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so deliberate that his voice trembled on every
syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His
peculiar phrases had the force of description, that the original
scene appeared to be at that moment acting before our eyes. We saw the
very faces of the Jews; the staring, frightful distortions of malice
and rage. We saw the buffet; my soul kindled with a flame of
indignation; and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively
clinched.

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness of
our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in
tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer
of pardon on his enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do,"--the voice of the preacher, which had all along
faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being
entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his
handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible
flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded
with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation.

It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit
him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but fallacious standard
of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the
preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his
audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without
impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps
shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But--no: the descent was
as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and
enthusiastic.

The first sentence, with which he broke the awful silence, was a
quotation from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus
Christ, like a God!"

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short
sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the
man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before
did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such
stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure
of the preacher; his blindness, constantly recalling to your
recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his
performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses; you are to
imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and
his voice of affecting trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch
of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and
then the few moments of portentous, deathlike silence which reigned
throughout the house; the preacher removing his white handkerchief
from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his
tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it,
begins the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher,"--then,
pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together,
with warmth and energy, to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls"
to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice--"but
Jesus Christ--like a God!" If it had indeed and in truth been an angel
of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine.

MR. HENRY AGAINST JOHN HOOK.

(_From Life of Patrick Henry._)

Hook was a Scotchman, a man of wealth, and suspected of being
unfriendly to the American cause. During the distresses of the
American army, consequent upon the joint invasion of Cornwallis and
Phillips in 1781, a Mr. Venable, an army commissary, had taken two of
Hook's steers for the use of the troops. The act had not been strictly
legal; and on the establishment of peace, Hook, under the advice of
Mr. Cowan, a gentleman of some distinction in the law, thought proper
to bring an action of trespass against Mr. Venable, in the district
court of New London. Mr. Henry appeared for the defendant, and is said
to have disported himself in this cause to the infinite enjoyment of
his hearers, the unfortunate Hook always excepted. After Mr. Henry
became animated in the cause, says a correspondent [Judge Stuart], he
appeared to have complete control over the passions of his audience:
at one time he excited their indignation against Hook: vengeance was
visible in every countenance; again, when he chose to relax and
ridicule him, the whole audience was in a roar of laughter. He painted
the distresses of the American army, exposed almost naked to the
rigour of a winter's sky, and marking the frozen ground over which
they marched, with the blood of their unshod feet--"where was the
man," he said, "who had an American heart in his bosom, who would not
have thrown open his fields, his barns, his cellar, the doors of his
house, the portals of his breast, to have received with open arms, the
meanest soldier in that little band of patriots? Where is the man?
_There_ he stands--but whether the heart of an American beats in his
bosom, you, gentlemen, are to judge." He then carried the jury, by the
powers of his imagination, to the plains around York, the surrender of
which had followed shortly after the act complained of: he depicted
the surrender in the most glowing and noble colors of his
eloquence--the audience saw before their eyes the humiliation and
dejection of the British, as they marched out of their trenches--they
saw the triumph which lighted up every patriot face, and heard the
shouts of victory, and the cry of "Washington and Liberty!", as it
rung and echoed through the American ranks, and was reverberated from
the hills and shores of the neighboring river--"but, hark!, what notes
of discord are these which disturb the general joy, and silence the
acclamations of victory? They are the notes of _John Hook_, hoarsely
bawling through the American camp, _beef!_ _beef!_ _beef!_"

The whole audience was convulsed: a particular incident will give a
better idea of the effect, than any general description. The clerk of
the court, unable to command himself, and unwilling to commit any
breach of decorum in his place, rushed out of the court-house, and
threw himself on the grass, in the most violent paroxysm of laughter,
where he was rolling, when Hook, with very different feelings, came
out for relief into the yard also. "Jemmy Steptoe," said he to the
clerk, "what the devil ails ye, mon?" Mr. Steptoe was only able to
say, that _he could not help it_. "Never mind ye," said Hook, "wait
till Billy Cowan gets up: _he'll show_ him the la'." Mr. Cowan,
however, was so completely overwhelmed by the torrent which bore upon
his client, that when he rose to reply to Mr. Henry, he was scarcely
able to make an intelligible or audible remark. The cause was decided
almost by acclamation. The jury retired for form's sake, and instantly
returned with a verdict for the defendant. Nor did the effect of Mr.
Henry's speech stop here. The people were so highly excited by the
tory audacity of such a suit, that Hook began to hear around him a cry
more terri

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