disgusted at their candidate and their negative attitude.  He could justly and properly have left them on a question of principle; but he swallowed the nomination, “not fit to be made,” and gave to his party a decided and public support.  In 1852 the Whigs nominated another successful soldier, who was known to be a Whig, and who had been a candidate for their nomination before.  In their platform they formally adopted the essential principle demanded by Mr. Webster, and declared their adhesion to the compromise measures.  If there was disaffection in regard to this declaration of 1852, there was disaffection also about the silence of 1848.  In the former case, Mr. Webster adhered to the nomination; in the latter, he rejected it.  In 1848 he might still hope to be President through a Whig nomination.  In 1852 he knew that, even if he lived, there would never be another chance.  He gave vent to his disappointment, put no constraint upon himself, prophesied the downfall of his party, and advised his friends to vote for Franklin Pierce.  It was perfectly logical, after advocating the compromise measures, to advise giving the government into the hands of a party controlled by the South.  Mr. Webster would have been entirely reasonable in taking such a course before the Baltimore convention.  He had no right to do so after he had sought a nomination from the Whigs, and it was a breach of faith to act as he did, to advise his friends to desert a falling party and vote for the Democratic candidate.

After the acceptance of the Department of State, Mr. Webster’s health became seriously impaired.  His exertions in advocating the compromise measures, his official labors, and the increased severity of his annual hay-fever,—­all contributed to debilitate him.  His iron constitution weakened in various ways, and especially by frequent periods of intense mental exertion, to which were superadded the excitement and nervous strain inseparable from his career, was beginning to give way.  Slowly but surely he lost ground.  His spirits began to lose their elasticity, and he rarely spoke without a tinge of deep sadness being apparent in all he said.  In May, 1852, while driving near Marshfield, he was thrown from his carriage with much violence, injuring his wrists, and receiving other severe contusions.  The shock was very great, and undoubtedly accelerated the progress of the fatal organic disease which was sapping his life.  This physical injury was followed by the keen disappointment of his defeat at Baltimore, which preyed upon his heart and mind.  During the summer of 1852 his health gave way more rapidly.  He longed to resign, but Mr. Fillmore insisted on his retaining his office.  In July he came to Boston, where he was welcomed by a great public meeting, and hailed with enthusiastic acclamations, which did much to soothe his wounded feelings.  He still continued to transact the business of his department, and in August went to Washington, where he remained until