as they were called, who were willing to come with him to Hanover and become students. Leading them to the ferry across the river at that point, he coaxed them on board and began to take them across. When, however, they caught sight of the college buildings on the other side, they grew restless and one of them suddenly gave a war-whoop, upon which all three plunged into the river, swam ashore, and vanished.

Mr. Webster said, on telling the story, "The falling of the walls of Jericho, or the sounding of the ram's horn, could not have astonished Joshua more than this unlookedfor escape of the Indians did the President. He halloed, entreated, and tried to explain all; but the Indians kept straight on their course to the shore and made with all speed for the woods, the last President Wheelock ever saw or heard of them." So Mr. Webster had to win his

case, after all, without the Indians.

Daniel Webster, in the midst of all his public affairs, retained a fondness for farm life. He owned and cultivated many acres, but never would allow them to be called "grounds"; they were a farm only, and he was the farmer. Many of his letters to his head man, John Taylor, have been printed, and show Webster's real knowledge of agriculture, and love of the rural mode of life - especially in regard to cattle, which were, he used to say, much better company than United States senators. He would not allow the shooting of birds on his own ground, but made many expeditions over the more distant marshes in pursuit of them. On these trips he was usually taken for a farm-hand, and he himself used to tell with pleasure that on one occasion he carried two young men across a creek on his back, one after the other, and that they each offered him half a dollar for the service.

There is another story of a boatman who once ferried Webster over Green Harbor River. He refused the proffered payment, but inquired, "This is Daniel Webster, I believe?" When the statesman assented, the boatman asked him if it was really true, as reported, that he could make four or five dollars a day, pleading cases in Boston; and when Mr. Webster admitted that this also was true, his questioner replied, "Well, it seems to me if I could get so much in the city, pleadin' law cases, I wouldn't be a-wadin' over these marshes all day, shootin' little birds."

Webster enjoyed his home life also, as is attested by the letters of his first wife, Mrs. Grace Fletcher Webster, which show their happiness and that of their young children. He had a very large income from his profession, but he was not a good manager, and his expensive habits led him into debts which were more than once paid by his friends and admirers.

Webster died on October 24, 1852. His grave is in a lonely spot, overlooking the town of Marshfield. In the foreground is the quiet river; gently sloping marshes stretch away to left and right; and beyond is the sea, glistening in the sun. The only sounds to be heard about the spot are the ripple of the waves on the beach and the cry of the birds he loved flying over his resting-place.

Je'hu, see 2 Kings ix. 20.

falling of the walls of Jer'i cho, see Joshua vi. 1-20.

Take him for all in all, Webster was not only the greatest orator this country has ever known, but in the history of eloquence his name will stand with those of Demosthenes and Cicero, Chatham and Burke. - HENRY CABOT LODGE.

SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS ON JULY 4, 1776

DANIEL WEBSTER

On the 2d of August, 1826, in Faneuil Hall, Boston, during his oration upon John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, who had died on July 4 of that year, Daniel Webster drew a vivid picture of the debate in the Continental Congress at Philadelphia when the Declaration of American Independence was still pending. He saw John Hancock preside with impressive dignity. He heard the voice of some timid patriot, who shrank from the awful responsibility of the hour. He invoked the spirit of John Adams, through himself, to make reply. The words are those of Webster, and the thought is such as he supposed Adams would have expressed if he had spoken in favor of the Declaration.

SINK or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But there's a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the declaration?

Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws? If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on or to give up the war? Do we

mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust?

I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him.

The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off longer the declaration of independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression.

Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our indepen

dence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory?

If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these Colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every Colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead.

Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the