“It came yesterday,” replied Wentworth, “but to-day’s paper has a fuller account of it. Charles Sumner has announced in the Senate that he is going to speak on the Fugitive Slave Law! Hurrah!”
“Io triumphe!” cried Muriel, flying from the room to get the paper, amidst a general chorus of delight.
She came back presently with the “Commonwealth,” and read aloud Mr. Sumner’s brief remarks on presenting the petition of the New England Quakers for the repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law—remarks which were the prelude to one of the ablest and noblest speeches ever heard in the American Congress.
“Bravo!” cried Harrington, when she had finished. “Now we shall hear the old New England voice!”
“By Jupiter, yes,” said Wentworth. “Charles Sumner’s going in. It’ll be like a giant slinging up an elephant by the tail, and whacking the enemy with it.”
They all laughed uproariously at this novel symbol of aggressive eloquence.
“Come now,” said Wentworth, when the laughter had subsided, “this news calls upon us to round up Saturday night with music. Sing, you pair of seraphs, sing. Let’s have Theodore Körner’s ‘Battle-Hymn of the Berlin Landsturm.’”
Muriel and Emily moved to the organ, and on the rich and passionate clouds of Weber’s music, their noble voices stormed in melody. But as the first exalting tones arose, Mrs. Eastman, sad and sick at heart, withdrew to her chamber, to think with sorrow of her brother’s baseness, to think and think and think, and weep alone.