LIFE AT MARSHFIELD.
The town of Marshfield is as intimately associated with the name of
Daniel Webster as is Abbotsford with Sir Walter Scott. It is a sparsely
settled town on the south-eastern shore of Massachusetts. Mr. Webster’s
first acquaintance with it dates from 1824. Both Mr. and Mrs. Webster
were charmed with the situation of the Thomas Farm, as it was then
called, and the grand views which it afforded of the ocean. For several
summers the Websters were boarders in the family of Captain Thomas, and
finally, in 1831, he became the owner of the farm by purchase. Then
he began to make improvements, and by the lavish expenditure of money
converted it from a homely farm to a fitting residence for a famous
lawyer.
Henceforth this was the home to which the thoughts of the great
statesman turned when, weary and exhausted with his labors in the
courts, the Cabinet or the Senate, he felt the need of rest. He
delighted to array himself in a farmer’s rough garb, to stride over
his own fields, and look after his cattle. He had not forgotten his
early tastes, and reveled in the free and unconventional life of this
seaside farm. He drank in health from the invigorating sea breezes, and
always bore more easily the burden of public cares after a few days at
Marshfield.
“I had rather be here than in the Senate,” he said on one occasion to
his son, while amusing himself with feeding his cattle with ears of
corn from an unhusked pile lying upon the barn floor.
Mr. Webster was a keen disciple of Isaac Walton, and spent many an
hour with rod and line, when perhaps his thoughts were busy with
some intricate political problem, or his mind was occupied with the
composition of some speech now famous.
To Mr. Harvey’s “Reminiscences” I am indebted for the following
anecdote of Mr. Webster, and indeed for most that I have said about his
country life:
“Soon after Mr. Webster went to Marshfield he was one day out on the
marshes shooting birds. It was in the month of August, when the farmers
were securing their salt hay. He came, in the course of his rambles, to
the Green Harbor River, which he wished to cross. He beckoned to one of
the men on the opposite bank to take him over in his boat, which lay
moored in sight. The man at once left his work, came over and paddled
Mr. Webster across the stream. He declined the payment offered him, but
lingered a moment, with Yankee curiosity, to question the stranger. He
surmised who Mr. Webster was, and with some hesitation remarked:
“‘This is Daniel Webster, I believe?’
“‘That is my name,’ replied the sportsman.
“‘Well, now,’ said the farmer, ‘I am told that you can make from three
to five dollars a day pleadin’ cases up in Boston.’
“Mr. Webster replied that he was sometimes so fortunate as to receive
that amount for his services.
“‘Well, now,’ returned the rustic; ‘it seems to me, I declare, if I
could get as much in the city pleadin’ law cases, I would not be a
wadin’ over these marshes this hot weather shootin’ little birds.’”
Had the simple countryman been told that his companion, who was dressed
but little better than himself, was making from thirty to forty
thousand dollars annually by these same “law cases,” we can hardly
imagine the extent of his amazement, or perhaps incredulity.
There is a tradition, and Mr. Webster has confirmed it, that he was one
day out on the marsh when his attention was drawn to two young men,
evidently from the city, who were standing on one side of a creek which
it seemed necessary to cross. They were nicely dressed, and evidently
dismayed by the apparent necessity of spoiling their fine clothes in
the passage. Seeing a large rough-looking man, with his pants tucked in
his boots, approaching them, their faces brightened as they saw a way
out of their dilemma.
“My good man,” said one, in an eager but patronizing way, “we are in
trouble. Can you help us?”
Mr. Webster looked at the young men and appreciated the situation.
He answered gravely, “What is your difficulty?”
“We want to get across this creek, but you see we might spoil our
clothes if we undertook to wade.”
Mr. Webster nodded.
“You look like a good, strong fellow, and it won’t hurt your clothes.
Will you carry us across on your back?”
Mr. Webster’s eyes twinkled, but he did not suffer the young men to see
it. They were lightly made, and no great burden to one of his herculean
frame.
“Yes,” he answered; “I will oblige you.”
So he took the two over in turn, and deposited them, greatly to their
satisfaction, safe and sound on the opposite shore.
“I’m ever so much obliged,” said the first. “Here, my man, take this,”
and he drew half a dollar from his pocket.
The second made the same tender.
“You are quite welcome, young gentlemen,” said Mr. Webster, “but I
can’t think of accepting any recompense.”
“Really, though, it’s worth it; isn’t it, Jones?” said the first young
man, addressing his companion.
“Of course it is. Better take the money, sir.”
“I must decline,” said Mr. Webster, smiling.
“Ever so much obliged. Really it’s very kind of you. By the way,
doesn’t Daniel Webster live round here somewhere?”
“Yes; you are on his land now,” said the rough-looking countryman.
“You don’t say so. Is there any chance of seeing him, do you think?”
“A very good chance. _You have only to take a good look at me._”
“Are—you—Mr.—Webster?” faltered the young men simultaneously.
“Men call me so,” answered the statesman, enjoying the confusion of the
young men.
They attempted to apologize for the liberty they had taken, and
the great mistake they had made, but without much success, and
notwithstanding the good-natured manner in which their excuses were
received by Mr. Webster, were glad when they were out of his presence.
I cannot resist the temptation to record another amusing incident in
the summer life of Mr. Webster. One day he had gone to Chelsea Beach
to shoot wild fowl. While lying among the tall grass he watched from
his concealment the flocks of birds as they flew over the beach and
adjacent waters. A flock appeared flying quite low, and he lowered
the muzzle of his gun below the horizontal range to bring the birds
before his eye. He fired, and instantly there was a loud cry proceeding
from the beach below. In alarm Mr. Webster rushed down the bank,
and descried a stranger rubbing his face and shoulder ruefully. The
sportsman himself was not looking his best. His raiment was disordered
and his face was begrimed with powder.
“My dear sir,” he inquired anxiously, “did I hit you?”
The man answered resentfully, “Yes, you did hit me; _and, from your
looks, I should think that I am not the first man you have shot,
either_.”