Thomas Bartlett. bar is no guaranty of success in a deliberative body. Perhaps he was not specially fitted to succeed there. But the reason why he failed, to start with, lies in this story. The 4th of July, 1851, was a gala day in St. Johnsbury. There was a big tent, and Bart lett was to be one of the speakers. " Was to be, " for nobody was. A crowd of Dart mouth College students came up from Han over, and, stationed with tin horns at the opposite end of the pavilion, drowned with their noisy rivalry every voice that tried to make itself heard, even the lion roar of Bartlett. The chagrined orator published an angry letter anent the scamps, and the scamps replied in a superior effort, holding up to ridicule the lawyer's well-known weak nesses and pompous mannerisms. When Bartlett took his seat in Congress he found himself already introduced to his fellow members by the irrespressible hoodlums, who had seen to it that a copy of their reply should be lying on every desk. His vulnerable point was exposed, and when, later in the session, he rose to speak, he laid him self open to a sharp thrust from Polk of Ten nessee. Warming as he went on, he began to soar, and finally declared in majestic tones, "Sir, were it not for the rules of the house, I would pour upon the opponents of this measure the phials of my wrath." Polk leaped to his feet, and intimating that fun was coming, moved " that the rules be sus pended, and the gentleman permitted to to pour To pour under such circum stances was impossible even for Bartlett, and he sat down discomfited. His chief failing was intemperance; and this reminds me of his best witticism, which had this failing for its subject. Like many other Democrats he became a Republican in the sixties. Being called out at a polit ical meeting to make his first speech from his changed standpoint, he was too tipsy to stand without help, but steadying himself he thus placated his audience : " Fellow citizens, I was born in Democracy, I was
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nursed in Democracy, reared in Democracy; I have lived in Democracy all my days, and some of its pernicious and damnable prac tices still cling to me — as you can see." Thereupon he launched into one of his fin est efforts. Nobody could tell a story better. He had a Lincoln-like aptness in illustration. Once he tried a damage case against a circus, which traveled under the name of Sears & Co., for so negligently putting up its seats that the plaintiff fell and was in jured. The defendants claimed that the circus belonged to a Mr. Faxon of Liver pool, and that he alone was responsible. "Gentlemen of the jury," said the advocate, "I have a dog, and a mean cur he is, too. He kills your sheep. You call on me for damages. I say, ' Oh, no. The cur wears my name on his collar. He comes when I whistle; he goes when I say ' ste-boy.' But that dog belongs to Mr. Faxon of Liver pool." No wonder he held the common people in his hand. He was one of them. When the news got out that Uncle Tom was to "plead a case," the court-house was soon filled. He was sometimes accused of turn ing his back on the jury-box to tickle the outer benches. The criticism was a shallow one. He never forgot the panel. But he knew better than to ignore the larger jury that sat by. He understood how contagious sympathy is, and running his eye along the rows of responsive faces outside the bar, he read the real feelings of the more guarded jurymen before him. There were years when to retain Bartlett in a jury case was considered tantamount to victory— that is, if he should prove to be himself when the day of the trial came, which was not always the case, for reasons before explained. I suspect the court-house is still a more dramatic place in the country than in the city. Every case is more or less of a play anywhere, but here the dramatis personce are better known. It was even more truly so in his day. There
