We presume that none but those present can understand the excitement of the scene. No one who was present can, it seems, give an adequate description of it. No word-painting can convey the deep, intense enthusiasm, the reverential attention of that vast assembly, nor limner transfer to canvas their earnest, eager, awe-struck countenances. Though language were as subtle and flexible as thought it would still be impossible to represent the full idea of the occasion. Much of the instantaneous effect of the speech arose of course from the orator's delivery—the tones of his voice, his countenance and manner. These die mostly with the occasion, they can only be described in general terms.
"Of the effectiveness of Mr. Webster's manner in many parts," says Mr. Everett, himself almost without a peer as an orator, "it would be in vain to attempt to give any one not present the faintest idea. It has been my fortune to hear some of the ablest speeches of the greatest living orators on both sides of the water, but I must confess I never heard anything which so completely realized my conception of what Demosthenes was when he delivered the oration for the Crown."
Could there be higher praise than this? Keen nor Kemble nor any other masterly delineator of the human passions ever produced a more powerful impression upon an audience or swayed so completely their hearts. No one ever looked the orator as he did; in form and feature how like a god! His countenance spake no less audibly than his words. His manner gave new force to his language. As he stood swaying his right arm like a huge tilt-hammer, up and down, his swarthy countenance lighted up with excitement, he appeared amid the smoke, the fire, the thunder of his eloquence like Vulcan in his armory forging thoughts for the gods!
Time had not thinned nor bleached his hair; it was as dark as the raven's plumage, surmounting his massive brow in ample folds. His eye always dark and deep-set enkindled by some glowing thought shown from beneath his somber overhanging brow like lights in the blackness of night from a sepulcher. No one understood better than Mr. Webster the philosophy of dress; what a powerful auxiliary it is to speech and manner when harmonizing with them. On this occasion he appeared in a blue coat, a buff vest, black pants and white cravat; a costume strikingly in keeping with his face and expression. The human face never wore an expression of more withering, relentless scorn than when the orator replied to Hayne's allusion to the "Murdered Coalition"—a piece of stale political trumpery well understood at that day.
"It is," said Mr. Webster, "the very cast off slough of a polluted and shameless press. Incapable of further mischief it lies in the sewer, lifeless and despised. It is not now, sir, in the power of the honorable member to give it dignity or decency by attempting to elevate it and introduce it into the Senate. He cannot change it from what it is—an object of general disgust and scorn. On the contrary, the contact, if he choose to touch it, is more likely to drag him down, down, down to the place where it lies itself." He looked as he spoke these words as if the thing he alluded to was too mean for scorn itself, and the sharp stinging enunciation made the words still more scathing. The audience seemed relieved, so crushing was the expression of his face which they held onto as 'twere spell-bound—when he turned to other topics. But the good-natured yet provoking irony with which he described the imaginary, though life-like scene of direct collision between the marshaled army of South Carolina under General Hayne on the one side, and the officers of the United States on the other, nettled his opponent even more than his severe satire, it seemed so ridiculously true.
With his true Southern blood Hayne inquired with some degree of emotion if the gentleman from Massachusetts intended any personal imputation by such remarks? To which Mr. Webster replied with perfect good humor, "Assuredly not, just the reverse!" The variety of incident during the speech, and the rapid fluctuation of passions, kept the audience in continual expectation and ceaseless agitation. The speech was a complete drama of serious comic and pathetic scenes, and though a large portion of it was argumentative—an exposition of constitutional law—yet grave as such portion necessarily must be, severely logical and abounding in no fancy or episode, it engrossed throughout undivided attention. The swell of his voice and its solemn roll struck upon the ears of the enraptured hearers in deep and thrilling cadence as waves upon the shore of the far-resounding sea.
The Miltonic grandeur of his words was the fit expression of his great thoughts and raised his hearers up to his theme, and his voice exerted to its utmost power penetrated every recess or corner of the Senate—penetrated even the ante-rooms and stairways, as in closing he pronounced in deepest tones of pathos these words of solemn significance: "When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent, on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood.
"Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the Republic now known and honored throughout the earth; still full, high, advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased nor polluted, not a single star obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as 'What is all this worth?' nor those other words of folly and delusion: 'Liberty first and Union afterwards,' but everywhere spread all over it characters of living light blazing on all of its ample folds as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens that other sentiment dear to every American heart: 'Liberty and union now and forever, one and inseparable!'"
The speech was over but the tones of the orator still lingered on the ear, and the audience, unconscious of the close, retained their positions. Everywhere around seemed forgetfulness of all but the orator's presence and words. There never was a deeper silence; the feeling was too overpowering to allow expression by voice or hand. But the descending hammer of the chair awoke them with a start, and with one universal, long drawn, deep breath, with which the over-charged heart seeks relief, the crowded assembly broke up and departed.
In the evening President Jackson held a levee at the White House. It was known in advance that Mr. Webster would attend it, and hardly had the hospitable doors of the mansion been thrown open, when the crowd that had filled the Senate-Chamber in the morning rushed in and occupied the room, leaving a vast and increasing crowd at the entrance. On all previous occasions the general himself had been the observed of all observers. His receptions were always gladly attended by large numbers, and to these he himself was always the chief object of attraction on account of his great military and personal reputation, official position, gallant bearing, and courteous manners. But on this occasion the room in which he received his company was deserted as soon as courtesy to the president permitted.