were in the admiring crowds that hung with rapture on his lips-in the courts of justice, in the densely packed assembly, in the Senate, in the Constitutional Convention, or in Faneuil Hall, consecrated to Freedom-and who can still recall, among life's most cherished memories, the tones of that matchless voice, that pallid face illuminated with rare intelligence, the flashing glance of his dark eye, and the light of his bewitching smile. But, in a decade or two more, these lingering witnesses of his glory and his triumphs will have passed on, and to the next generation he will be but a name and a statue, enshrined in fame's temple with Cicero and Burke, with Otis and Hamilton and Webster, with Pinkney and Wirt, whose words and thoughts he loved to study and to master. Many a noted orator, many a great lawyer, has been lost in oblivion in forty years after the grave closed over him, but I venture to believe that the Bar of Suffolk, ay, the whole Bar of America, and the people of Massachusetts, have kept the memory of no other man alive and green so long, so vividly and so lovingly, as that of Rufus Choate. Many of his characteristic utterances have become proverbial, and the flashes of his wit, the play of his fancy, and the gorgeous pictures of his imagination are the constant themes of reminiscence, wherever American lawyers assemble for social converse. How it was that such an exotic nature, so ardent and tropical in all its manifestations, so truly southern and Italian in its impulses, and at the same time so robust and sturdy in its strength, could have been produced upon the bleak and barren soil of our northern cape, and nurtured under the chilling blasts of its east winds, is a mystery insoluble. Truly, "this is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes." In one of his speeches in the Senate, he draws the distinction between "the cool and slow New England men, and the mercurial children of the sun, who sat down side by side in the presence of Washington, to form our more perfect union." If ever there was a merciful child of the sun, it was himself, most happily described. I am one of those who believe that the stuff that a man is made of has more to do with his career than any education or environment. The greatness that is achieved, or is thrust upon some men, dwindles before that of him who is born great. His horoscope was propitious. The stars in their courses fought for him. The birthmark of genius, distinct and ineffaceable, was on his brow. He came of a long line of pious and devout ancestors, whose living was as plain as their thinking was high. It was from father and mother that he derived the flame of intellect, the glow of spirit, and the beauty of temperament that were so unique. His splendid and blazing intellect, fed and enriched by constant study of the best thoughts of the great minds of the race, his all-persuasive eloquence, his teeming and radiant imagination, whirling his hearers along with it, and sometimes overpowering himself, his brilliant and sportive fancy, lighting up the most arid subjects with the glow of sunrise, his prodigious and never-failing memory, and his playful wit, always bursting forth with irresistible impulse, have been the subject of scores of essays and criticisms, all struggling with the vain effort to describe and crystallize the fascinating and magical charm of his speech and his influence. But the occasion and the place remind me that here today we have chiefly to do with him as a lawyer and an advocate, and all that I shall presume very briefly to suggest is what this statue will mean to the coming generations of lawyers and citizens. And first, and far above his splendid talents and his triumphant eloquence, I would place the character of the man-pure, honest, delivered absolutely from all the temptations of sordid and mercenary things, aspiring daily to what was higher and better, loathing all that was vulgar and of low repute, simple as a child, and tender and sympathetic as a woman. Emerson most truly says that character is far above intellect, and this man's character surpassed even his exalted intellect, and, controlling all his great endowments, made the consummate beauty of his life. I know of no greater tribute ever paid to a successful lawyer than that which he received from Chief Justice Shaw-himself an august and serene personality, absolutely familiar with his daily walk and conversation-in his account of the effort that was made to induce Mr. Choate to give up his active and exhausting practise, and to take the place of professor in the Harvard Law School, made vacant by the death of Mr. Justice Story-an effort of which the Chief Justice, as a member of the corporation of Harvard, was the principal promoter. After referring to him then, in 1847, as "the leader of the Bar in every department of forensic eloquence," and dwelling upon the great advantages which would accrue to the school from the profound legal learning which he possest, he said: "In the case of Mr. Choate, it was considered quite indispensable that he should reside in Cambridge, on account of the influence which his genial manners, his habitual presence, and the force of his character, would be likely to exert over the young men, drawn from every part of the United States to listen to his instructions." What richer tribute could there be to personal and professional worth than such words from such lips? He was the fit man to mold the characters of the youth, not of the city or the State only, but of the whole nation. So let the statue stand as notice to all who seek to enter here, that the first requisite of true renown in our noble profession-renown not for a day or a life only, but for generations-is Character. MEMORIAL DAY BY JOHN D. LONG. I gratefully acknowledge your courtesy, veterans and members of the Suffolk posts of the Grand Army, in inviting me, a civilian, to speak for you this day. I should shrink from the task, however, did I not know that, in this, your purpose is to honor again the commonwealth, of which I am the official representative. By recent enactment she has made the day you celebrate one of her holy days—a day sacred to the memory of her patriot dead and to the inspiration of patriotism in her living. Henceforward, she emblazons it upon the calendar of the year with the consecrated days that have come down from the Pilgrim and the Puritan, with Christmas day and with the birthdays of Washington and American independence. Memorial day will hereafter gather around it not only the love and tears and pride of the generations of the people, but more and more, in its inner circle of tenderness, the linking memories of every comrade, so long as one survives. As the dawn ushers it in, tinged already with the exquisite flush of hastening June, and sweet with the bursting fragrance of her roses, the wheels of time will each year roll back, and lo! John Andrew is at the State house, inspiring Massachusetts with the throbbing of his own great heart; Abraham Lincoln, wise and patient, and honest and tender and true, is at the nation's helm; the North is one broad blaze; the boys in blue are marching to the front; the fife and drum are on every breeze; the very air is patriotism; Phil Sheridan, forty miles away, dashes back to turn defeat to victory; Farragut, lasht to the mast-head, is steaming into Mobile Harbor; Hooker is above the clouds; Sherman marches through Georgia to the sea; Grant has throttled Lee with the grip that never lets go; Richmond falls; the armies of the Republic pass in that last great review at Washington; Custer's plume is there, but Kearney's saddle is empty; and, now again, our veterans come marching home to receive the welcome of a grateful people, and to stack at Doric Hall the tattered flag which Massachusetts forever hence shall wear above her heart. In memory of the dead, in honor of the living, for inspiration to our children, we gather to-day to deck the graves of our patriots with flowers, to pledge commonwealth and town and citizens to fresh recognition of the surviving soldier, and to picture yet again the romance, the reality, the glory, the sacrifice of his service. As if it were but yesterday, you recall him. He had but turned twenty. The exquisite tint of youthful health was in his cheek. His pure heart shone from frank, outspeaking eyes. His fair hair clustered from beneath his cap. He had pulled a stout oar in the college race, or walked the most graceful athlete on the village green. He had just entered on the vocation of his life. The doorway of his home at this season of the year was brilliant in the dewy morn with the clambering vine and fragrant flower, as in and out he went, the beloved of mother and sisters, and the ideal of a New England youth: "In face and shoulders like a god he was; For o'er him had the goddess breathed the charm And when the drum beat, when the first martyr's blood sprinkled the stones of Baltimore, he took his place in the ranks and went forward. You remember his ingenious and glowing letters to his mother, written as if his pen were dipt in his very heart. How novel seemed to him the routine of service, the life of camp and march! How eager the wish to meet the enemy and strike his first blow for the good cause! What pride at the promotion that came and put its chevron on his arm or its strap upon his shoulders! They took him prisoner. He wasted in Libby and grew |