CLOSING SCENES.
Mr. Webster’s public life was drawing to a close. After the death of
Gen. Taylor he accepted for a second time the post of Secretary of
State, but there is nothing in his official work that calls for our
special attention. Important questions came up and were satisfactorily
disposed of. There was a strong hand at the helm.
June, 1852, brought him a great disappointment. The Whig Convention
assembled in Baltimore to nominate a candidate for the Presidency. Mr.
Webster was by all means the leader of that party, and was one of the
three candidates balloted for. But in the end the successful man was
Gen. Winfield Scott. It was a nomination like that of Harrison and
Taylor, dictated solely by what was thought to be availability. In this
case a mistake was made. Gen. Scott was disastrously defeated by Gen.
Franklin Pierce, the nominee of the Democracy.
Gen. Pierce, though parted by politics, was a devoted friend of Mr.
Webster, and the reader may be interested to know that on hearing of
his nomination, he spoke thus: “Well, all I can say is, and I say it
in sincerity, if the people of the United States were to repudiate
caucuses, conventions, politicians and tricksters, and rise in the
glory of their strength and might, without waiting for any convention
to designate a candidate, but bent on placing in the Presidential
chair the first citizen and statesman, the first patriot and man,
Daniel Webster, it would do for republican government more than any
event which has taken place in the history of the world. These are my
sentiments, democracy or no democracy.”
This is certainly a remarkable tribute from the nominee of one party to
an unsuccessful candidate of another, but Gen. Pierce had shown on many
occasions his warm friendship and admiration for Mr. Webster.
At Mr. Webster’s age it was not likely that he would ever again be a
candidate for the Presidency. His last chance had slipped away, and the
disappointment was keen. He was already in declining health, induced
partly by a severe accident which befell him in May, 1852, when he
was thrown headlong to the earth while riding behind a span of horses
to Plymouth. Probably the injury was greater than appeared. Towards
the end of September, while at Marshfield, alarming symptoms were
developed, and his grand physical system was evidently giving way. That
month was to be his last. His earthly work was done, and he was never
again to resume his work at Washington. The closing scenes are thus
described by Mr. Curtis:
“It was past midnight, when, awaking from one of the slumbers that he
had at intervals, he seemed not to know whether he had not already
passed from his earthly existence. He made a strong effort to ascertain
what the consciousness that he could still perceive actually was,
and then uttered those well-known words, ‘I still live!’ as if he
had satisfied himself of the fact that he was striving to know. They
were his last coherent utterance. A good deal later he said something
in which the word ‘poetry’ was distinctly heard. His son immediately
repeated to him one of the stanzas of Gray’s ‘Elegy.’ He heard it and
smiled. After this respiration became more difficult, and at length
it went on with perceptible intervals. All was now hushed within the
chamber; and to us who stood waiting there were but three sounds in
nature: the sighing of the autumn wind in the trees, the slow ticking
of the clock in the hall below, and the deep breathing of our dying
friend. Moments that seemed hours flowed on. Still the measured beat
of time fell painfully distinct upon our ears; still the gentle moaning
of the wind mingled with the only sound that arose within the room;
for there were no sobs of women, no movements of men. So grand, and
yet so calm and simple, had been his approach to the moment when he
must know that he was with us no more, that he had lifted us into a
composure which, but for his great example, we could not have felt. At
twenty-three minutes before three o’clock his breathing ceased; the
features settled into a superb repose; and Dr. Jeffries, who still held
the pulse, after waiting a few seconds, gently laid down the arm, and
amid a breathless silence, pronounced the single word, ‘Dead.’ The eyes
were then closed, the remains were removed from the position in which
death came, and all but those who had been appointed to wait and watch
slowly and mournfully walked away.”
Thus died a man whom all generations will agree in pronouncing great; a
man not without faults, for he was human, but one to whom his country
may point with pride as a sincere patriot, a devoted son, who, in
eloquence at the bar and in the Senate, is worthy of a place beside
the greatest orators of any nation, or any epoch. He has invested the
name of an American citizen with added glory, for he was a typical
American, the genuine product of our republican institutions. No poor
boy who reads his life need despair of becoming eminent, for he can
hardly have more obstacles to overcome than the farmers’ boy, who grew
up on the sterile soil of New Hampshire, and fought his way upward with
unfailing courage and pluck. Not once in a century is such a man born
into the world—a man so amply endowed by his Creator—but he did not
rely upon his natural talents, but was a firm believer in hard work.
With all his marvelous ability he would not otherwise have left behind
him such a name and fame.