Harrington: A Story of True Love

by William Douglas O'Connor

It was Wendell Phillips—the flower of the anti-slavery chivalry. Memory recalls the words in which Robertus Monachus describes the leader of the twelfth century Crusaders, Godfrey of Bouillon: “He was beautiful in countenance,” says the chronicler, “tall in stature, agreeable in his discourse, admirable in his morals, and at the same time so gentle, that he seemed better fitted for the monk than the knight; but when his enemies appeared before him, and the combat approached, his soul became filled with mighty daring; like a lion, he feared not for his person—and what shield, what buckler, could resist the fall of his sword?” So might one describe the great Abolitionist. But a poetic heart would take from that rich old world Past a more lustrous figure than even Godfrey to stand as his representative. In England they call Lord Derby the Rupert of debate; and far more aptly might Wendell Phillips be termed the Tancred of liberty. In his personal appearance, as in the attitude of his life, the nature of his thought, and the style of his rhetoric, there was that which recalled the image of the loveliest of the antique chevaliers. As he stood on that brilliant platform, while the enthusiastic applause swelled and tossed in a tempest of sound and stir—one foot advanced, his hands lightly clasped behind him, his head curved a little to one side, the light bringing out in definite relief a face and form in strange contrast with every other around him, and whose statuesque repose seemed heightened by the tumultuous commotion of the audience—he impressed the eye like a piece of exquisite sculpture when seen among the alien shapes of men. A tall-browed, oval head of severe and singular grace; long, clear-cut, Roman features; a keen and penetrant eye; around the firm mouth a glimmer of feminine sweetness; the face harmonized with an expression of golden urbanity; and in the whole aspect the polished ease of the gentleman blended with the lofty bearing of the Paladin. And a Paladin he was—a star of oratoric tournament, proved so by many a hard-fought argument in the chivalrous fields of liberty, where his eloquence, that fiery sword wrought of Justice and Beauty, as his friend Parker has called it, flashed and rang on the armor of the vile, and brought new courage to the war. None listened to the bright and terrible music of his speech unmoved; no bitterest conservative could hear it without owning its magic. Robbed of his just due of fame by the unpopularity of the cause he championed, even his foes could whisper that he was the greatest orator in America—even the scholars of the Boston “Courier”, the representative pro-slavery organ in that latitude, and the deadly enemy of the Abolitionists, could call him, with strange warmth, the Cicero of anti-slavery.

The applause sunk down, and an expectant, breathless hush succeeded. Slowly his lips curved apart, and the clear, persuasive silver of his voice flowed into words. It was a simple and ordinary sentence, and yet what a fascination it had! It was not a sentence—it was something bright that flew into the souls of his audience; and as it flew, the magnetic glance of his eye seemed to follow it, and every one was captive. His address was at once exposition and criticism. The condition of the nation, the aggressions of the slave oligarchy, the recent plunder of Mexico for the extension of slavery, the servility of the pulpit, the pro-slavery scheming of Northern merchants and manufacturers—these were his themes, and how he treated them! He was not in his loftiest lyric mood that night, and his speech only rose now and then from its tone of exquisite impressive colloquy into the long, imperial sweep of the oration; but still, as Thomas Davis said of Curran, his words went forth in robes of light with swords. Shapes of severest crystal grace that moved to Dorian music, an armed battalia, a bright procession, the splendid phrases trooped, with strength to strike and skill to guard for liberty and justice. What language—so finely chosen, so apt, terse, limpid, electrical! What logic—proof-mail of gold and steel around his thought, or a smiting weapon of celestial temper! Now came some metaphor so analogically related to the theme that it flashed on the mind like a subtle argument. And now a sentence shining upon the imagination with the beauty of an antique frieze. Here was an expression that memory would wear like a gem-cameo forever. And here some jewel of classic story re-cut more purely, or some historic picture that glowed sharp, definite, in lines and hues of life, upon the eye of the mind. Now it was the scimitar-glance of wit shearing the floating film of some intangible popular delusion, or lie. Now some homely illustration borrowed from the street, the shop, the farm, yet suddenly interpenetrated with as strange a poetic grace as though it had dropped from the lips of Tully two thousand years ago. Or here again invective, rising above some gloomy wrong, and smiting bright, like the diamond sword of Dante’s black-stoled angel. Rhetoric, yet not the artificial, decorative rhetoric of the schools, but an organic growth of the man. Art, but art that seemed like nature, for it was the art that nature makes. One felt, and truly felt, in listening to the orator, that this was his natural normal speech. It was beautiful, it was ornate, it was artistic, but it was of the heart, it was of the life; and everywhere it was the stern, the solemn voice of conscience, of honor, of virtue—everywhere it was terrible and sacred with radiant pity for the poor and weak, flaming scorn for the traitor and the oppressor, burning love for liberty and justice. But who is he that shall so much as hint description of the classic grace, the delicate fiery power of the speeches of Wendell Phillips to the men of Boston? The golden bees that clustered at the lips of baby Plato, must swarm again from old Hymettus to the cradle of the child unborn who shall essay to tell the magic of that eloquence. Say that in an age and land of muck-rakes it was the speech of a gentleman—say that in its tones were heard the ancestral voices from the blocks and battle-fields of liberty—say that it touched with heavenly ardor and lifted to nobler life all uncorrupted hearts, and was light to the blind, and conscience to the base, and to the caitiff whatever he could know of shame; so leave it to worthier and more abundant praise, and to the future.

The applause which had burst forth again and again during the speech, now swelled into a tempest of acclamation as the orator withdrew. Muriel still kept her lit face fixed on the platform, and Emily, kindled into ardent color, leaned back with a sigh. Wentworth, meanwhile, flushed with delight, was splitting his gloves to ribbons with vehement applause, when looking around, his eye fell upon Harrington, and stopping in the midst of his furore, he stared at him, amazed. Harrington’s strong face was white, his brow knitted, and his nostrils tensely drawn.

“What’s the matter, John?” cried Wentworth, alarmed, and raising his voice to be heard amidst the cheering.

Muriel and Emily both looked at him suddenly, and the young man recovering, smiled like one sick at heart, and rose. They thought him ill, and unheeding the announcement of the next speaker, they left their seats and went from the hall, Muriel and Harrington noticing, as they passed up the aisle, that the seats occupied by Mr. Atkins and the stranger were vacant.

In the vestibule, Harrington paused with Emily on his arm.

“Muriel,” he said, “I want to speak with you a moment.”

She left Wentworth instantly, and came to him, with a face of inquiry.

“Muriel,” he said, in a low, clear voice, taking her hands in his, and looking into her eyes, “I feel a dreadful foreboding. It struck upon me just now who that man is we saw with your uncle.”