before him from which most men would pay large sums to be
relieved: Hence, his abilities were of a kind that made him a most
dangerous opponent.

Some persons supposed that Mr. Tilden was a poor speaker because, when
he was brought before the people as a candidate for President of the
United States, he was physically unable to speak with much force. But
twenty years ago, for clearness of statement, and for an easy and
straightforward method of speech he had few superiors. His language was
excellent, his manner that of a man who had something to say and was
intent upon saying it. He was at no time a tricky orator, nor did he aim
at rousing the feelings, but in the clearest possible manner he would
make his points and no amount of prejudice was sufficient to resist his
conclusions. He was a great reader, and reflected on all that he read.

No more extraordinary episode ever occurred than his break with William
M. Tweed, and his devoting himself to the overthrow of that gigantic
ring. It is not our purpose to treat the whole subject; yet, the manner
of the break was so tragic that it should be detailed. William M. Tweed
had gone on buying men and legislatures, and enriching himself until he
had reached the state of mind in which he said to the public, "What are
you going to do about it?" He had gone further. He had applied it to the
leading men of the Democratic party. The time came when he sat in his
gorgeously furnished apartment in Albany, as Chairman of a certain
committee of the Senate. Samuel J. Tilden appeared before the committee
to represent a certain interest. On that occasion Mr. Tweed, who was
either intoxicated with liquor, or intoxicated with pride and vanity,
grossly insulted Mr. Tilden, spoke to him in the most disrespectful
manner, and closed by saying: "YOU ARE AN OLD HUMBUG; YOU ALWAYS WERE A
HUMBUG, AND WE DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING FROM YOU!"

Mr. Tilden turned pale, and then red, and finally livid. A spectator, a
man second to none in New York State for position, informed the writer
that as he gazed upon Mr. Tilden he was terrified. Not a word did he
utter; he folded up his books and papers and departed. As he went the
spectator said to himself, "This man means murder; there will never be
any accommodation of this difficulty." Back to the City of New York went
Mr. Tilden. He sat down with the patience and with the keen scent of a
sleuth-hound, and unravelled all the mystery of the iniquity which had