The Tribune, in commenting on the incendiary document distributed on the evening of the 3d, spoke as follows:  “That the more determined sympathizers, in this vicinity, with the Southern rebels have, for months, conspired and plotted to bring about a revolution is as certain as the Civil War.  Had Meade been defeated,” etc.

The dramatic culmination of this awful hour of uncertainty may be found in the speeches, on July 4th, of ex-President Franklin Pierce, at Concord, N.H., and of Governor Seymour, in the Academy of Music, at New York.  The former spoke of “the mailed hand of military usurpation in the North, striking down the liberties of the people and trampling its foot on a desecrated Constitution.”  He lauded Vallandigham, who was sent South for disloyalty, as “the noble martyr of free speech.”  He declared the war to be fruitless, and exclaimed:  “You will take care of yourselves.  With or without arms, with or without leaders, we will at least, in the effort to defend our rights, as a free people, build up a great mausoleum of hearts, to which men who yearn for liberty will, in after years, with bowed heads reverently resort as Christian pilgrims to the shrines of the Holy Land.”

Such were the shrines with which this man would have filled New England.  There is a better chance now, that a new and loyal Virginia will some day build a monument to John Brown.

Governor Seymour’s speech was similar in tenor, but more guarded.  In words of bitter irony toward the struggling government, whose hands the peace faction were striving to paralyze, he began:  “When I accepted the invitation to speak with others, at this meeting, we were promised the downfall of Vicksburg, the opening of the Mississippi, the probable capture of the Confederate capital, and the exhaustion of the rebellion.  By common consent, all parties had fixed upon this day when the results of the campaign should be known.  But, in the moment of expected victory, there came a midnight cry for help from Pennsylvania, to save its despoiled fields from the invading foe; and, almost within sight of this metropolis, the ships of your merchants were burned to the water’s edge.  Parties are exasperated and stand in almost defiant attitude toward each other.”

“At the very hour,” writes the historian Lossing, “when this ungenerous taunt was uttered, Vicksburg and its dependences and vast spoils, with more than thirty thousand Confederate captives, were in the possession of General Grant; and the discomfited army of Lee, who, when that sentence was written, was expected to lead his troops victoriously to the Delaware, and perhaps to the Hudson, was flying from Meade’s troops, to find shelter from utter destruction beyond the Potomac.”

Rarely has history reached a more dramatic climax, and seldom have the great scenes of men’s actions been more swiftly shifted.

Merwyn attended this great mass-meeting, and was silent when the thousands applauded.  In coming out he saw, while unobserved himself, Mr. Vosburgh, and was struck by the proud, contemptuous expression of his face.  The government officer had listened with a cipher telegram in his pocket informing him of Lee’s repulse.