morning he took the cars for Newburyport, thence back to Boston, and from there to Worcester, where he had an appointment; meeting with his friends, he frankly told them the whole; how as from a cloudless sky the bolt had fallen, and begged their forgiveness. It was not a time for them to give him up, and they rallied around him with encouragement and sympathy. Instead of being discouraged, he resolved to derive new benefit from the lesson received, and wage the warfare with more vigor than ever. His field of labor was now the larger towns in the New England states, in which he labored continually for a number of months. After this he was urged to speak in Boston, where he drew large houses, and finally the largest were insufficient to contain the crowds that were entranced by his oratory.

In the autumn of 1843 he was again married, and remained in Boston and the vicinity during that winter. In the May following, having received invitations to lecture in the largest cities of the middle and western states, he started in company with Mr. Grant on a tour more widely extended than he had hitherto attempted.

He was now fairly upon the stage as a speaker, and some account of his appearance may not be out of place. He is about medium height, slender, with a look of care upon his countenance. Time has prematurely furrowed his brow, and sorrow and hard

ships left their indelible footprints. His tempera ment is nervous and sanguine, and his constitution, naturally strong, has become weakened by disease.

As he takes his seat quietly upon the platform, a stranger would not select him for a man of great power, yet under the arching brow, shaded by careless locks of dark, flowing hair, his fine rolling eye cannot fail to excite a deep interest on the part of the beholder. Not until he rises to his address is one

impressed with his wonderful talents. He commences deliberately and distinctly, seeming unconscious of his power, but as he becomes interested in his subject he grows more fervent and earnest, till at length he seems hurried only to keep pace with the rapid evolutions of his own mind; every thought becomes a bolt from the hot furnace of his brain, and wrought into sentences, they fall with the rapidity, and we might almost add, with the effect of lightning. The sympathetic influence is imperceptibly communicated to his audience, until at length they are entirely under his control. They are interested in whatever interests him; the man is forgotten, and nothing is felt but the passionate impulse of an absorbing mind. You surrender your judgment, emotions, sensibilities, in fact your whole being, to a dominion which is irresistible, and would wonder, if you could stop to wonder, at your own lack of self-government. Still he hurries you onward; now some

scene of woe has received a coloring so vivid from the pencil of his imagination, that before you are aware, tears have answered to the fervor of his appeal; the next instant the whole scene is changed, and some grotesque figure stands forth in an attitude so ludicrous that you are convulsed with laughter. This strength of imagery is no better exhibited than in his comparison of the young man's danger from intemperance to the boat rushing down the cataract of Niagara. We give it in his own language:

"I remember riding near Niagara Falls, and I said to a gen tleman, 'What river is that, sir?' That,' he said, 'is Niag ara river.' 'Well,' said I, 'it is a beautiful stream, bright, and fair, and glassy: how far off are the rapids?' 'About a mile or two,' was the answer. 'Is it possible,' I said, 'that only a mile from us we shall find the water in such turbulence, as I presume it must be, near the falls?' 'You will find it so, sir.' And so I found it; and that first sight of the Niagara I shall never forget. Now launch your bark on that Niagara river; it is bright, smooth, beautiful, and glassy; there is a ripple at the bow; the silvery lake you leave behind you adds to your enjoyment; down the stream you glide; you have oars, sails, and helm prepared for every contingency, and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Some one comes out from the bank, "Young men, ahoy!' 'What is it?' 'The rapids are below you.' 'Ha, ha! we have heard of the

we are not such fools to get into them.

rapids below us, but

When we find we are

going too fast to suit our convenience, then hard up the helm,

and steer to the shore; when we find we are passing a given spot too rapidly, we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail and speed to land. We are not alarmed by the danger.' 'Young men, ahoy! The rapids are below you.' 'Ha, ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future! No man ever saw it. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may, and catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; it is time enough to steer out of danger when we find we are swiftly sailing with the current.' 'Young men, ahoy!' What is it?' 'The rapids are below you!' Now you see the water foaming all around; see how fast you pass the point! Now turn! pull hard! quick, quick! Pull for your life! Pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whipcords upon the brow! Set the mast in the socket! Hoist the sail! Ha, ha! it is too late! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over you go! And thousands thus go over by the power of evil habit, declaring all the while, 'When I find out that it is injuring me, then I will give it up.””

Here lies Mr. Gough's great strength; he is a perfect orator. Whatever his vivid imagination grasps, he paints before you with startling reality; the awkward appears intensely ludicrous, the homely scares you, the disagreeable becomes hateful, and the ugly fiendish. By a touch of the same magic wand, the interesting becomes beautiful, and the lovely is transformed into the angelic. His metaphors always seem the best adapted to the object which he would illus

trate, and when he has finished the picture, perfection asks nothing more.

Mr. Gough's oratory has none of the classical finish of Burke, the stinging satire of Pitt, or the massive grandeur of Webster; but it flows onward like a strong mountain torrent, its surface now flashing with the star-light of wit, then dark with the heaving billows of passion, but always possessing a power irresistible. What early education omitted in his discipline, experience has recompensed; what he failed to acquire in the schoolhouse of boyhood, he learned in the school of life. To an originality of conception in thought, nature has added the perfect ability of a mimic, so that his scope is not limited to one subject or to one method of treating it. He possesses a fine musical voice which prepossesses one in his favor, and relieves the monotony too frequent in a discourse; altogether, he is one of the most fascinating speakers we have heard. Some parts of his orations, like that above quoted, appear well in print, but usually their beauty lies in his inimitable manner of delivery; he never writes an oration, but having acquired an offhand habit, the natural consequence is a disconnectedness of style which would appear imperfect as a whole; nevertheless, we find in his speeches occasional passages which cannot easily be excelled in the language for touching pathos, or bewitching beauty. After all, descriptions do not touch him; he must be