clear and silvery, yet he was not a man of tempests, he was not an orchestra of a hundred instruments, he was not an organ, mighty and complex.  The nation slept, and God wanted a trumpet, sharp, wide-sounding, narrow and intense; and that was Mr. Phillips.  The long-roll is not particularly agreeable in music, or in times of war, but it is better than flutes or harps when men are in a great battle, or are on the point of it.  His eloquence was penetrating and alarming.  He did not flow as a mighty Gulf Stream; he did not dash upon this continent as the ocean does; he was not a mighty rushing river.  His eloquence was a flight of arrows, sentence after sentence polished, and most of them burning.  He slung them one after the other, and where they struck they slew.  Always elegant, always awful.  I think his scorn is and was as fine as I ever knew it in any human being.  He had that sublime sanctuary in his pride that made him almost insensitive to what would by other men be considered obloquy.  It was as if he said every day in himself:  “I am not what they are firing at.  I am not there, and I am not that.  It is not against me.  I am infinitely superior to what they think me to be.  They do not know me.”  It was quiet and unpretentious, but it was there.  Conscience and pride were the two concurrent elements of his nature.

THE MOB-BEATEN HERO TRIUMPHANT.

He lived to see the slave emancipated, but not by moral means.  He lived to see the sword cut the fetter.  After this had taken place, he was too young to retire, though too old to gather laurels of literature or to seek professional honors.  The impulse of humanity was not at all abated.  His soul still flowed on for the great under-masses of mankind, though, like the Nile, it split up into scores of mouths, and not all of them were navigable.  After a long and stormy life his sun went down in glory.  All the English-speaking people on the globe have written among the names that shall never die the name of that scoffed, detested, mob-beaten, persecuted wretch—­Wendell Phillips.  Boston, that persecuted and would have slain him, is now exceedingly busy in building his tomb and rearing his statue.  The men that would not defile their lips with his name are thanking God to-day that he lived.

He has taught some lessons—­lessons that the young will do well to take heed to—­that the most splendid gifts and opportunities and ambitions may be best used for the dumb and lowly.  His whole life is a rebuke to the idea that we are to climb to greatness by climbing up on the backs of great men, that we are to gain strength by running with the currents of life, that we can from without add any thing to the great within that constitutes man.  He poured out the precious ointment of his soul upon the feet of that diffusive Jesus who suffers here in his poor and despised ones.  He has taught young ambitions, too, that the way to glory is the way often-times of adhesion simply to principle, and that popularity and unpopularity are not things to be known or considered.  Do right and rejoice.  If to do right will bring you under trouble, rejoice in it that you are counted worthy to suffer with God and the providences of God in this world.