successive theme glowed with subdued fire.  There was no straining after mere rhetorical effect, but an artistic treatment of a succession of great subjects in a general and yet vivid and picturesque fashion.  The emotion produced by the Plymouth oration was akin to that of listening to the strains of music issuing from a full-toned organ.  Those who heard it did not seek to gratify their reason or look for conviction to be brought to their understanding.  It did not appeal to the logical faculties or to the passions, which are roused by the keen contests of parliamentary debate.  It was the divine gift of speech, the greatest instrument given to man, used with surpassing talent, and the joy and pleasure which it brought were those which come from listening to the song of a great singer, or looking upon the picture of a great artist.

The Plymouth oration, which was at once printed and published, was received with a universal burst of applause.  It had more literary success than anything which had at that time appeared, except from the pen of Washington Irving.  The public, without stopping to analyze their own feelings, or the oration itself, recognized at once that a new genius had come before them, a man endowed with the noble gift of eloquence, and capable by the exercise of his talents of moving and inspiring great masses of his fellow-men.  Mr. Webster was then of an age to feel fully the glow of a great success, both at the moment and when the cooler and more critical approbation came.  He was fresh and young, a strong man rejoicing to run the race.  Mr. Ticknor says, in speaking of the oration:—­

“The passage at the end, where, spreading his arms as if to embrace them, he welcomed future generations to the great inheritance which we have enjoyed, was spoken with the most attractive sweetness and that peculiar smile which in him was always so charming.  The effect of the whole was very great.  As soon as he got home to our lodgings, all the principal people then in Plymouth crowded about him.  He was full of animation, and radiant with happiness.  But there was something about him very grand and imposing at the same time.  I never saw him at any time when he seemed to me to be more conscious of his own powers, or to have a more true and natural enjoyment from their possession.”

Amid all the applause and glory, there was one letter of congratulation and acknowledgment which must have given Mr. Webster more pleasure than anything else, It came from John Adams, who never did anything by halves.  Whether he praised or condemned, he did it heartily and ardently, and such an oration on New England went straight to the heart of the eager, warm-blooded old patriot.  His commendation, too, was worth having, for he spoke as one having authority.  John Adams had been one of the eloquent men and the most forcible debater of the first Congress.  He had listened to the great orators of other lands.  He had heard Pitt and Fox, Burke and Sheridan, and had been present at the trial of Warren Hastings.  His unstinted praise meant and still means a great deal, and it concludes with one of the finest and most graceful of compliments.  The oration, he says,