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Wendell Phillips
by
The crowd was made up of three classes, the Abolitionists–and they were in the minority–the mob who hotly opposed them, and the curious and indifferent people who wanted to see the fireworks.
Many women were in the audience, and a dozen clergymen on the platform–this gave respectability to the assemblage. The meeting opened tamely enough with a trite talk by a Unitarian clergyman, and followed along until the resolutions were read. Then there were cries of, “Table them!”–the matter was of no importance.
A portly figure was seen making its way to the platform.
It was the Honorable James T. Austin, Attorney-General of the State. He was stout, florid, ready of tongue–a practical stump speaker and withal a good deal of a popular favorite. The crowd cheered him–he caught them from the start. His intent was to explode the whole thing in a laugh, or else end it in a row–he didn’t care which.
He pooh-poohed the whole affair, and referred to the slaves as a menagerie of lions, tigers, hyenas–a jackass or two–and a host of monkeys, which the fool Abolitionists were trying to turn loose. He regretted the death of Lovejoy, but his taking-off should be a warning to all good people–they should be law-abiding and mind their own business. He moved that the resolutions be tabled.
The applause that followed showed that if a vote were then taken the Attorney-General’s motion would have prevailed.
“Answer him, Wendell, answer him!” whispered Ann, excitedly, and before the Attorney-General had bowed himself from the platform, Wendell Phillips had sprung upon the stage and stood facing the audience. There were cries of, “Vote! Vote!”–the mobocrats wanted to cut the matter short. Still others shouted: “Fair play! Let us hear the boy!” The young man stood there, calm, composed–handsome in the strength of youth. He waited until the audience came to him and then he spoke in that dulcet voice–deliberate, measured, faultless–every sentence spaced. The charm of his speech caught the curiosity of the crowd. People did not know whether he was going to sustain the Attorney-General or assail him. From compliments and generalities he moved off into bitter sarcasm. He riddled the cheap wit of his opponent, tore his logic to tatters, and held the pitiful rags of reason up before the audience. There were cries of: “Treason!” “Put him out!” Phillips simply smiled and waited for the frenzy to subside. The speaker who has aroused his hearers into a tumult of either dissent or approbation has won–and Phillips did both. He spoke for thirty minutes and finished in a whirlwind of applause. The Attorney-General had disappeared, and those of his followers who remained were strangely silent. The resolutions were passed in a shout of acclamation.
The fame of Wendell Phillips as an orator was made. Father Taylor once said, “If Emerson goes to hell, he will start emigration in that direction.” And from the day of that first Faneuil Hall speech Wendell Phillips gradually caused Abolitionism in New England to become respectable.
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Phillips was twenty-seven years old when he gave that first, great speech, and for just twenty-seven years he continued to speak on the subject of slavery. He was an agitator–he was a man who divided men. He supplied courage to the weak, arguments to the many, and sent a chill of hate and fear through the hearts of the enemy. And just here is a good place to say that your radical–your fire-eater, agitator, and revolutionary who dips his pen in aqua fortis, and punctuates with blood–is almost without exception, met socially, a very gentle, modest and suave individual. William Lloyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips, Horace Greeley, Fred. Douglas, George William Curtis, and even John Brown, were all men with low, musical voices and modest ways–men who would not tread on an insect nor harm a toad.