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!
“’It was but yesterday, my child, thy little heart beat high;
And I had scorned the warning voice that told me thou must die.’”

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:
“The staff on which my years should lean
Is broken ere those years come’ o’er me;
My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen,
But thou art in the tomb before me.
“Thou rear’st to me no filial stone,
No parent’s grave with tears beholdest;
Thou art my ancestor—my son!
And stand’st in Heaven’s account the oldest.
“On earth my lot was soonest cast,
Thy generation after mine;
Thou hast thy predecessor passed,
Earlier eternity is thine.
“I should have set before thine eyes
The road to Heaven, and showed it clear;
But thou, untaught, spring’st to the skies,
And leav’st thy teacher lingering here.
“Sweet seraph, I would learn of thee,
And hasten to partake thy bliss!
And, oh! to thy world welcome me,
As first I welcomed thee to this.”

But a still heavier bereavement was in store, though it was delayed for some years. In the su............