“Where are your selectmen?” said Governor Andrew, rising and pushing back his chair with an energy which I thought ominous.  My companions had taken up a modest position in a far corner.  When I pointed them out, the Governor made no pause, but proceeded to pour upon them and me a torrent of impassioned words.  He said that we were making trouble, that the country was in peril, and that while he was trying to send every available man to the front in condition to do effective work he was embarrassed at home by petty interference with his efforts.  “I have at hand soldiers who have proved themselves brave in action, have been baptised in blood and fire.  They are fit through character and experience to be leaders, and yet I cannot give them commissions because I am blocked by this small and unworthy spirit of hindrance.”

For some minutes the warm outburst went on.  The white, beardless face flushed up under the curls, and his hands waved in rapid gesture.  “A capital speech, your Excellency,” cried out Sumner, “a most capital speech!” and he led the way in a peal of applause in which the crowd in the chamber universally joined, and which must have rung across Beacon Street to the Common far away.  My feeble finger had touched the button which brought this unexpected downpour, and for the moment I was unpleasantly in the limelight.

“Now introduce me to your selectmen,” said Governor Andrew, stepping to my side.  I led the way to the corner to which the delegation had retreated, and presented my friends in turn.  His manner changed.  He was polite and friendly, and when, after a hand-shaking, he went back to his table, we felt we had not understood the situation and that our petition should have been withheld.  For my part, I enlisted at once as a private and went into a strenuous campaign.

Sumner was intrepid, high-purposed, and accomplished, but what is the world saying now of his judgment?  His recent friendly but discriminating biographer, Prof.  George H. Haynes, declares that even in matters of taste he was at fault.  The paintings he thought masterpieces, his gift to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, are for the most part consigned to the lumber-room.  In sculpture his judgment was not better.  As to literary art, his writing was ponderous and over-weighted with far-fetched allusion.  The world felt horror at the attack of Brooks, but the whole literature of invective contains nothing more offensive than the language of Sumner which provoked it and which he lavished right and left upon opponents who were sometimes honourable.  It was in the worst of taste.

In great affairs his service was certainly large.  Perhaps he was at his highest in the settlement of the Trent affair, but his course in general in guiding our foreign relations was able and useful.  He put his hand to much reconstruction of ideas and institutions.  Often he made, but too often he marred.  He suffered sadly from the lack of a sense of humour.  “What does Lincoln mean?” he would blankly exclaim, impervious alike to the drollery and to the keen prod concealed within it.  In his fancied superiority he sought to patronise and dominate the rude Illinoisian.  The case is pathetic.  The width and the depth of the chasm which separates the two men in the regard of the American people!