Some allowance too should be made for a man
who feels himself in a desperate position. His historical lectures on
"The Lost Arts," "Daniel O'Connel," and "Toussaint," must sooner or
later have been committed to memory, and were repeated again and again
in a nearly identical form.
To amend for these deficiencies, his delivery was perfect, and even more
than that. One of our best critics has called him matchless in this
respect, and no other orator of the century, except possibly Canning,
may be compared to him. Webster was more effective, but rather
ponderous. Choate's style was peculiar, and Everett's cold and studied.
Gladstone resembles him more, perhaps, than any other, but Gladstone has
a decided solemnity of manner which is a help to him among his
countrymen, but a defect as judged by classic standards. With Wendell
Phillips, it was not only that every phase of thought and feeling was
portrayed at once in his face, attitude, and gestures, but this was done
with such grace and purity as only belongs to the very highest art. It
was as if a figure in Raphael's "School at Athens" had suddenly stepped
out from the picture and explained the thought of the master to us in
words.
There is nothing I can compare with the unconscious grace and purity of
Phillips in his best moments except a picture by Raphael, or one of
Milton's shorter poems. It was no lurid brilliancy or artificial light
that shone from him, but rather the cheerful radiance of spring
sunshine.
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