In speaking of Mr. Webster as an orator I have for some time neglected to speak of him in his domestic relations. He was blessed with a happy home. The wife he had chosen was fitted by intellect and culture to sympathize with him in his important work. Moreover, she had those sweet domestic qualities which are required to make home happy. Children had been born to them, and these were an important factor in the happiness of Mr. Webster’s home. He had a warm love for children, and was always an affectionate and indulgent parent, seldom chiding, but rebuking in love when occasion required.

In January, 1817, came the first bereavement. His daughter, Grace, always precocious and delicate, developed lung trouble and wasted away. She seems to have been a remarkably bright and attractive child. Her heart was easily touched by sorrow or destitution, and she would never consent that applicants for relief should be sent from the door unsatisfied. “She would bring them herself into the house, see that their wants were supplied, comfort them with the ministration of her own little hands and the tender compassion of her large eyes. If her mother ever refused, those eyes would fill with tears, and she would urge their requests so perseveringly that there was no resisting her.”

The death of this sweet child touched Mr. Webster nearly, and it was with a saddened heart that he returned to Washington to devote himself to his duties in the Supreme Court.

On the 18th of December, 1824, death once more appeared in the little household, this time removing the youngest boy, Charles, then nearing his second birthday. This child, young as he was, is said to have borne a closer resemblance to his father than any of his other children. Both parents were devoted to him. Mrs. Webster writes to her husband just after the little boy’s death: “It was an inexpressible consolation to me, when I contemplated him in his sickness, that he had not one regret for the past, nor one dread for the future; he was as patient as a lamb during all his sufferings, and they were at last so great I was happy when they were ended. I shall always reflect on his brief life with mournful pleasure, and, I hope, remember with gratitude all the joy he gave me, and it has been great. And, oh, how fondly did I flatter myself it would be lasting!

When Mr. Webster received the intelligence of his loss, he, for the first time in years, indulged in his early fondness for verse, and wrote a few stanzas which have been preserved, though they were intended to be seen only by those near and dear to him. The prevailing thought is a striking one. Here are the verses:

But a still heavier bereavement was in store, though it was delayed for some years. In the summer of 1827 the health of Mrs. Webster began to fail, and from that time she steadily declined until on the 21st of January, in the following year she died. Of Mr. Webster’s bearing at the funeral, Mr. Ticknor writes: “Mr. Webster came to Mr. George Blake’s in Summer Street, where we saw him both before and after the funeral. He seemed completely broken-hearted. At the funeral, when, with Mr. Paige, I was making some arrangements for the ceremonies, we noticed that Mr. Webster was wearing shoes that were not fit for the wet walking of the day, and I went to him and asked him if he would not ride in one of the carriages. ‘No,’ he said, ‘my children and I must follow their mother to the grave on foot. I could swim to Charlestown.’ A few minutes afterwards he took Nelson and Daniel in either hand, and walked close to the hearse through the streets to the church in whose crypt the interment took place. It was a touching and solemn sight. He was excessively pale.”

It is a striking commentary upon the emptiness of human honors where the heart is concerned that this great affliction came very soon after Mr. Webster’s election to the United State Senate, where he achieved his highest fame and gathered his choicest laurels. We can well imagine that he carried a sad heart to the halls of legislation, and realized how poorly the world’s honors compensate the heart for the wounds of bereavement. But Daniel Webster was not a man to suffer sorrow to get the mastery of him. He labored the harder in the service of his country, and found in the discharge of duty his best consolation. If I had room I would like to quote the tribute of Judge Storey to the character of Mr. Webster. I confine myself to one sentence: “Few persons have been more deservedly or more universally beloved; few have possessed qualities more attractive, more valuable or more elevating.”

A little over a year later there was a fresh sorrow. Ezekiel Webster, the older brother, between whom and Daniel such warm and affectionate relations had always existed, died suddenly under striking circumstances. He was addressing a jury in the court-house at Concord, N. H., speaking with full force, when, without a moment’s warning, “he fell backward, without bending a joint, and, so far as appeared, was dead before his head reached the floor.”

He was a man of large ability, though necessarily overshadowed by the colossal genius of his younger brother. It would be too much to expect two Daniel Websters in one family. His death had a depressing effect upon Daniel, for the two had been one in sympathy, and each had rejoiced in the success of the other. Together they had struggled up from poverty, achieved an education and professional distinction, and though laboring in different spheres, for Ezekiel kept aloof from politics, they continued to exchange views upon all subjects that interested either. It is not surprising, in view of his desolate household, and the loss of his favorite brother, that Daniel should write: “I confess the world, at present, has an aspect for me anything but cheerful. With a multitude of acquaintances I have few friends; my nearest intimacies are broken, and a sad void is made in the objects of affection.” Yet he was constrained to acknowledge that his life, on the whole, had been “fortunate and happy beyond the common lot, and it would be now ungrateful, as well as unavailing, to repine at calamities, of which, as they are human, I must expect to partake.”

I have taken pains to speak of Mr. Webster’s home affections, because many, but only those who did not know him, have looked upon him as coldly intellectual, with a grand genius, but deficient in human emotions, when, as a fact, his heart was unusually warm and overflowing with tender sympathy.