But let us pass into the library; the LIBRARY! Here Vulcan forged those
infrangible chains, that impenetrable armor--the shield of Achilles and
the sword of Hector. Here you feel nearer to Webster than even when you
enter his tomb; much that is in this room his immortal spirit carried
with it in its upward flight. It is not that life-like portrait, by
Healey, that introduces you, as it were, into the visible presence of
the great statesman. It is the inspiration of the place, these scattered
tools, just as they were dropped by the master-workman, that well-worn
manual, thumbed by his own hand; that turned leaf, indicating the last
page of human lore upon which his eye ever gazed; that arm-chair, his
favorite seat. He seems just to have left it, and you will now find him,
in one of those shady lanes, that lead to Cherry Hill, walking slowly,
as he welds together the facts and principles he has gleaned from yonder
opened folio. Here then, with these surroundings, with that beautiful
landscape in his eye, DANIEL WEBSTER studied, pondered, and communed
with these old tomes as with familiar faces. How often has he turned
from the living world, to find kindred here in Bacon, Chatham, Fox and
Burke! How often has his eye run over that complete set of parliamentary
debates! How often has he conned those volumes of Hansard, and these of
McCullough! How often has he resorted to that full alcove of
dictionaries, to learn the precise and exact meaning of some important
word; and to you, Shakspeare, Milton and Gray, how often has he fled for
refreshment and consolation! How often, harassed by cares, and stung by
ingratitude, has he murmured, in this air, the music of his favorite
Cicero, "Haec studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas
res ornant, adversis perfugium ac solatium praebent, delectant domi, non
impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur."
Let us now ascend this staircase, (adorned with no costly paintings,
but with some choice engravings, interesting from the associations they
recall, or as mementos from friends, or tributes from artists,) and
approach this darkened chamber, looking toward the setting sun; tread
softly and slowly! Within these walls, on that plain bedstead, beneath
that window commanding an ocean prospect, Webster died. Here occurred
that grand and affecting leave-taking, with kindred, friends and the
world; here, "the curfew tolled the knell of parting day;" here occurred
a death-scene, which can find no parallel in human history, but in the
death of Socrates; here, with the assured consciousness, that his own
contributions to the fund of human wisdom were imperishable, and that
the "next ages" could not fail to do justice to his patriotic labors, he
faintly murmured, as his spirit took its flight, and his eye closed
forever, "I still live."
On an eminence overlooking the sea, by the side of the burial-place of
the first Pilgrims, is Webster's last home. A mound of earth and marble
slab, mark the spot where sleeps all that is mortal of the great
American.