ELMS FARM.

THE spot where Mr. Webster spent the greater part of his childhood and youth is known as the "Elms Farm,” and is only about three miles from his birth-place. It contains one thousand acres, lies directly in a bend of the Merrimack, and is one of the finest farms in New Hampshire. It descended to his brother Ezekiel and himself after the death of their father in 1806, and though intrinsically of great value, yet to the admirer of the great and good in human intellect it must ever be a kind of Mecca, and possess a value not to be estimated by money. A portion of it is interval land, while the remainder comprehends a number of picturesque hills, from some of which may be seen the White Mountains, including the grand summit of Mount Washington, and between Kearsage and the Ragged Mountains the picturesque peak of Ascutny, in Vermont.

It is pre-eminently a grazing farm, and one of the meadow fields alone contains nearly one hundred acres, and as it is encircled and occasionally dotted with graceful elms, it presents a truly charming appearance; especially so during the haying season, when a score or two of men are wielding the scythe in a kind of cavalcade; or when, as in autumn, it is the pasturing ground of herds composed of the Devon, Ayrshire, and Hereford breeds of cattle.

Near the centre of the above field are the almost obliterated remains of a fort which links the farm with its early history, when this particular region was the frontier of the British colonies, and when the Indians, as the allies of the French, made it their chief business to destroy the pioneer inhabitants. The fort stood on a ridge of land south of the burying-ground, and the plow which passes over it at the present day frequently brings to light warlike memorials of the olden times. But a Sabbath peace now broods over the domain of the Webster family; the wilderness has indeed blossomed as the rose; the war-whoop has given place to the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, and the tinkling of bells; and yet it is pleasant to know that the changes are not universal; for the same morning and evening atmospheres-the same healthful breezes and the same loud singing birds, with the whippowil, too, were recently there to make glad and to soothe the heart, in the evening as once in the morning of his days, of that great and good man who was born among these hills, and whose name has baptized them with a classic fame. One of the last Indian murders committed in New Hampshire, that of Mrs. Call, was on this estate. Here yet remain the cellar of her habitation, and the visible plot of her garden, where her husband raised his Indian corn one hundred years ago, and down to the period of Mr. Webster's recollection parsnips in this garden had perpetuated themselves. The tradition is, that Philip Call and his son were at work in a meadow. In the house were Mrs. Call the elder and her daughter-in-law, who at the time had an infant in her arms. Seeing the Indians co C

com

ing, the young woman crept in behind the chimney, hushed her child, and was not discovered by them. Mrs. Call was killed, and the Indians departed. Mr. Webster's father bought the farm of Philip Call; and John Call, the preserved child, Mr. Webster knew in early life.

The dwellings on Elms Farm consist of the house with which were associated all his earlier and more precious recollections, also the one occupied by himself during his annual sojourn in the Granite State, and the one occupied by the tenant of the farm; while the barns and other outhouses number about a dozen, all painted white, and kept in the nicest possible order. A rail-road, connecting the Upper Connecticut River with Boston, crosses the farm in rather a picturesque manner, so that its proprietor could dine among the mountains and partake of his supper some three hours later in the capital of New England. It was in his house on this farm, with the tombs of his family before him at the end of a beautiful field, that the famous letter to Hülsemann was written. Directly in front of this house are a number of elm and maple trees, which were planted by Mr. Webster, and one of them, especially, was transplanted from the foot of a neighboring hill, where, when a boy, he once froze his feet while sliding in the snow.

Mr. Webster's reputation as a practical agriculturist was coextensive with his native state, and indeed with New England; and that it was justly so, the following figures, obtained from the tenant of Elms Farm, alone will prove. The yield of the farm during the year 1851 was estimated thus of English hay, one hundred and forty tons,

of potatoes, consisting of five varieties, two thousand bushels; of sheep, four hundred and fifty; and of cattle, one hundred. One yoke of oxen, when completely dressed, weighed twenty-nine hundred pounds, and were sold in the Boston market at seven dollars per hundred.

While upon his visit to Elms Farm in 1851, Mr. Webster's tenant had about twenty men in his employ making hay. On one occasion, when they were engaged in one field, the "Lord of the Manor" went forth to witness their operations, and having stood for some time in silence, the smell of the hay gave new life to the blood of his youth, and taking off his coat, and throwing it upon the ground, he demanded a fork and went to work, declaring that he could "pitch more hay in an hour than any man in the crowd." And he verily fulfilled his promise. He helped load the largest wagon no less than three times, and also performed the duties of wagon-boy in as scientific a manner, too, as if this had been the chief business of his life, instead of helping to manage the wheels of government, officiating as a diplomatist, or delighting a listening Senate with his eloquence.

The following story was related by Mr. Webster during a conversation the writer had with him about the early history of New Hampshire, while taking a morning walk along the Merrimack :

Among the many prisoners who were taken by the Conewago Indians during the old French war of 1756, in the immediate vicinity of Elms Farm, and sold to the French in Canada, was a man named Peter Bowen. When peace was declared, he obtained his liberty and returned to his

family, who resided in Boscawen. In the year 1763, two Indians of the Conewago tribe, Sebat and his son, came from the borders of Canada upon a visit to the valley of the Merrimack, and happening to fall into the company of Bowen, spent the night with him for old acquaintance' sake, and, in the enthusiasm brought on by forest recollections, the party went through the performances of a drunken frolic. When the time came for the Indians to return, Bowen accompanied them a few miles on their way, when, as they were in the act of crossing a small stream running through Elms Farm, and now known as Indian Brook, the white man suddenly fell upon his red friends, shooting one and killing the other with the butt of his gun, and secreted their bodies in the top of a fallen

tree.

Weeks passed on, and it was rumored far and near that Sebat and his son had been murdered, and that Bowen was the murderer. The inhabitants of the Merrimack valley were well acquainted with the characteristic code of the Indians, demanding blood for blood, and, in self-defense, thought it their duty to have Bowen arrested and punished. He was arrested, tried, found guilty, and condemned to be hung, and this intelligence was transmitted to the Conewago Indians.

During the imprisonment of Bowen, however, in the jail at Exeter (to which he had to be removed), a portion of the inhabitants became impressed with the idea that no white man ought to be hung for killing an Indian, whereupon a party of them, disguised as Mohawk Indians, broke the Exeter jail open and gave Bowen his freedom, and he