ey had named it well (which is not for a moment to be
admitted!), it is cheap for the price. How Mr. Crewe's ears must tingle
as he paces his headquarters in the Pelican! Almost would it be sacrilege
to set down cold, on paper, the words that come, burning, out of the
Honourable Timothy's loyal heart. Here, gentlemen, is a man at last, not
a mere puppet who signs his name when a citizen of New York pulls the
string; one who is prepared to make any sacrifice,--to spend his life, if
need be, in their service. (A barely audible voice, before the cheering
commences, "I guess that's so.") Humphrey Crewe needs no defence--the
Honourable Timothy avers--at his hands, or any one's. Not merely an
idealist, but a practical man who has studied the needs of the State;
unselfish to the core; longing, like Washington, the Father of his
Country, to remain in a beautiful country home, where he dispenses
hospitality with a flowing hand to poor and rich alike, yet harking to
the call of duty. Leaving, like the noble Roman of old, his plough in the
furrow--(Same voice as before, "I wish he'd left his automobil' thar!"
Hisses and laughter.) The Honourable Timothy, undaunted, snatches his
hand from the breast of his Prince Albert and flings it, with a superb
gesture, towards the Pelican. "Gentlemen, I have the honour to nominate
to this convention that peerless leader for the right, the Honourable
Humphrey Crewe of Leith--our next governor."

General Andrew Jackson himself, had he been alive and on this historic
ground and chairman of that convention, could scarce have quelled the
tumult aroused by this name and this speech--much less General Doby.
Although a man of presence, measurable by scales with weights enough, our
general has no more ponderosity now than a leaf in a mountain storm at
Hale--and no more control over the hurricane. Behold him now, pounding
with his gavel on something which should give forth a sound, but doesn't.
Who is he (to change the speech's figure--not the general's), who is he
to drive a wild eight-horse team, who is fit only to conduct Mr. Flint's
oxen in years gone by?

It is a memorable scene, sketched to life for the metropolitan press. The
man on the chair, his face lighted by a fanatic enthusiasm, is the
Honourable Hamilton Tooting, coatless and collarless, leading the cheers
that shake the building, that must have struck terror to the soul of
Augustus P. Flint himself--fifty miles away. But the endurance of