moment it would have been easy to go out. But when leaving the purely historical current he struck into some considerations upon the views of our affairs taken by foreign nations, the vivacious skill of his treatment excited more than vital attention. There was a truer interest and a heartier applause; and when still pressing on, but with unchanged action, to a glance at the consequences of a successful rebellion, the audience was for the first time really wide awake. Let us suppose, said the orator, that secession is successful, what has been gained? How are the causes of discontent removed? Will the malcontents have seceded because of the non-rendition of fugitive slaves? But how has secession helped it? When, in the happy words of another, Canada has been brought down to the Potomac, do they think their fugitives will be restored? No; not if they came to its banks with the hosts of Pharoah, and the river ran dry in its bed. Loud applause here rang through the building. Or, continued the orator, more vehemently, do they think, in that case, to carry their slaves into territories now free? No, not if the Chief Justice of the United States (and here a volley of applause rattled in, and the orator wiped his forehead),

not if the venerable Chief Justice Taney should live yet a century, and issue a Dred Scott decision every day of his life. Here followed the sincerest applause of the whole evening; and the Easy Chair pinched his neighbor, to make sure that all was as it seemed; that these were words actually spoken, and that the orator was the one he came to hear. The hour and a half were passed. The peroration was upon the speaker's tongue, closing with an exhortation to the old men and old women, young men and maidens, each in his kind and degree, to come as the waves come when navies are stranded; come as the winds come when forests are rended; come with heart and hand, with purse and knitting needle, with sword and gun, and fight for the Union. He bowed: the audience clapped for a moment, then rose and bustled out. *** Many years ago the Easy Chair-a mere footstool in those days-used to hear Ralph Waldo Emerson lecture. Perhaps it was in the small Sunday-school room under a country meeting-house, on sparkling winter nights, when all the neighborhood came stamping and clattering to the door in hood and muffler, or else ringing in from a few miles away, buried under buffalo skins. The little low room was dimly lighted with oil lamps, and the boys clumped about the stoves in their cowhide boots, and laughed and buzzed, and ate apples and peanuts, and giggled, and grew suddenly solemn when the grave men and women looked at them. In the desk stood the lecturer, and read his manuscript; and all but the boys sat silent and enthralled by the musical spell. Some of the hearers remembered the speaker as a boy, as a young Some wondered what he was talking about; some thought him very queer; all laughed at the delightful humor, or the illustrative anecdote that beaded for a moment on the surface of his talk; and some sat inspired with unknown resolves, and soaring upon lofty hopes as

man.

498

REQUISITES TO SUCCESS.

It was not argu-
It was wit and

they heard. A nobler life, a better manhood, a purer purpose wooed every listening soul. ment, nor description, nor appeal. wisdom, and hard sense and poetry, and scholarship and music. And when the words were spoken, and the lecturer sat down, the poor little foot-stool sat still and heard the rich cadences lingering in the air, as the young Priest's heart throbs with the long vibrations when the organist has risen. The same speaker had been heard a few years previously, in the Masonic Temple in Boston. It was the fashion among the gay to call him transcendental. When some one said that, he had the air of having said something he understood. It was uttered in the same tone with which certain lovely beings declare that they are not strong-minded! And, dear lovely beings, was it ever suspected that you were? Grave parents were quoted as saying, I don't go to hear Mr. Emerson; I don't understand him. But my daughters do! Extinction of the lecturer was supposed by many to have been achieved by that remark."

The requisites for success in the lecture-field are imperative in their nature. "It is a career, a profession; yet how shall a man fit himself for it? How can he, unless he is naturally called to it, as a singer is called to sing, by certain natural gifts ?"

These natural gifts are the first requisite to success. And to these must be added culture, a thorough acquaintance with the subject handled, and an energetic industry which knows no defeat.