acceptance of these provisions as part of the Compromise, and in doing so gave great offence to many supporters in the North, who had looked upon him as a steady opponent of slavery, who would never yield an inch to its exactions. In his speech Webster maintained that the constitution recognized the right of the master to the return of his escaped slave, and that its obligations could not be evaded without a violation of good faith. As to the territories, he argued that slavery was already by nature excluded from New Mexico, which was not adapted to the products of slave labor, and that to "re-enact a law of God," by formally excluding it, was a needless irritation to the South. Although he

MILLARD FILLMORE.

supported his position with great force, his speech was nevertheless regarded by anti-slavery men in the North as a surrender to the slave power, made with a view to securing support in the South as a candidate for the Presidency. He was denounced as recreant to the cause of freedom, and accused of having sold himself to the South. These charges did much to embitter the last years of his life; but he firmly adhered to his course, supported the Compromise measure in Congress, and made a number of speeches in its favor throughout the North. After his death there was a gradual reaction, and many who had condemned him came to admit that his course, whether wise or not, was at least guided by pure and patriotic motives.

In July, 1850, while the great Compromise was still before Congress, Webster was appointed by President Fillmore Secretary of State, which office he held until his death. His summer home was an immense farm at Marshfield, near Plymouth, Massachusetts, and for many years he had taken the keenest interest in all the operations of the farm. A friend who was often with him tells how he enjoyed his cattle, and how, on one occasion, after each animal was secured in his place, Mr. Webster amused himself by feeding them with ears of corn from an unhusked pile lying on the barn floor. As his son was trying to keep warm by playing with the dog, he said :

"

"You do not seem, my son, to take much interest in this; but, for my part (and here he broke an ear and fed the pieces to the oxen on his right and left, and watched them as they crunched it), “I like it. I would rather be here than in the Senate," adding, with a smile which showed all his white teeth, “I think it better company."

In May, 1852, while driving near his Marshfield home, Mr. Webster was thrown from the carriage and seriously injured. Although he recovered sufficiently to visit Washington afterward, he never regained his health, and a few months later, in the autumn of 1852, he died at Marshfield. His death and burial were scenes of sublime pathos. In his last hours he manifested a strong desire to be conscious of the actual approach of death, and his last words were, "I still live." An immense concourse gathered at his funeral. It was a clear, beautiful autumn day, and his body was brought from the house and placed on the lawn, under the blue sky, where for several hours a stream of people of every class moved past, to gaze for the last time upon his majestic features. One, a plain farmer, was heard to say in a low voice, as he turned away, "Daniel Webster, without you the world will seem lonesome."

The spot where Webster reposes is upon elevated land, and overlooks. the sea, his mammoth farm, the First Parish Church, and most of the town of Marshfield, wide spreading marshes, forests remote and near, the tranquil river, and glistening brooks. On a pleasant day the sands of Cape Cod can be descried from it, thirty miles directly to the east, where the Pilgrims first moored their ship. The spot is perfectly retired and quiet, nothing being usually heard but the solemn dirge of the ocean and the answering sighs of the winds. It is the spot of all others for his resting-place.

All in a temperate air, a golden light,
Rich with October, sad with afternoon,
Fitly his frame was laid, with rustic rite,

To rest amid the ripened harvest boon.

He loved the ocean's mighty murmur deep,

And this shall lull him through his dreamless sleep.