Here our brilliant friend drew a picture of suffering, in prospect for ourself and family, so vivid as to rival St. Paul's descriptive list of his own sufferings, by land and by sea, among false brethren, among Greeks and barbarians, in bonds and imprisonment, which awaited him in his journeyings from city to city.
In that description the writer saw himself served with a notice from the "Ticket of Leave Man," to quit the country in a given number of days, or hours, and in default thereof to abide the consequences—such as a free passage at sea, bound to a plank, or headed up in a barrel, companion and food for friendly sharks, or other monsters of the dark blue deep; or left, by the mob infuriate, "Looking up a black jack," as the chilling parlance of the country expresses it. And he saw the secret assassins in the forest nightshade, or in some dark and unfrequented nook, plotting against his life—saw the dagger gleaming in the dark, heard the death-dealing cartridge chambered in the revolver or derringer, the trial click of the hammer, and the adjustment of the cap. And then saw them emerge from their dark hiding place, and take position near the pathway of the unsuspecting passer-by, to shoot or strike him down, just when he thinks no danger nigh. But failing here, because their victim reaches home by a course not in their plans, he saw the human bloodhounds lurking and skulking about his house, at the midnight hour, seeking quiet entrance to his chamber of rest. They enter, and there find the doomed one at rest with the loved ones, in the unconscious bliss of sleep, while the moonlight shimmers from the light breeze-waving trees, through the open lattice, in fantastic shapes of light and shade, upon the chamber wall, just o'er their pillowed heads, so soft and so silvery. The steel is in the assassin's uplifted hand. Witnessing angels are moved at the fearful sight, and cry out—"Stay thy hand! and hurt not the man!" but lo, 'tis not the hand of an Abraham that holds the deadly knife on high, but of the cruel assassin, whose soul communes not with angels of good, but is in league with angels of evil, who in cooler mood might relent the fiendish order to strike—if that were possible with evil demons—but being now at the mighty on-rush, like lightning the fatal blow descends; the warm blood flows, a life ebbs away, and the cowardly wretches retreat under cover of night, followed by the wails of the widowed wife and her helpless children, bereft in a moment of husband and father!
Thus did Mr. S. picture things on the Southern sky, in vividness of eloquent speech, which the writer rarely ever heard equaled—not more than half a dozen times in his life, at most. His soul caught the true image, and his language made it seem to one present and real.
As compared with other men he excelled in most of the qualities that constitute a successful public speaker, or private conversationalist. But comparing him with himself, it is difficult to determine in which he was the more excellent. His nature was spontaneous to an exceeding degree in every capacity and relation of life. The absorbing and evolving power of his intuitions was so remarkable that a book, heavy or light in tone of thought, was mastered by him as a mere breakfast spell. Memory was ever a faithful sentinel at his mental door, and every fresh thought passing its threshold was imprisoned there for life. In the more rigid sense of the schools he was never, perhaps, a systematic student; which might be urged by some as a fault, and the conclusion is logical on general principles. But he was a student, nevertheless, after nature's own style. He was nature's own genius, and could not be confined to the plots and plans of books—not even the books of the law. His soul was too thirsty to be slaked with legal waters. It looked up to the mountains for irrigation from the gospel waters of the Spirit. Once on a time a young chip of the law challenged him on his inattention to the books, to whom he replied: "There are two classes of lawyers: those who make the books, or furnish the material for them, and are lawyers without them, and those who study the books to be lawyers at all."
As a jury advocate, as a platform speaker, as a popular orator on political and other occasions, it is conceded by those who knew him best, professionally and otherwise, that he never had his superior, and few if any equals in the whole Northwest. Nature had endowed him with a voice of surpassing compass and richness for oratorical purposes, and had breathed into his great soul a spontaneity of warm impulse and thought, to back and animate it, so that, whether he spoke in tenor or baritone, or deep basso, one always heard a soul-voice from the speaker.
His whole character, from top to bottom, was stratified with moral simplicity and a broad catholicity of temperament, which, under the guidance of his comprehensive intellect, brought him into rapport with truth wherever found. He thought, and felt, and spoke, in veins of enthusiasm, and hence was rather impatient of conservative restraint. He always entered his appearance against injustice and wrong, in radical pioneer style, with a directness of purpose that would see the beginning of the end at once. He never impressed one with the idea, in his public efforts before courts, or juries, or popular audiences, that he sought to produce sensational effects; nay, he was always too full of his subject for that—so full that some, in envy, or jealousy, or ignorance, might write him down a wild enthusiast, and at times a fanatic, because he believed the lions in the way, where most men feared to travel, could be slain and put aside; but we shall not so write him, for we know him better, and have a better chart of his character. From long personal intimacy with him we understand with what generous prodigality nature lavished upon him powers sui generis, and beyond those of most men, and above appreciation by the green-eyed few. If he were not perfect, as the religious legalist counts perfection, and had any marked faults, as all great men are said to have, the intelligent reader will not fail to appreciate the point when we say that peculiar faults, either secret or overt, seem quite inseparable from the characters of geniuses; and more, these very faults serve as foils of contrast to set off to greater advantage and glory their superior excellences, while teaching us not to fall down and worship them as gods, for they are but men in common with other men.
Mr. S. stood aloof the major portion of his life from the technical distinctions and peculiar customs of the religious sects, and the more strenuous and imposing they were the less real fellowship from him. He thought he saw in the tone of creeds, old or new, as managed by human fallibility, the old "Yoke of bondage"—the imposition of tyranny—the reproduction of the old spirit of Judaism, in a display of "the commandments of men." And yet, in default of the grander development of the coming kingdom—the one organic headship of Christ, and the one all-pervading, and all-comprehending unity, under that headship—he recognized the preliminary usefulness of the sects, in keeping mankind beating the bush for religious truth, and making endeavors toward pure living. Hence his motto was: "The seed of the true church is scattered among all the sects, and will be gathered into one in the fullness of time."
From this standpoint he could never regard the distinctive features or claims of any existing sect as paramount to those of another, or as promising to transcend all others, absorbing them into a visible, vital oneness, in the final outcome of the conflict between modern sects. But believing, as a matter of the deepest faith with him, and the most unquestionably certain teaching of Christ, and what appeared to most people Utopian, that the true church on earth was intended by its divine Founder to be like its counterpart in heaven—a vital, visible, organic unity—he could not, at any time in his life, long yield himself to sectarian embraces. Here is the true explanation of the ins and outs that he practiced in this direction. When he went in he was esteemed just converted. When he went out, backslidden and lost—so reckoned the sectarian treadmill brother in his case, who failed to penetrate below the surface of his character, and did not see him as he was, and where he was.
The truth is, the writer never knew a man in whose subjective life the religious element was more potential. It was a profound inspiration, and the mainspring of his whole life-movements. And even when some of those movements became irregular and tangled from fractures or weakness in subordinate machinery, the mainspring was there, performing its functions, and kept him in motion. In every speech he ever made, at the bar, on the stump, or elsewhere, this inspiration was in his soul, came up to his lips, and gave them their greatest power.
The most elegant and moving strains of eloquence he ever uttered came from this wellspring of the divine within him. It breathed in every breath, it toned every word, it warmed every impulse, it was the muse of every sentiment, it was the "fourfold chord" of his friendship; it was the tidal wave of his soul, hurling the shore rocks of biting sarcasm and scathing invective against evil and wrong. At such times his very lips seemed formed by nature for this kind of work, and woe betide the luckless man against whom he employed them. This divine passion gave him "cloven tongues of fire," and made him on occasion a pentecost of eloquence.