see you, that's all," we would have replied.

He sat there at the window, his long legs crossed, a copy of "Coke on
Littleton" in his hands. His dress was what it should be--that of a
gentleman--his face cleanly shaven, hair long, cut square and falling to
his black stock. He was the only son of Boston's first Mayor, both to
the manor and to the manner born, rich in his own right; proud,
handsome, strong, gentle, refined, educated--a Christian gentleman, heir
to the best that Boston had to give--a graduate of the Boston Latin
School, of Harvard College, of the Harvard Law School--living with his
widowed mother in a mansion on Beacon Hill, overlooking Boston's
forty-three acres of Common!

Can you imagine anything more complete in way of endowment than all
this? Did Destiny ever do more for mortal man?

There he sat waiting for clients. About this time he made the
acquaintance of a cockeyed pulchritudinous youth, Ben Butler by name,
who was errand-boy in a nearby office. It was a strange
friendship--peppered by much cross-fire whenever they met in public--to
endure loyal for a lifetime.

Clients are sure to come to the man who is not too anxious about
them--sure to come to a man like Phillips--a youth clothed with the
graces of a Greek--waiting on the threshold of manhood's morning.

Here is his career: a successful lawyer and leader in society; a member
of the Legislature; a United States Senator, and then if he cares for
it--well, well, well!

But in the meantime, there he sits, not with his feet in the window or
on a chair--he is a gentleman, I said, a Boston gentleman--the flower of
a gracile ancestry. In the lazy, hazy air is the hum of autumn birds and
beetles--the hectic beauty of the dying year is over all. The hum seems
to grow--it becomes a subdued roar.

You have sat behind the scenes waiting for the curtain to rise--a
thousand people are there just out of your sight--five hundred of them
are talking. It is one high-keyed, humming roar.

The roar of a mob is keyed lower--it is guttural and approaches a
growl--it seems to come in waves, a brazen roar rising and falling--but
a roar, full of menace, hate, deaf to reason, dead to appeal.

You have heard the roar of the mob in "Julius Caesar," and stay! once I
heard the genuine article. It was in Eighty-four--goodness gracious, I
am surely getting old!--it was in a town out West. I saw nothing but a
pushing, crowding mass of men, and all I heard was that