CHAPTER XXVII.
ADAMS AND JEFFERSON
July 4, 1826, was a memorable day. It was the fiftieth anniversary of American Independence, and for that reason, if no other, it was likely to be a day of note. But, by a singular coincidence, two eminent Americans, fathers of the republic, both of whom had filled the Presidency, yielded up their lives.
When John Adams was dying at Quincy, in Massachusetts, he spoke of his great countryman, Thomas Jefferson, who he naturally supposed was to survive him. But the same day, and that the natal day of the republic, brought the illustrious career of each to a close. Not untimely, for John Adams had passed the age of ninety, and Jefferson was but a few years younger.
Those were not the days of telegraphs nor of railroads, and the news had to be conveyed by stage-coaches, so that it was perhaps a month before the country through its large extent knew of the double loss which it had sustained. It was certainly by a most remarkable coincidence that these two great leaders, representing the two political parties which divided the country, but one in their devotion to the common welfare, passed from earthly scenes on the same anniversary. It was no wonder that they were the subjects of public addresses and sermons throughout the United States.
Of all those addresses but one is remembered to-day. It was the oration delivered by Daniel Webster on the 2d of August, 1826. This too was an anniversary, the anniversary of the day when the Declaration of Independence had been engrossed by the Revolutionary Congress.
As the circumstances attending the delivery of this oration will be new to my young readers, I quote from Mr. Ticknor’s description, as I find it in Mr. Curtis’s Life of Mr. Webster. After detailing an interview, in which Mr. Webster read him in advance some portions of the oration, he proceeds:
“The next day, the 2d of August, the weather was fine, and the concourse to hear him immense. It was the first time that Faneuil Hall had been draped in mourning. The scene was very solemn, though the light of day was not excluded. Settees had been placed over the whole area of the hall; the large platform was occupied by many of the most distinguished men in New England, and, as it was intended that everything should be conducted with as much quietness as possible, the doors were closed when the procession had entered, and every part of the hall and galleries was filled. This was a mistake in the arrangements; the crowd on the outside, thinking that some space must still be left within, became very uneasy, and finally grew so tumultuous and noisy that the solemnities were interrupted. The police in vain attempted to restore order. It seemed as if confusion would prevail. Mr. Webster perceived that there was but one thing to be done. He advanced to the front of the stage, and said in a voice easily heard above the noise of tumult without and of alarm within, ‘Let those doors be opened.’
“The power and authority of his manner were irresistible; the doors were opened, though with difficulty, from the pressure of the crowd on the outside; but after the first rush everything was quiet, and the order during the rest of the performance was perfect.
“Mr. Webster spoke in an orator’s gown and wore small-clothes. He was in the perfection of his manly beauty and strength, his form filled out to its finest proportions, and his bearing, as he stood before the vast multitude, that of absolute dignity and power. His manuscript lay on a small table near him, but I think he did not once refer to it. His manner of speaking was deliberate and commanding. When he came to the passage on eloquence, and to the words, ‘It is action, noble, sublime, godlike action,’ he stamped his foot repeatedly on the stage, his form seemed to dilate, and he stood, as that whole audience saw and felt, the personification of what he so perfectly described. I never saw him when his manner was so grand and appropriate.
“The two speeches attributed to Mr. Adams and his opponent attracted great attention from the first. Soon they were put into school-books, as specimens of English, and of eloquence. In time men began to believe they were genuine speeches, made by genuine men who were in the Congress of ’76; and at last Mr. Webster received letters asking whether such was the fact or not. In January, 1846, he sent me from Washington a letter he had just received, dated at Auburn, begging him to solve the doubt. With it he sent me his answer, which is published in his works, saying: ‘The accompanying letter and copy of answer respect a question which has been often asked me. I place them in your hands, to serve if similar inquiries should be made of you.’ Two months after, in March of the same year, he sent me a letter from Bangor, in Maine, asking the same question, beginning the note which accompanied it with these words: ‘Here comes another; I cannot possibly answer all of them, one after another.’ Indeed he continued to receive such letters until the edition of his works was published in 1851, though the matter was repeatedly discussed and explained in the newspapers. The fact is, that the speech he wrote for John Adams has such an air of truth and reality about it, that only a genius like Mr. Webster, perfectly familiar with whatever relates to the Revolution, and indeed with its spirit, could have written it.”
There is hardly a schoolboy who reads this book who has not declaimed his famous speech, beginning, ‘Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote.’ It is hard to believe that this noble and impressive speech, so true to the sturdy character of Mr. Adams, and so appropriate to the occasion, was written by Mr. Webster one morning, before breakfast, in his library. It is also surprising that the orator was not certain whether it really had merit or not, and read it to Mr. Ticknor for his opinion.
Though parts of this speech are familiar, I shall nevertheless conclude my chapter with the exordium, since it will be read with fresh interest in this connection.
“This is an unaccustomed spectacle. For the first time, fellow citizens, badges of mourning shroud the columns and overhang the arches of this hall. These walls, which were consecrated so long ago to the cause of American liberty, which witnessed her infant struggles, and rang with the shouts of her earliest victories, proclaim now that distinguished friends and champions of that great cause have fallen. It is right that it should be thus. The tears which flow and the honors which are paid when the founders of the republic die give hope that the republic itself may be immortal. It is fit that by public assembly and solemn observance, by anthem and by eulogy, we commemorate the services of national benefactors, extol their virtues, and render thanks to God for eminent blessings, early given and long continued, to our favored country.
“Adams and Jefferson are no more, and we are assembled, fellow citizens, the aged, the middle-aged, and the young, by the spontaneous impulse of all, under the authority of the municipal government, with the presence of the chief magistrate of the commonwealth and others, its official representatives, the university, and the learned societies, to bear our part in the manifestations of respect and gratitude which universally pervade the land. Adams and Jefferson are no more. On our fiftieth anniversary, the great day of national jubilee, in the very hour of public rejoicing, in the midst of echoing and re-echoing voices of thanksgiving, while their own names were on all tongues, they took their flight together to the world of spirits.
“If it be true that no one can safely be pronounced happy while he lives, if that event which terminates life can alone crown its honor and its glory, what felicity is here! The great epic of their lives how happily concluded! Poetry itself has hardly closed illustrious lives and finished the career of earthly renown by such a consummation. If we had the power, we could not wish to reverse this dispensation of Divine Providence. The great objects of life were accomplished, the drama was ready to be closed. It has closed; our patriots have fallen; but so fallen, at such age, with such coincidence, on such a day, that we cannot rationally lament that that end has come, which we know could not long be deferred.
“Neither of these great men, fellow citizens, could have died at any time without leaving an immense void in our American society. They have been so intimately, and for so long a time, blended with the history of the country, and especially so united in our thoughts and recollections with the events of the Revolution, that the death of either would have touched the strings of public sympathy. We should have felt that one great link connecting us with former times was broken; that we had lost something more, as it were, of the presence of the Revolution itself and of the Act of Independence, and were driven on by another great remove from the days of our country’s early distinction, to meet posterity and to mix with the future. Like the mariner, whom the ocean and the winds carry along, till he sees the stars which have directed his course and lighted his pathless way descend one by one beneath the rising horizon, we should have felt that the stream of time had borne us onward till another great luminary, whose light had cheered us and whose guidance we had followed, had sunk from our sight.
“But the concurrence of their death on the anniversary of independence has naturally awakened stronger emotions. Both had been presidents, both were early patriots, and both were distinguished and ever honored by their immediate agency in the act of independence. It cannot but seem striking and extraordinary that these two should live to see the fiftieth year from the date of that act; that they should complete that year; and that then, on the day which had just linked forever their own fame with their country’s glory, the heavens should open to receive them both at once. As their lives themselves were the gifts of Providence, who is not willing to recognize in their happy termination, as well as in their long continuance, proofs that our country and its benefactors are objects of His care?”
Towards the close of the oration we find a striking passage familiar to many, and justly admired, touching the duties which devolve upon the favored citizens of the United States.
“This lovely land, this glorious liberty, these benign institutions, the dear purchase of our fathers, are ours; ours to enjoy, ours to preserve, ours to transmit. Generations past and generations to come hold us responsible for this sacred trust. Our fathers from behind admonish us with their anxious paternal voices; posterity calls out to us from the bosom of the future; the world turns hither its solicitous eyes; all, all conjure us to act wisely and faithfully in the relation which we sustain.
“We can never, indeed, pay the debt which is upon us; but, by virtue, by morality, by religion, by the cultivation of every good principle and every good habit, we may hope to enjoy the blessing through our day, and to leave it unimpaired to our children. Let us feel deeply how much of what we are, and of what we possess, we owe to this liberty, and to these institutions of government. Nature has indeed given us a soil which yields bounteously to the hands of industry, the mighty and fruitful ocean is before us, and the skies over our heads shed health and vigor. But what are lands, and skies, and seas to civilized man, without society, without knowledge, without morals, without religious culture? and how can these be enjoyed, in all their extent and all their excellence, but under the protection of wise institutions and a free government? Fellow citizens, there is not one of us, there is not one of us here present, who does not at this moment, and every moment, experience in his own condition, and in the condition of those most near and dear to him, the influence and the benefits of this liberty and these institutions. Let us then acknowledge the blessing, let us feel it deeply and powerfully, let us cherish a strong affection for it, and resolve to maintain and perpetuate it. The blood of our fathers, let it not have been shed in vain; the great hope of posterity, let it not be blasted!”
It has been said with truth that no funeral oration has ever been pronounced, in any age, and in any language, which exceeds this in eloquence and simple grandeur. Happy the country that possesses two citizens of whom such praises can be uttered, and happy the nation that can find an orator of such transcendent genius to pronounce their eulogies!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOME LIFE AND DOMESTIC SORROWS
In speaking of Mr. Webster as an orator I have for some time neglected to speak of him in his domestic relations. He was blessed with a happy home. The wife he had chosen was fitted by intellect and culture to sympathize with him in his important work. Moreover, she had those sweet domestic qualities which are required to make home happy. Children had been born to them, and these were an important factor in the happiness of Mr. Webster’s home. He had a warm love for children, and was always an affectionate and indulgent parent, seldom chiding, but rebuking in love when occasion required.
In January, 1817, came the first bereavement. His daughter, Grace, always precocious and delicate, developed lung trouble and wasted away. She seems to have been a remarkably bright and attractive child. Her heart was easily touched by sorrow or destitution, and she would never consent that applicants for relief should be sent from the door unsatisfied. “She would bring them herself into the house, see that their wants were supplied, comfort them with the ministration of her own little hands and the tender compassion of her large eyes. If her mother ever refused, those eyes would fill with tears, and she would urge their requests so perseveringly that there was no resisting her.”
The death of this sweet child touched Mr. Webster nearly, and it was with a saddened heart that he returned to Washington to devote himself to his duties in the Supreme Court.
On the 18th of December, 1824, death once more appeared in the little household, this time removing the youngest boy, Charles, then nearing his second birthday. This child, young as he was, is said to have borne a closer resemblance to his father than any of his other children. Both parents were devoted to him. Mrs. Webster writes to her husband just after the little boy’s death: “It was an inexpressible consolation to me, when I contemplated him in his sickness, that he had not one regret for the past, nor one dread for the future; he was as patient as a lamb during all his sufferings, and they were at last so great I was happy when they were ended. I shall always reflect on his brief life with mournful pleasure, and, I hope, remember with gratitude all the joy he gave me, and it has been great. And, oh, how fondly did I flatter myself it would be lasting!
“’It was but yesterday, my child, thy little heart beat high;
And I had scorned the warning voice that told me thou must die.’”
When Mr. Webster received the intelligence of his loss, he, for the first time in years, indulged in his early fondness for verse, and wrote a few stanzas which have been preserved, though they were intended to be seen only by those near and dear to him. The prevailing thought is a striking one. Here are the verses:
“The staff on which my years should lean
Is broken ere those years come’ o’er me;
My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen,
But thou art in the tomb before me.
“Thou rear’st to me no filial stone,
No parent’s grave with tears beholdest;
Thou art my ancestor—my son!
And stand’st in Heaven’s account the oldest.
“On earth my lot was soonest cast,
Thy generation after mine;
Thou hast thy predecessor passed,
Earlier eternity is thine.
“I should have set before thine eyes
The road to Heaven, and showed it clear;
But thou, untaught, spring’st to the skies,
And leav’st thy teacher lingering here.
“Sweet seraph, I would learn of thee,
And hasten to partake thy bliss!
And, oh! to thy world welcome me,
As first I welcomed thee to this.”
But a still heavier bereavement was in store, though it was delayed for some years. In the summer of 1827 the health of Mrs. Webster began to fail, and from that time she steadily declined until on the 21st of January, in the following year she died. Of Mr. Webster’s bearing at the funeral, Mr. Ticknor writes: “Mr. Webster came to Mr. George Blake’s in Summer Street, where we saw him both before and after the funeral. He seemed completely broken-hearted. At the funeral, when, with Mr. Paige, I was making some arrangements for the ceremonies, we noticed that Mr. Webster was wearing shoes that were not fit for the wet walking of the day, and I went to him and asked him if he would not ride in one of the carriages. ‘No,’ he said, ‘my children and I must follow their mother to the grave on foot. I could swim to Charlestown.’ A few minutes afterwards he took Nelson and Daniel in either hand, and walked close to the hearse through the streets to the church in whose crypt the interment took place. It was a touching and solemn sight. He was excessively pale.”
It is a striking commentary upon the emptiness of human honors where the heart is concerned that this great affliction came very soon after Mr. Webster’s election to the United State Senate, where he achieved his highest fame and gathered his choicest laurels. We can well imagine that he carried a sad heart to the halls of legislation, and realized how poorly the world’s honors compensate the heart for the wounds of bereavement. But Daniel Webster was not a man to suffer sorrow to get the mastery of him. He labored the harder in the service of his country, and found in the discharge of duty his best consolation. If I had room I would like to quote the tribute of Judge Storey to the character of Mr. Webster. I confine myself to one sentence: “Few persons have been more deservedly or more universally beloved; few have possessed qualities more attractive, more valuable or more elevating.”
A little over a year later there was a fresh sorrow. Ezekiel Webster, the older brother, between whom and Daniel such warm and affectionate relations had always existed, died suddenly under striking circumstances. He was addressing a jury in the court-house at Concord, N. H., speaking with full force, when, without a moment’s warning, “he fell backward, without bending a joint, and, so far as appeared, was dead before his head reached the floor.”
He was a man of large ability, though necessarily overshadowed by the colossal genius of his younger brother. It would be too much to expect two Daniel Websters in one family. His death had a depressing effect upon Daniel, for the two had been one in sympathy, and each had rejoiced in the success of the other. Together they had struggled up from poverty, achieved an education and professional distinction, and though laboring in different spheres, for Ezekiel kept aloof from politics, they continued to exchange views upon all subjects that interested either. It is not surprising, in view of his desolate household, and the loss of his favorite brother, that Daniel should write: “I confess the world, at present, has an aspect for me anything but cheerful. With a multitude of acquaintances I have few friends; my nearest intimacies are broken, and a sad void is made in the objects of affection.” Yet he was constrained to acknowledge that his life, on the whole, had been “fortunate and happy beyond the common lot, and it would be now ungrateful, as well as unavailing, to repine at calamities, of which, as they are human, I must expect to partake.”
I have taken pains to speak of Mr. Webster’s home affections, because many, but only those who did not know him, have looked upon him as coldly intellectual, with a grand genius, but deficient in human emotions, when, as a fact, his heart was unusually warm and overflowing with tender sympathy.