aordinary force of character."

Such was the impression that Douglass commonly made on people, and such
was the impression he made on me at my first sight of him. It was in
Faneuil Hall, in the summer of 1872. The colored people of New England
were assembled in political convention. Entering the hall in the midst
of one of their morning sessions, the first object that met my eyes was
the old hero himself on the rostrum. There he stood, over six feet in
height, erect, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with massive, well-formed
head, covered with thick, bushy hair, about half gray. I judged him then
to be midway in his fifties. His face, strongly leonine, was clean
shaven, except moustache, while those eyes, that even in the seventies
could flash fire, lighted up the whole countenance, and made the general
effect such as not to be easily forgotten by a young man. There stood
the orator and the man, and never since have I seen the two in such
exquisite combination. The old Greek sculptor would have delighted to
immortalize such a form in marble.

Whispering to a tall white brother beside me (the audience was half
white) I asked: "Who, sir, is that man speaking?" "That man? That man is
Frederick Douglass." Then looking down upon me with an expression of
mingled pity and surprise in his face, he said: "Why, don't you know
Fred Douglass?" I need not say that that question brought to my mind
feelings of pride not altogether unmixed with humiliation.

As the old orator swept on, however, in his own inimitable style,
sprinkling his remarks with genuine original wit I forgot everything
else around me. His voice, a heavy barytone, or rendered a little
heavier than usual by a slight hoarseness contracted in previous
speaking, could be distinctly heard in that historic but most wretched
of auditoriums. I was particularly struck with his perfect ease and
naturalness, a seemingly childlike unconsciousness of his surroundings,
while, like a master of his art, as he was, he swayed the feelings of
that surging multitude. In the most impassioned portions of his speech,
however, it was evident to the thoughtful observer that there was in the
man immense reserved force which on momentous occasions might be used
with startling effect.

At first I had entered the hall to remain but a few minutes, and,
consequently, had taken my stand just inside the door. How long I did
remain I cannot tell, but it was until the speaker finished, at which
t