missing one day, could not be found, and was given up for lost.  Several weeks after “friend Dan” returned from a distant town, where he had been teaching school, wearing the lost beaver, and relieving its proprietor from the necessity of covering his head with a battered and long-discarded hat of felt.  How like the Daniel Webster of later years, who never could acquire the sense of meum and tuum, supposed to be the basis of civilization!

Mr. Webster always spoke slightingly of his early oratorical efforts, and requested Mr. Everett, the editor of his works, not to search them out.  He was not just to the productions of his youth, if we may judge from the Fourth-of-July oration which he delivered in 1800, when he was a Junior at Dartmouth, eighteen years of age.  This glowing psalm of the republican David is perfectly characteristic, and entirely worthy of him.  The times that tried men’s souls,—­how recent and vivid they were to the sons of Ebenezer Webster, who had led forth from the New Hampshire hills the neighbors at whose firesides Ezekiel and Daniel had listened, open-mouthed, to the thousand forgotten incidents of the war.  Their professors of history were old John Bowen, who had once been a prisoner with the Indians; Robert Wise, who had sailed round the world and fought in the Revolution on both sides; George Bayly, a pioneer, who saw the first tree felled in Northern New Hampshire; women of the neighborhood, who had heard the midnight yell of savages; and, above all, their own lion-hearted father, who had warred with Frenchmen, Indians, wild nature, British troops, and French ideas.  “O,” wrote Daniel once, “I shall never hear such story-telling again!” It was not in the cold pages of Hildreth, nor in the brief summaries of school-books, that this imaginative, sympathetic youth had learned that part of the political history of the United States—­from 1787 to 1800—­which will ever be its most interesting portion.  He learned it at town-meetings, in the newspapers, at his father’s house, among his neighbors, on election days; he learned it as an intelligent youth, with a passionately loyal father and mother, learned the history of the late war, and is now learning the agonizing history of “reconstruction.”  This oration is the warm and modest expression of all that the receptive and unsceptical student had imbibed and felt during the years of his formation, who saw before him a large company of Revolutionary soldiers and a great multitude of Federalist partisans.  He saluted the audience as “Countrymen, brethren, and fathers.”  The oration was chiefly a rapid, exulting review of the history of the young Republic, with an occasional pomposity, and a few expressions caught from the party discussions of the day.  It is amusing to hear this young Federalist of 1800 speak of Napoleon Bonaparte as “the gasconading pilgrim of Egypt,” and the government of France as the “supercilious, five-headed Directory,” and the President of the United States as “the