If I were required to single out the most prominent political genius in the history of the United States, after the death of Hamilton, I should say it was Daniel Webster.  He reigned for thirty years as a political dictator to his party, and at the same time was the acknowledged head of the American Bar.  He occupied two spheres, in each of which he gained pre-eminence.  But for envy, and the enemies he made, he probably would have reached the highest honor that the nation had to bestow.  His influence was vast, until those discussions arose which provoked one of the most gigantic wars of modern times.  For a generation he was the object of universal admiration for his eloquence and power.  In political wisdom and experience he had no contemporaneous superior; there was no public man from 1820 to 1850 who had so great a prestige, and whose name and labors are so well remembered.  His speeches and forensic arguments are more often quoted than those of any other statesman and lawyer the country has produced.  His works are in every library, and are still read.  His fame has not waned, in spite of the stirring events which have taken place since his death.  Great generals have arisen and passed out of mind, but the name and memory of Webster are still fresh.  Amid the tumults and parties of the war he foresaw and dreaded, his glory may have passed through an eclipse, but his name is to-day one of the proudest connected with our history.  Living men, occupying great official positions, are of course more talked about and thought of than he; but of those illustrious characters who figured in public affairs a generation ago, no one has so great a posthumous fame and influence as the distinguished senator from Massachusetts.  No man since the days of Jefferson is seated on a loftier pedestal; and no one is likely to live longer, if not in the nation’s heart, yet in its admiration for intellectual superiority and respect for political services.  While he reigned as a political oracle for more than thirty years,—­almost an idol in the eyes of his constituents,—­it was his misfortune to be dethroned and reviled, in the last ten years of his life, by the very people who had exalted and honored him, and at last to die broken-hearted, from the loss of his well-earned popularity and the failure of his ambitious expectations.  His life is sad as well as proud, like that of so many other great men who at one time led, and at another time opposed, popular sentiments.  Their names stand out on every page of history, examples of the mutability of fortune,—­alike joyous and saddened men, reaping both glory and shame; and sometimes glory for what is evil, and shame for what is good.