Some other things, my friends, with your indulgence, I would say; thoughts, memories, which crowd upon me, too vivid to be repressed, too personal almost to be uttered. On the 17th of July, 1804, a young man from New Hampshire arrived in Boston, all but penniless, and all but friendless. Не was twenty-two years of age, and had come to take the first steps in the career of life at the capital of New England. Three days after arriving in Boston he presented himself, without letters of recommendation, to Mr. Christopher Gore, then just returned from England, after an official residence of some years, and solicited a place in his office as a clerk. His only introduction was by a young man as little known to Mr. Gore as himself, and who went to pronounce his name, which he did so indistinctly as not to be heard. His slender figure, striking countenance, large dark eye, and massy brow, his general appearance indicating a delicate organization,* his manly carriage and modest demeanor, arrested attention and inspired confidence. His humble suit was granted, he was received into the office, and had been there a week before Mr. Gore learned that his name was DANIEL WEBSTER! His older brother—older in years, but later in entering life-(for whose education Daniel, while teacher of the Academy at Fryeburg, had drudged till midnight in the office of the Register of Deeds), at that time taught a small school in Short Street (now Kingston Street), in Boston, and while he was in attendance at the commencement at Dartmouth, in 1804, to receive his degree, Daniel supplied his place. At that school, at the age of ten, I was then a pupil, and there commenced a friendship which lasted, without interruption or chill, while his life lasted; of which, while mine lasts, the grateful recollection will never perish. From that time forward I knew, I honored, I loved him. I saw him at all seasons and on all occasions, in the flush of public triumph, in the intimacy of the fireside, in the most unreserved interchange of personal confidence; in health and in sickness, in sorrow and in joy; when early honors began to wreath his brow, and in after life through most of the important scenes of his public career. I saw him on occasions that show the manly strength, and, what is better, the manly weakness of the human heart; and I declare this day, in the presence of Heaven and of men, that I never heard from him the expression of a wish unbecoming a good citizen and a patriot-the utterance of word unworthy a gentleman and a Christian; that I never knew a more generous spirit, a safer adviser, a warmer friend. Do you ask me if he had faults? I answer, he was a man. He had some of the faults of a lofty spirit, a genial temperament, and a warm and generous nature; he had none of the faults of a groveling, mean, and malignant nature. He had especially the "last *Description by Mrs. Eliza Buckminster Lee, Webster's Private Correspondence, i., 438. infirmity of noble mind," and had no doubt raised an aspiring eye to the highest object of political ambition. But he did it in the honest pride of a capacity equal to the station, and with a consciousness that he should reflect back the honor which it conferred. He might say, with Burke, that "he had no arts but honest arts;" and if he sought the highest honors of the state, he did it by transcendent talent, laborious service, and patriotic devotion to the public good. It was not given to him, any more than to the other members of the great triumvirate with whom his name is habitually associated, to attain the object of their ambition; but posterity will do them justice, and begins already to discharge the debt of respect and gratitude. A noble mausoleum in honor of Clay, and his statue by Hart, are in progress; the statue of Calhoun, by Powers, adorns the Court House in Charleston, and a magnificent monument to his memory is in preparation; and we present you this day, fellowcitizens, the Statue of Webster, in enduring bronze, on a pedestal of granite from his native State, the noble countenance modeled from life, at the meridian of his days and his fame, and his person reproduced, from faithful recollection, by the oldest and most distinguished of the living artists of the country. He sleeps by the multitudinous ocean, which he himself so much resembled in its mighty movement and its mighty repose; but his monumental form shall henceforward stand sentry at the portals of the Capitol; the right hand pointing to that symbol of the Union on which the left reposes, and his imperial gaze directed, with the Hopes of the country, to the boundless West. In a few short years, we, whose eyes have rested on his majestic person, whose ears have drunk in the music of his clarion voice, shall have gone to our rest; but our children, for ages to come, as they dwell with awe-struck gaze upon the monumental bronze, shall say, Oh that we could have seen, oh that we could have heard, the great original! Two hundred and twenty-nine years ago, this day, our beloved city received, from the General Court of the Colony, the honored name of Boston. On the long roll of those whom she has welcomed to her nurturing bosom is there a name which shines with a brighter luster than his? Seventy-two years ago, this day, the Constitution of the United States was tendered to the acceptance of the people by George Washington. Who, of all the gifted and patriotic of the land, that have adorned the interval, has done more to unfold its principles, assert its purity, and to promote its duration? Here, then, under the cope of Heaven; here, on this lovely eminence; here, beneath the walls of the Capitol of old Massachusetts, here, within the sight of those fair New England villages; here, in the near vicinity of the graves of those who planted the germs of all this palmy growth; here, within the sound of sacred bells, we raise this monument, with loving hearts, to the Statesman, the Patriot, the Fellow-Citizen, the Neighbor, the Friend. Long may it guard the approach to these halls of council; long may it look out upon a prosperous country; and, if days of trial and disaster should come, and the arm of flesh should fail, doubt not that the monumental form would descend from its pedestal, to stand in the front rank of the peril, and the bronze lips repeat the cry of the living voice "Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable!" 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