But D. Webster wasn’t one of this sort.  He didn’t force Nature.  He forgot enough every day to set five modern politicians up for life.  When he opened his mouth to speak, it didn’t act upon the audience like chloroform, nor did the senate-chamber look five minutes after like a receiving tomb, with the bodies laying round promiscuously.  I should say not.  He could wade right into the middle of a dictionary and drag out some ideas that were wholesome.  Yes, when Daniel in that senatorial den did get his back up, the political lions just stood back and growled.

Take him altogether he was our biggest gun, and it’s a pity he went off as he did, for he was the Great Expounder of the Constitution.

HON.  JOHN MORRISSEY

Is also a Great Ex-pounder.  Even greater than Webster, for the constitution of the United States is a trifling affair, compared with the constitution of J.C.  Heenan.

Mr. Morrissey is a very able man and made his mark early in life.  Before he could write his name, I’m told.  No man has made more brilliant hits, and his speeches are concise and full of originality.  “I’ll take mine straight.”  “No sugar for me,” &c., have become as household words.

A man like this, though he may be vilified and slandered for awhile, will eventually come in on the home stretch with a right bower to spare.

That’s a nice place John has got at Saratoga.  Fitted up so elegantly, and with so much money in it, it looks like a Fairy bank with the fairies gambolling upon the green.  It’s all very pretty, no doubt, but excuse me if I pass.

George Francis train.

This gentleman is yet destined to send a thrill of joy to our hearts, and flood our souls with a calm and tranquil joy.  This will come off when his funeral takes place.  He wasn’t born like other people.  He was made to order for the position of common scold in a country sewing-circle.

But he wasn’t satisfied.  He wanted to be an Eminent Lunatic and found private mad-houses.  And so he began to lecture.  He used to rehearse in a graveyard, and it was a common thing for a newly-buried corpse to organize a private resurrection and make for the woods, howling dismally.

A village out West was singularly unfortunate last summer.  In the first place the cholera raged, then they had an earthquake, and then G.F.  Train lectured three nights.  Owing to this accumulation of horrors the village is no longer to be found on the maps.  TRAIN’S second night did the business for ’em.  The once happy villagers are now aimless wanderers, and one poor old man was found in the churchyard, studying a war map of Paris and vicinity in a late New York paper.

It is said that train has his eye on the White House, and is indeed a shrewd, far-seeing man.  When he visited Europe and kissed all the little Irish girls, could he have had in his mind the time when they, as naturalized American Female Suffragers, would cast their votes for G.F.  Train as President?