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Acquits Himself With Honors in Forensic Conflict.

Washington, May 7, 1868.

Never, even during the late days of storm and darkness, has the sun set upon such scenes as were enacted on the last day of argument before the High Court of Impeachment. No more can it be said that the age of oratory has fled, for John A. Bingham has shown that there is a man amongst us who possesses the rare power of electrifying the multitude: of making one vast sea of humanity throb with overwhelming emotion. I might as well attempt to “paint the sunbeams” as to give a description of his glowing words. From history he drew the parallel between James the Second and our recreant President. Mirabeau’s immortal answer to the king’s usher, “Go tell your master that bayonets have no power over the will of the people,” seemed as if uttered anew by the spirit of the great Frenchman. Never in the history of the world has any man been called to plead before such a bar, and for such a cause. No court has existed like it in the world’s annals, and no such criminal has been called to answer. Only the attributes of conceded genius sustained Mr. Bingham, and made him strong for the work assigned to him. He seemed to feel that this trial was not simply a means for the punishment of one daring offender, but that it was to prove the strength and stability of republican institutions for all time—to prove that the strongest are as imbecile before the majesty of the law as the beggar of the highway.

Upon the floor of the American Senate the majestic scenes of history are again repeated. One man stands out from the multitude, pleading the cause of myriads against the aggressive encroachment of a wicked ruler. Every inch of available space in the vast chamber contains a human being, and the silence of the grave prevails. Little by little, blow after blow, as the sculptor chisels the marble, the orator is building a monument—one which is to stand through the centuries, long, long after lithe, supple John A. Bingham is only a handful of dust. No link is missing in the chain; no dead sentiment clings to his ideas; his perfect sentences are steeped at once in logic and poetry. It is the handwriting on the wall in letters of living fire. The orator closes. A momentary silence like that which precedes the hurricane’s crash, and there arises from floor to ceiling such confusion which even the vigorous blows of the Chief Justice’s gavel are inadequate to suppress. It was like the voice of the gallant sea captain commanding the elements to be still. Then Senator Grimes comes to the rescue, and moves that the galleries be cleared. Senator Cameron hopes that the galleries will not be cleared, and that allowance will be made for the extraordinary occasion. Mr. Fessenden and Mr. Reverdy Johnson call Mr. Cameron to order, whilst Mr. Trumbull moves that not only the galleries be cleared, but that all disorderly persons be arrested. At the same time the British minister and others in the diplomatic inclosure are seen apparently contesting their rights with the doorkeepers, whilst a flutter appears in the reporter’s gallery similar to that noticed in a flock of blackbirds when a handful of shot has been remorselessly distributed amongst them. From his throne, which was only a plain, cane-seated chair, Manager Bingham surveys the tumult. He who has sown the whirlwind smilingly surveys the storm. He is weary and exhausted, and his cheek has the pallor of the grave, but he feels that the applause was for him. The uproar continues. At last the inexorable fiat is understood. The galleries must be cleared upon the instant. So a surging tide of humanity pours out of every open door. Little knots of people are scattered here and there the whole length of the long corridors, all talking about the one absorbing theme. Grand tableaux of excited men are grouped in the rotunda, even the stairs have caught stray whisps of surplus, standing humanity, all madly intoxicated with the enthusiasm of the hour. The world never seems weary of Boswell’s talk about Dr. Johnson; and with the same desire to please, let it be told that Mr. Bingham was asked how he felt after the proudest triumph of his life. Using his own words: “I don’t know how I feel; I only know I have spoken enough to make thirty columns in the Congressional Globe. God knows I have tried to do my duty; it is in the hands of the Senate now. The great work of my life is done.”

Day after day we see our neighbor, John A. Bingham, an unpretending man of simple tastes, and whose mind is a storehouse of classic culture. About the average height of his fellow-men, he is far more slender and graceful, and though not handsome according to the prescribed rules of beauty, yet like the High Court of Impeachment, which is a law unto itself, he looks like John A. Bingham, and there is nothing better by which he can be compared, estimated, or measured.

Olivia.