We hoped he would make a speech before he got through, but he didn't. He just talked, and I understood it all. Father held my hand: we laughed a little in places, at others we wanted to cry, but didn't—but most of the time we just listened. We were going to applaud, but forgot it. He called us his dear friends.
I have heard thousands of speeches since that winter night in Illinois. Very few indeed can I recall, and beyond the general theme, that speech by Wendell Phillips has gone from my memory. But I remember the presence and attitude and voice of the man as though it were but yesterday. The calm courage, deliberation, beauty and strength of the speaker—his knowledge, his gentleness, his friendliness! I had heard many sermons, and some had terrified me. This time I had expected to be thrilled, too, and so I sat very close to my father and felt for his hand. And here it was all just quiet joy—I understood it all. I was pleased with myself; and being pleased with myself, I was pleased with the speaker. He was the biggest and best man I had ever seen—the first real man.
It is no small thing: to be a man!
In Eighteen Hundred Fifty-three, Emerson said the reason Phillips was the best public speaker in America was because he had spoken every day for fourteen years.
This observation didn't apply to Phillips at all, but Emerson used Phillips to hammer home a great general truth, which was that practise makes perfect.
Emerson, like all the rest of us, had certain pet theories, which he was constantly bolstering by analogy and example. He had Phillips in mind when he said that the best drill for an orator was a course of mobs.
But the cold fact remains that Phillips never made a better speech, even after fourteen years' daily practise, than that reply to Attorney-General Austin, at Faneuil Hall.
He gave himself, and it was himself full-armed and at his best. All the conditions were exactly right—there was hot opposition; and there also was love and encouragement.
His opponent, with brag, bluster, pomposity, cheap wit, and insincerity, served him as a magnificent foil. Never again were wind and tide so in his favor.