In the preface to these fifty speeches, Mr. Stevenson says he selected them "because they seem to cover much of what I wanted to say." Printed chronologically, they start with the July welcoming speech in Chicago, when he walked out on the applause because he was not a candidate, and end with the brief blend of humor and pathos that was his concession. It is, of course, impossible to read these speeches without hearing the voice, remembering the face on television, and tasting once again some of the partisanship of the campaign. Yet the voice was too high, the delivery too hesitant to add to the words themselves. In book form, the speeches make it even more clear that Adlai Stevenson's appeal lay almost entirely in what he had to say.

The speeches offer a classic contrast between politics and statesmanship. The very qualities that made them historically significant severly limited their vote-getting appeal. Stevenson did not talk down to the voters. If anything, he was too humble. The voters, unprepared to govern themselves, wanted a strong figure to whom they might entrust their futures in an hour of national crisis. His speeches showed him to be shy, modest, sensitive. His only charisma was that of the mind.

And he insisted on telling the voters the chill realities they did not want to hear,--that peace "could not drift down from the skies like soft snow." His speeches were courageous, honest, responsible. But they were political suicide.

The secret of their greatness, then, cannot be seen unless their electoral purpose is disregarded. Adlai Stevenson was speaking not for the mass of voters but for the history books. His speeches are cool analyses of the roots of our present problems and stern guide posts to their solutions.

They are most profound when they are least political. The early September speeches, like "On the Nature of Liberalism" (New York City) and "On Political Morality" (Los Angeles) were written before the real fighting began. They are more philosophy than politics. But as the campaign became more bitter, as he was pulled off his podium into the political snake pit, the quality slips. Only a few times in the last few weeks could he match his first efforts. Perhaps he came closest in the Mormon Tabernacle on October 14, where he said:

"We are marked men, we Americans at mid-century point. We have been tapped by fate. What a day to live in! What a flowering of the work and the faith of our fathers! Who is heaven's name would want America less strong, less responsible in the future?"

It is unfortunate that speeches like this do not win elections in America. But as examples of statesmanship, they have earned, "an imperishable page in the history of the Republic."