When he came into the Senate, it was after long and various experience as lawyer, judge, representative in the other House, member of the Cabinet, and then again as judge, in all which characters he had been single, pure, honest, faithful, and laborious. Though little of a traveller, he had seen much. He had also read much, and he had done much. But all the results of observation, study, and action had so passed into his nature as to become part of himself. If he expressed an opinion, even on law, it seemed to come from himself, and not from books. He was the authority. And yet he was fond of books, whether in his own profession or in other departments of study. His fidelity assumed the form of accuracy in all that he said or did. He spoke accurately, and he was especially accurate with his pen. Perhaps nobody was apter in the style or language of legislation. He was an expert draughtsman, although, without doubt, too professional for a taste not exclusively professional,--indulging in traditional phrases, and those favorite superfluities of the lawyer, “said” and “aforesaid.” The great Act of July 13, 1861,[9] which gave to the war for the suppression of the Rebellion its first Congressional sanction, and invested the President with new powers, was drawn by him. It was he that set in place the great ban, not yet lifted, by which the Rebel States were shut out from the communion of the Union. This is a landmark in our history, and it might properly be known by the name of its author, as “Collamer’s statute.” All who ever sat with him in the committee-room will long remember the carefulness with which he gave his counsels, and the completeness with which he explained them. Perhaps his wisdom and facility in business were nowhere more manifest. I seize this occasion to confess most gratefully my own personal obligations to him in this interesting relation. The same character which appeared in the committee-room showed itself in conversation, enlivened by constant humor. He, too, had his “little story” for illustration; but in this respect he differed from the late President as one of his own Vermont mountains differs from an outstretched laughing prairie of the West. In manner he was Socratic. The curious observer, fond of tracing resemblances, might fancy that in the form of his head, and even of his person, he was not unlike the received image of Socrates, while his colloquial powers might again recall Socrates, as pictured by the affectionate Xenophon, “handling all who conversed with him just as he pleased.” He had also the same antique simplicity, and I doubt not he would have followed the wise man of Athens barefoot in the waters of the Ilissus. I would not push the resemblance too far, and I use it only for illustration, not for parallel; and yet, as I bring to mind our departed friend, he seems to assume this classical figure. Call him, then, if you please, the Green Mountain Socrates.