We heard one of the last of his out-of-door speeches. It was near
Philadelphia, in 1844, when he was "stumping the State" for Henry
Clay, and when our youthful feelings were warmly with the object of
his speech. What a disappointment! How poor and pompous and pointless
it seemed! Nor could we resist the impression that he was playing a
part, nor help saying to ourselves, as we turned to leave the scene,
"This man is not sincere in this: he is a humbug." And when, some
years later, we saw him present himself before a large audience in a
state not far removed from intoxication, and mumble incoherence for
ten minutes, and when, in the course of the evening, we saw him make a
great show of approval whenever the clergy were complimented, the
impression was renewed that the man had expended his sincerity, and
that nothing was real to him any more except wine and office. And even
then such were the might and majesty of his presence, that he seemed
to fill and satisfy the people by merely sitting there in an
arm-chair, like Jupiter, in a spacious yellow waistcoat with two
bottles of Madeira under it.
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