the delegates from Virginia, be appointed to preside over
this meeting. I doubt not it will be unanimous."

It was so; and a large man in powdered wig and scarlet coat arose, and,
carrying his gold-headed cane before him like a mace, walked to the
platform without apology.

The New Englanders in homespun looked at one another with trepidation on
their features. The red coat was not assuring, but they kept their peace
and breathed hard, praying that the enemy had not captured the convention
through strategy. Mr. Randolph's first suggestion was not revolutionary;
it was that a secretary be appointed.

Again Mr. Lynch arose and named Charles Thomson, "a gentleman of family,
fortune and character." This testimonial of family and fortune was not
assuring to the plain Massachusetts men, but they said nothing and awaited
developments.

All were cautious as woodsmen, and the motion that the Council be held
behind closed doors was adopted. Every member then held up his right hand
and made a solemn promise to divulge no part of the transactions; and
Galloway, of Pennsylvania, promised with the rest, and straightway each
night informed the enemy of every move.

Little was done that first day but get acquainted by talking very
cautiously and very politely. The next day a notable member had arrived,
and in a front seat sat Richard Henry Lee, a man you would turn and look
at in any company. Slender and dark, with a brilliant eye and a
profile--and only one man in ten thousand has a profile--Lee was a
gracious presence. His voice was gentle and flexible and luring, and there
was a dignity and poise in his manner that made him easily the foremost
orator of his time.

Near him sat William Livingston, of New Jersey, and John Jay, his
son-in-law, the youngest man in the Congress, with a nose that denoted
character, and all his fame in the future.

The Pennsylvanians were all together, grouped on one side. Duane, of New
York, sat near them, "shy and squint-eyed, very sensible and very artful,"
wrote John Adams that night in his diary.

Then over there sat Christopher Gadsden, of South Carolina, who had
preached independence for full ten years before this, and who, when he
heard that the British soldiers had taken Boston, proposed to raise a
troop at once and fight redcoats wherever found.

"But the British will burn our seaport towns if we antagonize them," some
timid soul explained.

"Our towns are built of brick and wood; if