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.