and his heart was glad when his cattle lifted up their largeeyed, contemplative faces, and recognised their lord by a look.

His mental powers were commended by a remarkable personal appearance. He was probably the grandest-looking man of his time. Wherever he went, men turned to gaze at him; and he could not enter a room without having every eye fastened upon him. His face was very striking, both in form and color. His brow was to common brows what the great dome of St. Peter's is to the small cupolas at its side. The eyebrow, the eye, and the dark and deep socket in which it glowed, were full of power; but the great expression of his face lay in the mouth. This was the most speaking and flexible of features, moulded by every mood of feeling, from iron severity to the most captivating sweetness. His countenance changed from sternness to softness with magical rapidity. His smile was beaming, warming, fascinating, lighting up his whole face like a sudden sunrise. His voice was rich, deep and strong; filling the largest space without effort, capable of most startling and impressive tones, and, when under excitement, rising and swelling into a volume of sound like the roar of a tempest. His action was simple and dignified-and in his animated moods highly expressive. Those of us who recall his presence as he stood up here to speak, in the pride and strength of his manhood, have formed from his words, looks, tones and actions, an ideal standard of phy sical and intellectual power, which we never expect to see approached, but by which we unconsciously try the greatness of which we read, as well as that which we meet.

He was a man more known and admired than understood. His great qualities were conspicuous from afar; but that part of his nature, which he shared with other men, was apprehended by comparatively few. His manners did not always do him justice. For many years of his life, great burdens rested upon him, and at times his cares and thoughts settled down darkly upon his spirit, and he was then a man of an awful presence. He required to be loved, before he could be known. He, indeed, grappled his friends to him with hooks of steel, but he did not always conciliate those who were not his friends. He had a lofty spirit, which

could not stoop or dissemble. He could neither affect what he did not feel, nor desire to conceal what he did. His wishes clung with tenacious hold to every thing they grasped -and from those who stood, or seemed to stand, in his way, his countenance was averted. Some, who were not unwilling to become his friends, were changed by his manners into foes. He was social in his nature, but not facile. He was seen to the best advantage among a few old and tried friends, especially in his old home. Then his spirits rose, his countenance expanded, and he looked and moved like a schoolboy on a holiday. Conscious that no unfriendly ear was listening to him, his conversation became easy, playful and natural. His memory was richly stored with characteristic anecdotes, and with amusing reminiscences of his own early life and of the men who were conspicuous when he was young, all of which he narrated with an admirable mixture of dignity and grace. Those who saw him in these hours of social ease, with his armor off, and the current of his thoughts turning, gently and gracefully, to chance topics and familiar themes, could hardly believe that he was the same man who was so reserved and austere in public.

There

But, it may be asked, had this great man no faults? Surely he had. No man liveth and sinneth not. were veins of human imperfection running through his large heart and large brain. But neither men, nor the works of men, should be judged by their defects. Like all eminent persons, he fell upon evil tongues; but those who best knew his private life most honored, venerated, and loved him.

He was a man of strong religious feeling. For theological speculations he had little taste, but he had reflected deeply on the relations between God and the human soul, and his heart was penetrated with a devotional spirit. He had been, from his youth upward, a diligent student of the Scriptures, and few men, whether clergymen or laymen, were more familiar with their teachings and their language. He had a great reverence for the very words of the Bible, and never used them in any light or trivial connection. He never avoided the subjects of life, death and immortality, and when he spoke of them, it was with unusual

Within

depth of feeling and impressiveness of manner. the last few months of his life, his thoughts and speech were often turned upon such themes. He felt that he was an old man, and that it became him to set his house in order. On the eighteenth day of January last, he had completed the threescore and ten years which are man's allotted portion, and yet his eye was not dim, nor his natural force much abated. But he grew weaker with the approach of summer, and his looks and voice, when he last addressed us from this place, a few months ago, forced upon us the mournful reflection that this great light must soon sink below the horizon. But yet, when the news came that the hand of death was upon him, it startled us like a sudden blow, for he was become so important to us, that we could not look steadily at the thought of losing him. You remember what a sorrow it was that settled down upon our city. The common business of life dragged heavily with us in those days. There was but one expression on the faces of men, and but one question on their lips. We listened to the tidings which came up, hour after hour, from his distant chamber, as men upon the shore, in a night of storm, listen to the minute-guns of a sinking ship freighted with the treasures of their hearts. The grief of the people was eager for the minutest details of his closing hours, and he died with his country around his bed. Of the beauty and grandeur of that death I need not speak to you, for it is fixed in your memories, and deep in your hearts. It fell upon the whole land like a voice from heaven. He died calmly, simply and bravely. He was neither weary of life, nor afraid of death. He died like a husband, a father, a friend, a Christian and a man; with thoughtful tenderness. for all around him, and a trembling faith in the mercy of God. He was not tried by long and hopeless suffering; nor were his friends saddened by seeing the lights put out before the curtain fell. His mind, like a setting sun, seemed larger at the closing hour. Such a death narrows the dark valley to a span. Such is a midsummer's day at the poles, where sunset melts into sunrise, and the last ray of evening is caught up, and appears once more as the first beams of the new morning.

I should not feel that my duty had been wholly dis

charged, did I not speak of the touching simplicity and solemnity of his funeral. In his will, made a few days before his death, he says: "I wish to be buried without the least show or ostentation, but in a manner respectful to my neighbors, whose kindness has contributed so much to the happiness of me and mine, and for whose prosperity I offer sincere prayers to God." His wishes were faithfully observed, and, in the arrangements for his funeral, there was no recognition of worldly distinction or official rank. He was buried simply as the head of a household, after the manner of New England. But the immense crowds which were there, drawn from all parts of the land by their own veneration and love, formed an element of impressiveness far above all civil pageantry or military honors. Who, that was there present, will ever forget the scene on which fell the light of that soft autumnal day? There was the landscape so stamped with his image and identified with his presence. There were the trees he had planted, the fields over which he had delighted to walk, and the ocean whose waves were music to his ear. There was the house with its hospitable door; but the stately form of its master did not stand there, with outstretched hand and smile of welcome. That smile had vanished forever from the earth, and the hand and form were silent, cold and motionless. The dignity of life had given place to the dignity of death. No narrow chamber held that illustrious dust; no coffin concealed that majestic frame. In the open air, clad as when alive, he lay extended in seeming sleep; with no touch of disfeature upon his brow; as noble an image of reposing strength as ever was scen upon earth. Around him was the landscape that he loved, and above him was nothing but the dome of the covering heavens. The sunshine fell upon the dead man's face, and the breeze blew over it. A lover of nature, he seemed to be gathered into her maternal arms, and to lie like a child upon a mother's lap. We felt, as we looked upon him, that death had never stricken down, at one blow, a greater sum of life. And whose heart did not swell, when, from the honored and distinguished men there gathered together, six plain Marshfield farmers were called forth, to carry the head of their neighbor to the grave? Slowly and sadly the vast multitude followed,

in mourning silence, and he was laid down to rest among dear and kindred dust. There, among the scenes that he loved in life, he sleeps well. He has left his name and memory to dwell forever upon those hills and valleys, to breathe a more spiritual tone into the winds that blow over his grave, to touch with finer light the line of the breaking wave, to throw a more solemn beauty upon the hues of Autumn and the shadows of twilight.

But though his mortal form is there, his spirit is here. His words are written in living light along these walls. May that spirit rest upon us and our children! May those words live in our hearts and the hearts of those who come after us! May we honor his memory, and show our gratitude for his life by taking heed to his counsels, and walking in the way on which the light of his wisdom shines!

XVII.

EULOGY ON MR. WEBSTER, DELIVERED IN NEW YORK CITY, BY HIRAM KETCHUM, ESQ.

"THE offices of this day belong less to grief and sorrow than congratulation and joy. It is true that our illustrious countryman, Daniel Webster, is no longer numbered among the living, but it is a subject of congratulation that he lived beyond the ordinary period allotted to human life, and that he was permitted to die, as he had lived for thirty years, in the service of his country; and at his own home, in his own bed, surrounded by his domestic family and friends. The great luminary of the bar, the Senate and the Council Chamber is set forever, but it is a subject of rejoicing that it is set in almost supernatural splendor, obscured by no cloud, not a ray darkened.

"I have often heard Mr. Webster express a great dread, I may say horrible dread, of a failure of intellect. He did not live long enough to experience such failure. I rejoice that he lived long enough to collect, and supervise, and publish to the world his own works. Many of our