dially address this honorable testimony to his memory,—

He taught us how to live, and oh, too high
The price of knowledge, taught us how to die.""

He then discourses, at length, upon the power of religion to sustain and console the believer, in scenes of sorrow, persecution, and death. The thoughts and style of the whole eulogy are such as might have been expected from the pen of Jeremy Taylor, rather than from a youth of eighteen years. After listening to the warm commendations of a classmate, he remarked, "If the funeral oration be thought decent, I am contented; equal to the subject it is not. The death of Simonds was a theme on which the first writers ought to be proud to point their pens. Hei mihi, qualis erat!"

He loved his young friends with the intensity and sincerity of woman's affection. In his heart there was a native gentleness, which shrunk instinctively from all rudeness to others, or thoughtless trifling with their feelings.

A little incident in his college life happily illustrates this trait in his character. A fellow-student had a fond conceit of his own powers as a poet. He measured his verses with a pair of dividers. The manufacture of an acrostic was quite original, and entirely mechanical. After marking the termini of the lines, he placed at the beginning of them those words whose initial letters would make the required name; and at the end words in pairs, that would rhyme with each other, and then filled (or stuffed, as the phrase was) the intermediate spaces. Of course, such a poet had frequent calls for public recitations. Mr. Webster pitied his simplicity, and, in company with a friend, called on the poet, and revealed to him the true state of public sentiment. The deluded youth very promptly informed them that "they were envious of his fame, and only designed to injure him.”

"Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,

Quin sine rivali seque, et sua solus amaret." Mr. Webster early manifested a deepseated aversion to cruelty, oppression, and

war.

An extract from an essay published by him, in his seventeenth year, shows how early in life he entertained pacific sentiments.

"Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!'

"For what was man created, but to cultivate the arts of peace and friendship, to beam charity and benevolence on all around him, to improve his own mind by study and reflection, to serve his God with all the powers of his soul, and finally, when the days of his years are numbered, to bid adieu to earthly objects with a smile, to

close his eyes on the pillow of religious hope, and sink to repose in the bosom of his Maker? Why, then, is the object of our existence unattained? Why does man relentless draw the sword to spill the blood of man? Why are the fairest countries on earth desolated and depopulated with the ravages of war? Why are the annals of the world crowded with the details of murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes, that strike the soul with horror but to name them? Oh, corrupted nature! Oh, depraved man! Those who are delighted with tales of bloodshed and destruction find a rich repast in the daily accounts from Europe, where

'Gigantic slaughter stalks with awful strides, And vengeful fury pours her copious tides' But to the child of humanity, to the man of true benevolence, it is a sad and painful reflection, that iniquity should usurp the reign of justice, that the liberties and the lives of millions should be sacrificed to satiate the ambition of individuals, and that tyrants should wade through seas of blood to empire and dominion. War, under certain circumstances is proper, is just. When men take arms to burst those chains which have bound them in slavery, to assert and maintain those privileges, which they justly claim as natural rights, their object is noble, and we wish them success."

The whole essay is of a like tenor; and in reading it, we are forced to exclaim, for the thousandth time, "How forcible are right words!"

From all the statesmen and patriots of the world, Mr. Webster selected Washington as his model to study and imitate. In one of his earliest poetic compositions, there is found a beautiful apostrophe to "the Father of his Country."

"Ah, Washington! thou once didst guide the helm,
And point each danger to our infant realm;
Didst show the gulf where Faction's tempests sweep,
And the big thunders frolic o'er the deep;
Through the red wave didst lead our bark, nor stood,
Like Moses, on the other side the flood.
But thou art gone-yes, gone and we deplore
The man, the Washington, we knew before.
But when thy spirit mounted to the sky,
And scarce beneath thee left a tearless eye-
Tell! what Elisha then thy mantle caught,
Warm'd with thy virtue-with thy wisdom fraught?"

The question that interested the youthful poet has been once solved; and we are now prepared to repeat it, with pensive earnestness, over the tomb of Webster. The recorded opinions of his early life furnish abundant proof of his rooted aversion to war, and his warm devotion to peace. He often wrote upon political topics. The young student discoursed ably and eloquently upon those very subjects which afterwards called forth the mightiest energies of the peerless orator and statesman. The Constitution and the Union were as dear to him at seventeen as at seventy. At the age of eigh

teen he wrote a political letter to a friend, which was published in the Dartmouth Gazette, from which I will copy a paragraph.

"Internally secure, we have nothing to fear. Let Europe pour her embattled millions around us; let her thronged cohorts cover our shores from the St. Lawrence to the St. Mary's, yet United Columbia shall stand unmoved; the manes of her deceased Washington shall still guard the liberties of his country and direct the sword of freedom in the day of battle. Heaven grant that the bonds of our federal union may be strengthened; that Gallic emissaries and Gallic principles may be spurned from our land; that traitors may be abashed, and that the stars and stripes of United Columbia may wave triumphant!" Two years later he wrote as follows:-" Our constitution has left, it is true, a wide field for the exertions of popular intrigue, while it has strongly fortified against executive encroachments. This is the general nature and construction of governments perfectly free. They are much better secured against tyranny than against licentiousness. Yet it has been said, with as much truth as eloquence, that 'the thunderbolt of despotism is not more fatal to public liberty than the earthquake of popular commotion.' It would be a phenomenon in history; it would be like a comet which appears but once in a hundred centuries, if there should be found a government advancing to despotism by regular and progressive encroachment. The path of despotism leads through the mire and dirt of uncontrolled democracy. When this government falls, it will owe its destruction to some administration that sets out in its career with much adulation of the sovereign people, much profession of economy and reform, and it will then proceed to prostrate the fairest institutions of government by the pretext of saving expense, but really with the purpose of destroying constitutional checks."

Poetry was a favorite species of composition with Mr. Webster while in college. Besides his contributions to the press and poetic epistles to his friends, he often wrote in verse for public exhibitions. Early in his college course, he wrote his own declamations for the stage, while others were permitted to speak selected pieces. A classmate of his informs me that he remembers one poetic composition which he spoke, of which every line ended in i-o-n.

Mr. Webster also took a prominent part in the exercises of the literary society of which he was a member. There existed at that time an intense rivalry between

the "United Fraternity" and "Social Friends." They were then secret societies, and embraced a majority of the members of college. The Fraternity was somewhat depressed. Mr. Webster became its champion, and gave it a more elevated position in the college. The records of that society have been mutilated, and the manuscript oration of Mr. Webster, which was delivered by him at the time of his graduation, before the society, has been purloined by some literary thief, who ought to be disfranchised from the republic of letters.

"Is intestabilis et sacer esto."

The records, so far as they exist, contain the following entries respecting Mr. Webster:

"His initiation occurred Nov. 7, 1797. "The society met, according to adjournment, at Brother Webster's room, Nov. 21, 1797."

"At the election of officers, Aug. 14, 1798, Freshman Webster was chosen 'Inspector of Books.""

"May 7, 1799, Sophomore Webster was chosenLibrarian."

"Aug. 20, 1799, Messrs. Webster & Brackett were chosen to write a Dialogue' for exhibition at the next commencement."

"Oct. 15, 1799, Voted to deposit in the archives of the United Fraternity an Oration delivered by Junior Webster."

“Nov. 25, 1799. A voluntary oration from Brother Webster closed the exercises." "Dee. 3, 1799. 'An oration from Brother Webster opened the meeting."

66

May 27, 1800. At the choosing of officers, Junior Webster was 'Vice-President." May 19, 1800. Junior Webster was appointed 'Orator' for the ensuing commencement."

"Oct. 7, 1800. An oration on 'ambition,' by Brother Webster, completed the exercises.'

"Nov. 25, 1800. Daniel Webster was elected President of the Society."

The entire record of Mr. Webster's senior year is lost. His labors during that year are said to have exceeded those of the three preceding years. It should be remembered also, that it was not the custom of the secretary to record the names of the speakers who participated in the extemporaneous debates, which at that period were very frequent. Here Mr. Webster was unanimously admitted to be facile princeps; and, so far as the society or college was concerned, it might with truth be said :

"Unde nil majus generatur ipso,

Nec viget quidquam simile, aut secundum." At a public exhibition of his class, in the Sophomore year, "a poem signed to Mr. Webster, which he wrote and recited. My informant further re

was as

marked, that whenever the class or society had a difficult task to be performed, it was always laid upon Webster. His ability as a writer and debater gave rise to the opinion that he was a very extensive reader. He selected his authors with great care, and read with fixed attention. He was, however, no literary gourmand. He devoted very little time to works of fiction. His taste inclined him to works of history, literature, and philosophy. In 1802, he described to a friend, his own method of reading. "So much as I read," said he, "I made my own. When a half hour, or an hour at most, had expired, I closed my book and thought it all over. If there was any thing particularly interesting to me, either in sentiment or language, I endeavored to recall it and lay it up in my memory, and commonly could effect my object. Then, if in debate or conversation afterward, any subject came up on which I had read something, I could talk very easily, so far as my knowledge extended, and then was very careful to stop." In later years, when his knowledge and experience had become more enlarged, he had no occasion to stop till the subject was completely exhausted. His memory, which was very retentive, served as his commonplace book. A college acquaintance says of him: "By reading twenty, or even more pages of poetry twice over, I have heard him repeat their contents almost verbatim." This power of memory he turned to good account, both in retaining the thoughts of others and in fixing the results of his own reflections. He was accustomed to arrange his thoughts for debates and declamations in his solitary rambles upon the borders of neighboring brooks, angling for trout, or while scouring the surrounding forests in quest of game. This practice he continued in subsequent life. When his thoughts were once arranged in his mind, the business of writing was merely mechanical. Amusement and study were so strangely wedded, that careless observers mistook the profound thinker for a heedless trifler. He composed his college themes at his leisure, and wrote them just before they were due. Accordingly, he was often known to commence the writing of a public declamation after dinner, which he was expected to speak at two o'clock the same day. In one instance, while writing, with open windows, a sudden flaw of wind took away his paper, and it was last seen flying over the meeting-house. He appeared

upon the stage, notwithstanding his loss, and spoke with his usual fluency and eloquence.

His recreations were all manly and invigorating. He had little fondness for games of chance, and far less for noisy, convivial entertainments. He looked with ineffable contempt upon that low pleasure which mischievous idlers derive from the annoying of others. In his eulogy upon his deceased classmate, he bestows marked commendation upon his lofty scorn of the vile arts of college demagogues. Even then the youthful student showed the same self-respect and dignified deportment which he afterwards exhibited at the bar and in the senate. He also practised the same untiring industry. In 1846, he wrote to a friend: "I have worked for more than twelve hours a day for fifty years, on an average. I do not know experimentally what wealth is, nor how the bread of idleness tastes." These fifty years would cover his entire college life. There can be little doubt that, while a student, for months together, he devoted more than twelve hours a day to study. During his vacations, for two winters at least, he taught school. Several of his earliest pupils are still living. They affirm that, during the winter of 1797, he taught a school in the house of his uncle, William Webster, in Salisbury, for four dollars a month; and that, after the erection of a new school-house in the same district, "at Shaw's Corner," he taught, in 1798, for six dollars a month. One of his scholars still remembers that he was "right smart at figures." We must not estimate the ability of the teacher by the amount of wages he received. It must be remembered that the country was then sparsely settled; the people were poor, the soil was unsubdued and rugged, personal labor was low, and specie was exceedingly valuable. Mr. Webster, after he was graduated, taught the academy at Fryeburg, Me., for three hundred and fifty dollars a year, and submitted to the drudgery of copying deeds for the register of the county, during his leisure hours, to eke out his scanty sup port and save something to aid his brother in securing an education. Such was the student life of "the foremost man of all this world." His example rebukes the indolent and disorderly student, while it is full of encouragement and hope to the industrious and faithful. It is worth more than hereditary wealth to the earnest and truthful scholar.

CHAPTER L

To speak of Tom Dillar in any other

way than by his pseudonym of Elegant, would be like speaking of Harold Harefoot, Edwin the Fair, the Black Prince, or Louis the Debonnaire, without their distinguishing adjectives. Tom Dillar was known to his acquaintances only as Elegant Tom, and he was well entitled to the epithet, for he was elegant in looks, manners, and style. He was one of those happy persons who seem to have come into the world for the sole purpose of eating the sunny side of ripe peaches. There were no deficiencies in Elegant Tom Dillar, and if one could have the ordering of his own antecedents, they could not be superior to Tom's. On the side of his father, he was connected with the best English families in the State; and, by the mother's side, he could boast of the purest Dutch descent. He inherited a large fortune from his father, and, what was much better, a healthy constitution and a handsome person. Being independent in his circumstances, he was not educated for a profession; but, being apt to learn, he was taught a good many accomplishments that are not generally bestowed upon American youths. He could dance much better than most professors of that elegant art, and in music he was something more than a proficient upon the guitar, the piano, and the violin. Then he had a fine voice, a delicious tenor, and those who had the good fortune to hear him sing used to boast of it, as though a piece of rare luck had befallen them. Tom was good-natured too, and as amiable as though it were necessary for him to conciliate the world, that his presence might not be considered an intrusion. But, of all men, he was least likely to be considered de trop in the world.

He went abroad, and came back as amiable and unpretending as he went, but with more accomplishments than he carried away. He was invited every where, and he might have married any girl he chose to honor in that manner; but, as often happens in such cases, he seemed never to have been touched in his heart by any of the beautiful creatures who surrounded There was Fanny Ormolu, the only daughter of the great auctioneer, who, they used to say, was dying for him; and it was said that her father was so fearful of the effects of Tom's indifference on his daughter's health, that he was guilty of the indelicacy of offering to settle a hundred thousand dollars on him if he would marry her. But Tom had never known what it

him.

was to want money, and, like an honorable, high-minded fellow as he was, re fused to sell himself, even at so high a figure, and to so beautiful a purchaser.

They say that old Ormolu was so exasperated and indignant at Tom's refusal, that he swore he would have satisfaction for the insult; and he was as good as his word. He did not challenge Tom, nor, indeed, permit him to know that he entertained any ill-will against him; for, if he had, he probably would not have been able to accomplish his purpose. Ormolu was a commercial gentleman, and his manner of getting satisfaction was a purely business transaction: in fact the old fellow did not understand any thing else. He set himself deliberately to work to ruin Tom by getting away all his money. As this would have been the severest punishment that could have been inflicted upon himself, he naturally and very sensibly, imagined that he could inflict no greater wrong upon another than by making him a bankrupt.

Now, Tom was not a spendthrift, nor a gambler; but then he was the merest child in business matters, and had no idea about money transactions beyond drawing his dividends every six months, and contriving to make his income just meet his expenditure. Tom had often wished that his income was larger, for he had long been ambitious of owning a yacht, but was unable to indulge in that costly enjoyment; so, when his young friend, Pete Van Slicer, of the firm of Van Slicer, Son & Co., the great stockbrokers, of Wall-street, one day said to him, as if by accident, "Tom, how would you like to enter into a little speculation, by which you might make a hundred thousand dollars or so ?" Tom opened his eyes, and eagerly replied he would like nothing better.

Pete then carelessly remarked, that Bob So-and-so had made nearly double that sum a few days before, by a corner in Harlem, and that he could put Tom in the way of making at least that amount by a speculation in Pottawattamy Coal Stock. Tom, not being familiar with stock operations, asked how it could be done; whereupon Pete explained to him that certain parties having sold long in the stock were going to get up a corner, which would compel the shorts to buy in, and that the stock would then begin to rise, and there was no knowing where it would stop. What Pete proposed that Tom should do was, to buy in while it was down, and when the rise should reach its height to sell out, and pocket the profits.

"Can I rely on the rise taking place?" asked Tom, who had not a very clear notion of the nature of the transaction.

"Trust to me," replied Pete, with a knowing wink, which seemed to Tom so full of sagacity, that he concluded to trust to him, and accordingly gave an order to the firm of Van Slicer, Son & Co., to purchase, for his account, about ten times as many shares of the Pottawattamy Coal Stock as he had the means to pay for, Pete undertaking to carry the stock, as he called it, for thirty days, in which time the rise was sure to occur.

Having made this little business arrangement with his Wall-street friend, Tom jumped into one of the Dry Dock stages, to go up to the ship-yards and make inquiries about the cost of a yacht; and that night he dreamed of winning the Queen's cup at the Cowes regatta, and of lying at anchor in the harbor of Newport, and other pleasant things connected with the manly sport of yachting.

Tom did not know that his friend, Pete Van Slicer, was paying attention to Fanny Ormolu; and, even if he had, he could never have imagined that old Ormolu was making use of the young stockbroker to ruin his friend. But such was the fact.

The next day Elegant Tom Dillar created a good deal of surprise among the motley throng of Jews and "lame ducks" that hover round the doors of the Stock Board in the third story of the Merchants' Exchange; and when a playful Hebrew knocked Tom's hat over his eyes, as he stood anxiously waiting to hear what Pottawattamy sold at, he was so engrossed in his new speculation, that he never thought of resenting the affront. Pottawattamy went up one per cent. that day, but the next it went down ten, and the next ten more, and Tom received a brief note from Van Slicer, Son & Co., informing him that he was their debtor for losses on Pottawattamy Coal Stock, in a sum that considerably exceeded his entire fortune.

A man who has never felt the actual cautery of poverty, cannot have a very clear idea of what that word really means, and Tom did not, therefore, feel half so badly as he ought to have done, when he had to confess to himself that he was a bankrupt.

There is nothing to be gained by going into the distressing particulars of Tom's settlement with his brokers, and therefore I will merely remark, that on the very day upon which all his available property passed out of his own hands into those of Van Slicer, Son & Co., the junior member of that eminent firm was united in the holy bonds of matrimony, as the papers say, to Fanny Ormolu, only daughter and

so forth, of Jefferson Ormolu, Esq., our enterprising and esteemed fellow-citizen, of the eminent firm of Ormolu, Bronze & Co.

CHAPTER IL

The ruin of Thomas Dillar, Esq., was complete. Wall-street never witnessed a more decided cleaning out than in the case of my elegant friend. It was so smoothly and rapidly done, that he was like the man who didn't know he was decapitated until he attempted to nod his head-so sharply, so adroitly, and so quickly, had the blow been dealt. But it does not take long for a person to find out that he is poor, and Elegant Tom Dillar immediately began to have a "realizing sense" of the true state of his case. He had nothing in the world left but his watch, and a few articles of jewelry, by which he could raise money enough to discharge the few debts he owed, and which were demanded with a rude pertinacity that he had never known before. He had to abandon the hotel in Broadway at which he had been living, and take cheap lodgings in Beekman-street; and, instead of having more invitations to dine than he could accept, he suddenly found himself without any invitation at all; as to evening parties, although he had made up his mind not to go to any more, he had the mortification of being cut by all his old friends, and soon ceased to expect any attentions from them. Heretofore Tom had skimmed the cream of human existence; he had visited only in the best circles, eaten the best dinners, drank the best wines, read the most amusing books, worn the best clothes, and had known nothing of the infelicities of human existence, except by hearsay. But now his turn had come to feed on husks, and taste of hyssop.

What Tom had suffered, or how he had struggled, none knew but himself, for he was too proud to complain, and, to all appearances, he was as light-hearted and cheerful as ever he had been in his most prosperous days. But, as the writer of these lines was one evening hurrying down Broadway, to escape from the clouds of blinding dust which a cold, northwest wind was driving along that crowded avenue, he was suddenly arrested, near the corner of Canal-street, by a tap on the shoulder. Turning round, he saw Elegant Tom Dillar, with his coat buttoned closely up to his throat, and looking uncomfortably sharp, serious, and, to make use of a vulgar figure of speech, seedy.

"How are you?" said Tom, in his