he was of a
most gracious and sweet nature. He was a lover and maker
of peace. When his own political associates put an indignity
upon Charles Sumner, the great leader of emancipation in the
Senate, which had been the scene of his illustrious service,
no man regretted the occurrence more than Mr. Anthony.

And straight Patroclus rose,
The genial comrade, who, amid the strife
Of kings, and war of angry utterance,
Held even balance, to his outraged friend
Heart-true, yet ever strove with kindly words
To hush the jarring discord, urging peace.

Mr. Anthony was a learned man; learned in the history of the
Senate and in parliamentary law; learned in the history of
his country and of foreign countries; learned in the resources
of a full, accurate and graceful scholarship. Since Sumner
died I suppose no Senator can be compared with him in this
respect. Some passages in an almost forgotten political satire
show that he possessed a vein which, if he had cultivated
it, might have placed him high in the roll of satiric poets.
But he never launched a shaft that he might inflict a sting.
His collection of memorial addresses is unsurpassed in its
kind of literature. He was absolutely simple, modest, courteous
and without pretence. He was content to do his share in accomplishing
public results, and leave to others whatever of fame or glory
might result from having accomplished them.

To be, and not to seem, was this man's wisdom.

The satire, of which I have just spoken, is almost forgotten.
It is a poem called "The Dorriad," written at the time of
the famous Dorr Rebellion. The notes, as in the case of the
"Biglow Papers," are even funnier than the text. He gives
an account of the Dorr War in two cantos, after the manner
of Scott's "Marmion." He describes the chieftain addressing
his troops on Arcote's Hill, the place where one Arcote, in
former days, had been hung for sheep-stealing, and buried
at the foot of the gallows.

The Governor saw with conscious pride,
The men who gathered at his side;
That bloody sword aloft the drew,
And "list, my trusty men," he cried--
"Here do I swear to stand by you,
As long as flows life's crimson tide;--
Nor will I ever yield, until
I leave my bones upon this hill."
His men received the gallant boast
With shouts that shook the rocks around.
But hark, a voice? old Arcote's ghost
Calls out, in anger, from the ground,
"If here your bones