t they
never could have been born of the same parents.

He had a voice without any gruff or any shrill tones. It
was like a sweet, yet powerful flute. He never strained it
or seemed to exert it to its fullest capacity. I do not know
any other public speaker whose style resembled his in the
least. Perhaps Jeremy Taylor was his model, if he had any
model. The phraseology with which he clothed some commonplace
or mean thought or fact, when he was compelled to use commonplace
arguments, or to tell some common story, kept his auditors
ever alert and expectant. An Irishman, who had killed his
wife, threw away the axe with which Choate claimed the deed
was done, when he heard somebody coming. This, in Choate's
language, was "the sudden and frantic ejaculation of the axe."
Indeed his speech was a perpetual surprise. Whether you liked
him or disliked him, you gave him your ears, erect and intent.
He used manuscript a great deal, even in speaking to juries.
When a trial was on, lasting days or weeks, he kept pen, ink,
and paper at hand in his bedroom, and would often get up in
the middle of the night to write down thoughts that came to
him as he lay in bed. He was always careful to keep warm.
It was said he prepared for a great jury argument by taking
off eight great coats and drinking eight cups of green tea.

When I was a young lawyer in Worcester I had something to
do before the Court sitting in the fourth story of the old
stone court house in Boston. I finished my business and
had just time to catch the train for home. As I came down
the stairs I passed the door of the court-room where the
United States Court was sitting. The thick wooden door was
open, and the opening was closed by a door of thin leather
stretched on a wooden frame. I pulled it open enough to look
in, and there, within three feet of me, was Choate, addressing
a jury in a case of marine insurance, where the defence was
the unseaworthiness of the vessel. I had just time to hear
this sentence, and shut the door and hurry to my train: "She
went down the harbor, painted and perfidious--a coffin, but
no ship."

I hear now, as if still in the eager throng, his speech in
Faneuil Hall during the Mexican War. He demanded that we
should bring back our soldiers to the line we claimed as
our rightful boundary, and let Mexico go. He said we had
done enough for glory, and that we had humiliated her enough.

"The Mexican maiden, as she sits with her