he was the son of an old and faithful friend of Mr. Webster. Mr. Webster replied instantly, "Let him be sent for."

Dr. Jeffries left the room to prepare a note for the purpose, and, on returning, found that Mr. Webster had made all the arrangements necessary for its dispatch, having given minute directions who should go ;-—what horse and what vehicle he should use ;and what road he should follow;-where he should take a fresh relay; and how he should execute his errand on reaching the city. He also desired that some provision should be made for summoning some other professional friend, if Dr. Warren could not be found, or could not come; and, on being told that this, too, had been foreseen and cared for, he seemed much gratified, and said emphatically, "Right, right.”

After some repose, he conversed with Mrs. Webster, with his son, and with two or three other of the persons nearest and dearest to him in life, in the most affectionate and tender manner, not concealing from them his view of the approach of death, but consoling them with religious thoughts and assurances, as if support were more needful for their hearts than for his own. On different occasions, in the course of the day, he prayed audibly. Oftener, he seemed to be in silent prayer and meditation. But, at all times, he was quickly attentive to whatever was doing or needed to be done. He gave detailed orders for the adjustment of whatever in his affairs required it, and superintended and arranged everything for his own departure from life, as if it had been that of another person, for whom it was his duty to take the minutest care.

After nightfall, he received at his bed side each member of his family and household, the friends gathered under his roof, and the servants, most of whom having been long in his service had become to him as affectionate and faithful friends. It was a solemn and religious parting, in which, while all around him were overwhelmed with sorrow, he preserved his accustomed equanimity, speaking to each words of appropriate kindness and consolation which they will treasure hereafter among their most precious and life-long possessions.

During the whole course of his illness, Mr. Webster never spoke of his disease or of his sufferings, except in the most general terms, or in order to give information to his medical advisers; but it was plain to Dr. Jackson, who was twice called in consultation; to Dr. Warren, who was with him during the last night of his life; and to Dr. Jeffries, who was his constant attendant from the first, that he noted and understood everything that related to his condition, and its successive changes. His conversation on this, as on all other subjects, was perfectly easy and simple ;-the deep tones of his voice remained unchanged; his gentleness was uniform ;—and the expressions of his affection to those who approached him, and even to those who were absent, but who were carefully remembered him in messages of kindness, were true, tender, and faithful to the by end. No complaint escaped from him; nor did he show the least impatience under his infirmities, or the least relunctance to die. He felt the value and the power, of life, and was full of love for his home and for all that surrounded him there and made him happy. But his submission to the will of God was entire. He said, on one occasion, "I shall lie here patiently until I die;" and he did so. But through those wearisome days, he preserved his natural manner in every thing, and maintained, without effort, those just and true relations between himself and all persons, things, and occurrences about him, which through life had marked him so strongly and had given such dignity and power to his character.

From the morning of Saturday, when he had announced to his attendant physician-what nobody, until that time, had intimatedthat he "should die that night," the whole strength of his great faculties seemed to be directed to obtain for him a plain and clear perception of his onward passage to another world, and of his feelings and condition at the precise moment when he should be entering its confines. Once, being faint, he asked if he were not then dying? and on being answered that he was not, but that he was near to death, he replied simply, "Well;" as if the frank and exact reply

were what he had desired to receive. A little later, when his kind physician repeated to him that striking text of Scripture,—“ Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me "-he seemed less satisfied, and said, "Yes;-but the fact, the fact I want;"-desiring to know if he were to regard these words as an intimation, that he was already within that dark valley. On another occasion, he inquired whether it were likely that he should again eject blood from his stomach before death, and being told that it was improbable, he asked, “Then what shall you do?" Being answered that he would be supported by stimulants, and rendered as easy as possible by the opiates that had suited him so well, he inquired, at once, if the stimulant should not be given immediately; anxious again to know if the hand of death were not already upon him. And on being told, that it would not be then given, he replied, “When you give it to me, I shall know that I may drop off at once."

Being satisfied on this point, and that he should, therefore, have a final warning, he said a moment afterwards, "I will, then, put myself in a position to obtain a little repose." In this he was successful. He had intervals of rest to the last; but on rousing from them, he showed that he was still intensely anxious to preserve his consciousness, and to watch for the moment and act of his departure, so as to comprehend it. Awaking from one of these slumbers, late in the night, he asked distinctly if he were alive, and on being assured that he was, and that his family was collected around his bed, he said, in a perfectly natural tone, as if assenting to what had been told him, because he himself perceived that it was true, "I still live." These were his last coherent and intelligible words. At twenty-three minutes before three o'clock, without a struggle or a groan, all signs of life ceased to be visible; his vital organs giving away at last so slowly and gradually as to indicate, -what every thing during his illness had already shown,—that his intellectual and moral faculties still maintained an extraordinary

mastery amidst the failing resources of his physical constitution. And so there passed out of this world one of its great beneficent' and controlling spirits. As the sun rose on that quiet Sabbath morning the expected, yet dreaded, event was announced as a public calamity, first, by the solemn discharge of minute guns, and afterwards by the tolling of bells, over a large part of the land-a spontaneous outbreak of the general feeling at the loss all had suffered. How heavily it fell on the hearts of men in this city, where he was best known, and especially what deep grief, mingled with bitter recollections of the past and anxious forebodings for the future, marked each of the three memorable days,—consecrated as no three similar days ever were consecrated among us, to public mourning, may be partly gathered from the records which this volume is intended to collect and preserve. The rest-little of which can be recorded-will dwell, among their saddest and most sacred thoughts, in the memories of all who shared in the moving, services of those solemn occasions, or who gathered around that peaceful, seagirt grave, and will be transmitted by them to their children, as the warning traditions of a great national sorrow.

THE FUNERAL.

FRIDAY, October, 29, was the day of Mr. Webster's funeral. Boston never before presented-probably never will again present --so general an aspect of mourning, and never were there witnessed such spontaneous, universal, and deep tokens of feeling. Most of the shops were closed, as well as the public institutions, offices, and markets; and a large proportion of the city was dressed in the habiliments of sorrow. The mourning draperies upon many of the buildings, public and private, were rich, elaborate, and tasteful. Festoons of black and white were almost continuous through Washington, Hanover, and other principal streets; and multiplied mottoes, expressing grief and admiration, were placed upon walls and over door-ways. Flags, prepared with inscriptions and dressed in mourning, were extended across the streets. In general the mottoes and inscriptions were extremely well chosen and appropriate, and were a proof, not only of the estimation in which Mr. Webster was held in Boston, but of the high standard of taste and cultivation among its citizens.

In the multiplicity of these personal and spontaneous expressions of feeling, it is impossible to describe, or specify any; but from amongst the mottoes, of which more than a hundred were exhibited, the following are selected:

His words of wisdom, with resistless power,

Have graced our brightest, cheered our darkest hour.

Thou hast instructed many and thou hast strengthened the weak hands.

We've scanned the actions of his daily life and nothing meets our eyes but deeds of honor.