To-day, at the usual hour, the Convention was opened by a persona whose name I know not.
The point which claimed the attention of the day, respected the number of Representatives.1
The argument was brought on by Richard Harrison, who spoke with modest diffidence, commanding respect and deserved attention:— he was on the floor about twenty-five minutes. He was followed by John Lansing, who was miserably wretched and deformed in every public feature. After him arose the Chancellor, who spoke charmingly indeed. He let his fancy rove unchecked, and such bold and figurative language I before had never heard. The house was prefect silence—the eyes and mouths of every man were fixed and open—and his eloquence, like a river which had been abridged for a time, burst forth irresistibly. When he first rose his eyes bespoke passion, his countenance indicated an injury received, and it required no great sagacity to pronounce him a speaker in quest of revenge. "The day before my arrival, it seems that Mr. Melancton Smith had taken some very improper liberties with the Chancellor;—such as pointing at his means, which were devoted to luxury; his apathy towards the poor; his extensive property; his great ambition:—subjects introduced to win the popular affections, and to create the most violent popular prejudices. In speaking of poverty and riches, the Chancellor was fancifully eloquent, and feelingly descriptive; in remarking on his property, he was delicately pleasing; but in speaking of his ambition, the greatness of his mind and the virtues of his soul shone brilliantly splendid, and even his enemies, who would feign be blind to his talents, could not but view his virtues with envy and admiration. Mr. Smith had hinted that the Chancellor wished an aristocratic form of government.