Let us not, however, forget that on this occasion, though Daniel Webster appeared for the first time in his life as a leader, he was in reality still only a follower,—­a follower, not of the public opinion of the North, but of the wishes of its capitalists.  And probably many thousands of well-meaning men, not versed in the mysteries of politics, were secretly pleased to find themselves provided with an excuse for yielding once more to a faction, who had over us the immense advantage of having made up their minds to carry their point or fight.  If his was the shame of this speech, ours was the guilt.  He faithfully represented the portion of his constituents whose wine he drank, who helped him out with his notes, and who kept his atmosphere hazy with incense; and he faithfully represented, also, that larger number who wait till the wolf is at their door before arming against him, instead of meeting him afar off in the outskirts of the wood.  Let us own it:  the North yearned for peace in 1850,—­peace at almost any price.

One of the most intimate of Mr. Webster’s friends said, in a public address: 

“It is true that he desired the highest political position in the country,—­that he thought he had fairly earned a claim to that position.  And I solemnly believe that because that claim was denied his days were shortened.”

No enemy of the great orator ever uttered anything so severe against him as this, and we are inclined to think it an error.  It was probably the strength of his desire for the Presidency that shortened his life, not the mere disappointment.  When President Fillmore offered him the post of Secretary of State, in 1850, it appears to have been his preference, much as he loved office, to decline it.  He longed for his beautiful Marshfield, on the shore of the ocean, his herds of noble cattle, his broad, productive fields, his yachts, his fishing, his rambles in the forests planted by his own hand, his homely chats with neighbors and beloved dependents.  “Oh!” said he, “if I could have my own will, never, never would I leave Marshfield again!” But his “friends,” interested and disinterested, told him it was a shorter step from the office of Secretary of State to that of President than from the Senate-chamber.  He yielded, as he always did, and spent a long, hot summer in Washington, to the sore detriment of his health.  And again, in 1852, after he had failed to receive the nomination for the Presidency, he was offered the place of Minister to England.  His “friends” again advised against his acceptance.  His letter to the President, declining the offer, presents him in a sorry light indeed.

“I have made up my mind to think no more about the.  English mission.  My principal reason is, that I think it would be regarded as a descent I have been accustomed to give instructions to ministers abroad, and not to receive them.”

Accustomed!  Yes:  for two years!  It is probable enough that his acceptance of office, and his adherence to it, hastened his death.  Four months after the words were written which we have just quoted, he was no more.