in the mutability of mortal friendship, or the decay of systems, nor in the fall of States and empires, which he did not present, to give humiliating ideas of worldly grandeur.  Nor was there anything heroic in sacrifice, or grand in conflict, or sublime in danger,—­nothing in the loftiness of the soul’s aspirations, nothing of the glorious promises of everlasting life,—­which he did not dwell upon to stimulate the transported crowds who hung upon his lips.  It was his duty and his privilege,” continues this eloquent and Christian lawyer, “to dwell on the older history of the world, on the beautiful simplicities of patriarchal life, on the stern and marvellous story of the Hebrews, on the glorious visions of the prophets, on the songs of the inspired melodists, on the countless beauties of the Scriptures, on the character and teachings and mission of the Saviour.  It was his to trace the Spirit of the boundless and the eternal, faintly breathing in every part of the mystic circle of superstition,—­unquenched even amidst the most barbarous rites of savage tribes, and in the cold and beautiful shapes of Grecian mould.”

How different this eloquence from that of the expiring nations!  Their eloquence is sad, sounding like the tocsin of departed glories, protesting earnestly—­but without effect—­against those corruptions which it was too late to heal.  How touching the eloquence of Demosthenes, pointing out the dangers of the State, and appealing to liberty, when liberty had fled.  In vain his impassioned appeals to men insensible to elevated sentiments.  He sang the death-song of departed greatness without the possibility of a new creation.  He spoke to audiences cultivated indeed, but divided, enervated, embittered, infatuated, incapable of self-sacrifice, among whom liberty was a mere tradition and patriotism a dream; and he spoke in vain.  Nor could Cicero—­still more accomplished, if not so impassioned—­kindle among the degenerate Romans the ancient spirit which had fled when demagogues began their reign.  How mournful was the eloquence of this great patriot, this experienced statesman, this wise philosopher, who, in spite of all his weaknesses, was admired and honored by all who spoke the Latin tongue.  But had he spoken with the tongue of an archangel it would have been all the same, on any worldly or political subject.  The old sentiments had died out.  Faith was extinguished amid universal scepticism and indifference.  He had no material to work on.  The birthright of ancient heroes had been sold for a mess of pottage, and this he knew; and therefore with his last philippics he bowed his venerable head, and prepared himself for the sword of the executioner, which he accepted as an inevitable necessity.

These great orators appealed to traditions, to sentiments which had passed away, to glories which could not possibly return; and they spoke in vain.  All they could do was to utter their manly and noble protests, and die, with the dispiriting and hopeless feeling that the seeds of ruin, planted in a soil of corruption, would soon bear their wretched fruits,—­even violence and destruction.