In his face
and form and voice there was abundant heraldry of rugged power
and ox-like vitality. I have seen a bronze head of Daniel Webster
which, with a full blonde beard and an ample covering of grey hair
would have given one a fairly perfect idea of the look of John
Trumbull. Imagine it on a tall, and powerful body and let it speak
with a voice that has in it the deep and musical vibration one may
hear in the looing of an ox and you shall see, as perfectly as my
feeble words can help you to do, this remarkable man who, must,
hereafter, play before you his part - compared to which mine is as
the prattle of a child - in this drama of God's truth.
'You have not heard,' said Mrs Fuller addressing me, 'how Mr
Trumbull saved Hope's life.'
'Saved Hope's life!' I exclaimed.
'Saved her life,' she repeated, 'there isn't a doubt of it. We never
sent word of it for fear it would give you all needless worry. It was
a day of last winter - fell crossing Broadway, a dangerous place'
he pulled her aside just in time - the horse's feet were raised above
her - she would have been crushed in a moment He lifted her in his
arms and carried her to the sidewalk not a bit the worse for it.
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