That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again.”
As the pretension showed itself anew, our orator undertook again to expose it. How thoroughly he did this, now with historic and now with forensic skill, while his whole effort was elevated by a charming, ever-ready eloquence, aroused to new power by the interruptions he encountered,—all this is present to your minds. That speech passed at once into general acceptance, while it gave its author an assured position in this body.
Another speech showed him in a different character. It was his instant reply to the Kentucky Senator,[246]—not then expelled from this body. The occasion was peculiar. A Senator, with treason in his heart, if not on his lips, had just sat down. Our lamented Senator, who had entered the Chamber direct from his camp, rose at once to reply. He began simply and calmly; but, as he proceeded, the fervid soul broke forth in words of surpassing power. On the former occasion he presented the well-ripened fruits of study; but now he spoke with the spontaneous utterance of his natural eloquence, meeting the polished traitor at every point with weapons keener and brighter than his own.
Not content with the brilliant opportunities of this Chamber, he accepted a commission in the Army, vaulting from the Senate to the saddle, as he had already leaped from Illinois to California. With a zeal that never tired, after recruiting men, drawn by the attraction of his name, in New York, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, he held his brigade in camp near the Capitol, so that he passed easily from one to the other, and thus alternated between the duties of Senator and of General.
His latter career was short, though shining. At a disastrous encounter near Ball’s Bluff, he fell, pierced by nine balls. That brain, once the seat and organ of subtile power, swaying assemblies, and giving to this child of obscurity place and command among his fellow-men, was now rudely shattered, and the bosom that throbbed so bravely was rent by numerous wounds. He died with his face to the foe,—and he died so instantly, that he passed without pain from the service of his country to the service of his God. It is sweet and becoming to die for country. Such a death, sudden, but not unprepared for, is the crown of the patriot soldier.
But the question is painfully asked, Who was author of this tragedy, now filling the Senate Chamber, as already it has filled the country, with mourning? There is a strong desire to hold somebody responsible, where so many perished so unprofitably. But we need not appoint committees, or study testimony, to know precisely who took this precious life. That great criminal is easily detected,—still erect and defiant, without concealment or disguise. The guns, the balls, and the men that fired them are of little importance. It is the power behind all, saying, “The State, it is I,” that took this precious life; and this power is Slavery. The nine balls that slew our departed brother came from Slavery. Every gaping wound of his slashed bosom testifies against Slavery. Every drop of his generous blood cries out from the ground against Slavery. The brain so rudely shattered has its own voice, and the tongue so suddenly silenced in death speaks now with more than living eloquence. To hold others responsible is to hold the dwarf agent and dismiss the giant principal. Nor shall we do great service, if, merely criticizing some local blunder, we leave untouched that fatal forbearance through which the weakness of the Rebellion is changed into strength, and the strength of our armies is changed into weakness.
May our grief to-day be no hollow pageant, nor expend itself in this funeral pomp! It must become a motive and impulse to patriot action. But patriotism itself, that commanding charity, embracing so many other charities, is only a name, and nothing else, unless we resolve, calmly, plainly, solemnly, that Slavery, the barbarous enemy of our country, the irreconcilable foe of our Union, the violator of our Constitution, the disturber of our peace, the vampire of our national life, sucking its best blood, the assassin of our children, and the murderer of our dead Senator, shall be struck down. And the way is easy. The just avenger is at hand, with weapon of celestial temper. Let it be drawn. Until this is done, the patriot, discerning clearly the secret of our weakness, can only say sorrowfully:—
“Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,