The stillness was first broken by Mr. Lynch, of South Carolina, who arose and in a low, clear voice said:  “There is a gentleman present who has presided with great dignity over a very respectable body and greatly to the advantage of America.  Gentlemen, I move that the Honorable Peyton Randolph, one of the delegates from Virginia, be appointed to preside over this meeting.  I doubt not it will be unanimous.”

It was so; and a large man in powdered wig and scarlet coat arose, and, carrying his gold-headed cane before him like a mace, walked to the platform without apology.

The New Englanders in homespun looked at one another with trepidation on their features.  The red coat was not assuring, but they kept their peace and breathed hard, praying that the enemy had not captured the convention through strategy.  Mr. Randolph’s first suggestion was not revolutionary; it was that a secretary be appointed.

Again Mr. Lynch arose and named Charles Thomson, “a gentleman of family, fortune and character.”  This testimonial of family and fortune was not assuring to the plain Massachusetts men, but they said nothing and awaited developments.

All were cautious as woodsmen, and the motion that the Council be held behind closed doors was adopted.  Every member then held up his right hand and made a solemn promise to divulge no part of the transactions; and Galloway, of Pennsylvania, promised with the rest, and straightway each night informed the enemy of every move.

Little was done that first day but get acquainted by talking very cautiously and very politely.  The next day a notable member had arrived, and in a front seat sat Richard Henry Lee, a man you would turn and look at in any company.  Slender and dark, with a brilliant eye and a profile—­and only one man in ten thousand has a profile—­Lee was a gracious presence.  His voice was gentle and flexible and luring, and there was a dignity and poise in his manner that made him easily the foremost orator of his time.

Near him sat William Livingston, of New Jersey, and John Jay, his son-in-law, the youngest man in the Congress, with a nose that denoted character, and all his fame in the future.

The Pennsylvanians were all together, grouped on one side.  Duane, of New York, sat near them, “shy and squint-eyed, very sensible and very artful,” wrote John Adams that night in his diary.

Then over there sat Christopher Gadsden, of South Carolina, who had preached independence for full ten years before this, and who, when he heard that the British soldiers had taken Boston, proposed to raise a troop at once and fight redcoats wherever found.

“But the British will burn our seaport towns if we antagonize them,” some timid soul explained.

“Our towns are built of brick and wood; if they are burned we can rebuild them; but liberty once gone is gone forever,” he retorted.  And the saying sounds well, even if it will not stand analysis.