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.”