Judged by his success in holding men of different convictions, Henry Clay (1777–1852), the "silver-tongued orator" of Virginia and Kentucky, "the great compromiser" as he was called, seems to have been the most persuasive of our public speakers. Apparently his power was based upon a wonderful personality, for the speeches that once stirred thousands to enthusiasm have now little influence over us. They seem like pressed flowers, out of which life has departed. That Clay was eloquent we must admit, on the testimony of those who heard; but that his work is no permanent part of our literature will be evident to any candid reader who attempts even a single volume of his speeches.

John C. Calhoun (1782–1850) of South Carolina, "the philosopher of statesmen," was the most logical and acute thinker of this remarkable group. His eloquence, unadorned and severe as a Greek statue, was a part of his wonderful character. He was the kind of speaker who needed no rhetorical ornament; the fundamental sincerity of his life gave force to every word he uttered. Though a radical, carrying the doctrine of state rights to extremes, there is in his argument, as in that of Jonathan Edwards, a logical power from which there seems to be no escape. Start with him on the Constitution and its early history, and you are drawn on, bound as a captive, to his conclusion. You resist, nevertheless; you feel, as one must feel with Edwards, that the premises are wrong or the logic perverted, since the conclusion violates the history and spirit of the American nation. His speeches read better than those of Clay; but the modern reader, missing both the personality of the orator and the pressure of the great problem which he tried to solve by logic, soon wearies of them. Of more permanent value are two works classed with the literature of knowledge, his Disquisition on Government  and his Discourse on the Constitution and Government of the United States . These are two remarkable essays on the Jeffersonian doctrine of the rights of the minority.

Edward Everett of Massachusetts (1794–1865), "the scholar in politics," was the most polished and scholarly speaker of his day, and probably the best public lecturer that America has produced. Though he gave a large part of his life to his country, we are less interested in his political career than in his lectures on Greek and German culture, which had a deep and lasting influence on the intellectual life of our country. From the four large volumes of his works we select, as the most suggestive oration, that on "American Literature" (1824). If we read this in connection with Channing's fine essay on "National Literature," we shall have an excellent idea of the aims and ideals which inspired American writers in the early part of the nineteenth century.

Other famous orations of Everett are "Washington," "Early Days of Franklin," and the "Gettysburg Oration." Though this last is polished and ornate enough to deserve all the flattering adjectives which critics have applied, it suffers grievously in comparison with the speech of Lincoln, plain, simple, heroically sincere, which was delivered on the same occasion.

Daniel Webster of New Hampshire and Massachusetts (1782–1852), "the godlike Daniel, the orator of the nation," as his contemporaries called him, is by many critics considered the foremost American orator, and the peer of Burke, Cicero and Demosthenes. The latter comparison, which springs from our pride in Webster's power and from our gratitude for his patriotic service, should be received with caution. Like all heroes, whether of camp or forum, Webster is bound to loom large so long as he is near. His relative rank can be more accurately judged when he shall be viewed, with Burke and Cicero, in the long perspective of the centuries. Meanwhile, we note that a part of his work seems to stand the hard test of time; that a few of his orations still impress the reader with something of their original force. If we could only add the personal element—the magnificent presence which startled Carlyle, the sonorous voice, the consciousness of his own dignity and importance—then the effect of these speeches would be overwhelming, and we might join with his contemporaries in giving Webster a place among the world's four greatest orators.

Looking through the six large volumes of Webster's speeches, we divide them—with some hesitation, for many critics disagree with us—into two parts. Here on the one side is the great bulk of his political and legal speeches. Though many claim for them a place in American prose because of their diction and imagery, we confess that we have found it hard to become interested in them,—perhaps because the high-flown and somewhat artificial style, which was then considered essential to an orator, does not please our changed modern taste. There is everywhere a suggestion of power, of a commanding personality, in these speeches, which mark the climax of forensic oratory in America; but they should probably be classed not as literature but rather as examples of a certain kind of rhetoric, "an extremely elaborate rhetoric based partly on the parliamentary traditions of eighteenth-century England, and partly, like those traditions themselves, on the classical oratory of Rome and Greece." A Literary History of America , p. 253.") ?>

To the second class belong Webster's occasional speeches: the "Plymouth Oration" (1820) delivered at the two-hundredth anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims; the first "Bunker Hill Address" (1825), at the laying of the corner stone of the battle monument; "Adams and Jefferson" (1826), in memory of the two old statesmen who died on July 4; and the "Reply to Hayne" (1830). The first three are historical addresses, inspired by a great love and veneration for American patriots; the fourth, though a political address, rises at times far above the turmoil of party politics in which Webster was engaged. It first defends Massachusetts with noble sincerity, and then pleads for a united country in words which will be remembered as long as the nation endures:

"When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as 'What is all this worth?' nor those other words of delusion and folly, 'Liberty first and Union afterwards,' but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart,—'Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable.' "

Here is rhetoric certainly; but here also is an emotional appeal which stirs all hearts in patriotic devotion to a common country. It is idle to prophesy, but something in these four orations tells us that future readers will honor them, and that a part of Webster's work has won a secure place in American literature.