Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)

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scales will be turned in our favor, and they will buy more copyrights of us than we shall of them. At all events, an immediate and powerful stimulus would be added to authorship, and to some of the trades and professions connected with the production of books in this country, if we could have the British market opened to us on some such plan as is herein proposed. Nearly every new work would be stereotyped, and a set of plates sent to England; and these, in view of the increased sale, and the high and improving standard of taste, abroad, would be got up in a superior manner, in all respects. Let us think well of these things!

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LETTER LV.

Recollections of Washington--The House of Representatives--Missouri Compromise--Clay, Randolph, and Lowndes--The Senate--Rufus King--William Pinkney--Mr. Macon--Judge Marshall--Election of J. Q. Adams--President Monroe--Meeting of Adams and Jackson--Jackson's Administration--Clay--Calhoun--Webster--Anecdotes.

My dear C******

In the autumn of 1846, I went with my family to Paris, partly for literary purposes, and partly also to give my children advantages of education, which, in consequence of my absorbing cares for a series of years, they had been denied. Here they remained for nearly two years, while I returned home to attend to my affairs, spending the winters, however,

with them. Leaving my observations upon Paris to be grouped in one general view, I pass on with my narrative.

Toward the close of 1849 I removed to New York, to execute certain literary engagements. These completed, I went, in December, 1850, to Washington, taking my family with me. Here we remained for three months, when, having received the appointment of United States Consul to Paris, I returned to New York, and after due preparation, sailed on the 5th of April, 1851, to enter upon the official duties which thus devolved upon me.

I invite you to return with me to Washington. I had often been there, and had of course seen and observed many of the remarkable men who had figured in the great arena of politics, through a space of thirty years. I shall now gather up and present to you a few reminiscences connected with this, our national metropolis, which still linger in my mind. Avoiding political matters, however, which are duly chronicled in the books, I shall only give sketches of persons and things, less likely to have fallen under your observation.

My first visit to Washington was in the winter of 1819-20. Monroe was then President, and D. D. Tompkins, Vice-president; Marshall was at the head of the Supreme Court; Clay, Speaker of the House of Representatives. In the latter body, the two most noted members, exclusive of the speaker, were Wil-

liam Lowndes of South Carolina, and John Randolph of Virginia.

At the period of my visit, the clouds were mustering in the horizon for that tempest which not only agitated Congress, but the whole country, in consequence of the application of Missouri for admission into the Union. A few weeks later, the "Compromise of 36° 30´," was passed by both houses, but the actual admission of the State did not take place till the ensuing session. I was at Washington but one day, and of course could only take a hurried view of the principal objects of interest. I was in the House of Representatives but a single hour. While I was present, there was no direct discussion of the agitating subject which already filled everybody's mind, but still the excitement flared out occasionally in incidental allusions to it, like puffs of smoke and jets of flame which issue from a house that is on fire within. I recollect that Clay descended from the speaker's chair, and made a brief speech, thrilling the House by a single passage, in which he spoke of "poor, unheard Missouri"--she being then without a representative in Congress. His tall, tossing form, his long, sweeping gestures, and above all, his musical, yet thrilling tones, made an impression upon me which I can never forget. Some time after, in the course of the debate, a tall man, with a little head and a small, oval countenance like that of a boy prematurely grown old, arose and addressed the chair. He

paused a moment, and I had time to study his appearance. His hair was jet black, and clubbed in a queue; his eye was black, small, and painfully penetrating. His complexion was a yellowish-brown, bespeaking Indian blood. I knew at once that it must be John Randolph. As he uttered the words, "Mr. Speaker!"--every member turned in his seat, and facing him, gazed as if some portent had suddenly appeared before them. "Mr. Speaker"--said he, in a shrill voice, which, however, pierced every nook and corner of the hall--"I have but one word to say; one word, sir, and that is to state a fact. The measure to which the gentleman has just alluded, originated in a dirty trick!" These were his precise words. The subject to which he referred I did not gather, but the coolness and impudence of the speaker were admirable in their way. I never saw better acting, even in Kean. His look, his manner, his long arm, his elvish fore-finger--like an exclamation-point, punctuating his bitter thought--showed the skill of a master. The effect of the whole was to startle everybody, as if a pistol-shot had rung through the hall.*

Soon after Lowndes arose, and there was a general movement of the members from the remote parts of the room, toward him. His appearance was remarkable. He was six feet two inches high--slender, bent, emaciated, and evidently of feeble frame. His complexion was sallow and dead, and his face almost without expression. His voice, too, was low and whispering. And yet he was, all things considered, the strong man of the House; strong in his various knowledge, his comprehensive understanding, his pure heart, his upright intentions, and above all, in the confidence these qualities had inspired. Everything he said was listened to as the words of wisdom. It was he who gave utterance to the sentiment that the "office of president was neither to be solicited nor refused." I was unable to hear what he said, but the stillness around--the intent listening of the entire assembly--

bore testimony to the estimation in which he was held. I never saw him afterward. About two years later, he died on a voyage to England for the benefit of his health, and thus, in the language of an eminent member of Congress, "were extinguished the brightest hopes of the country, which, by a general movement, were looking to him as the future chief-magistrate of the nation."

These sketches, I know, are trifles; but as this was my first look at either branch of Congress, and as, moreover, I had a glance at three remarkable men, you will perhaps excuse me for recording my impressions.

In the Senate, the persons who most attracted my attention were Rufus King, of New York, then holding the highest rank in that body for able statesmanship, combined with acknowledged probity and great dignity of person, manner, and character; Harrison Gray Otis, whom I have already described; William Hunter, of Rhode Island, noted for his agreeable presence and his great conversational powers; William Pinkney,* of Maryland, the most dis-

tinguished lawyer of that era--a large, handsome man, and remarkable for his somewhat foppish dress--wearing, when I saw him, a white waistcoat, and white-top boots; and Mr. Macon, of North Carolina, a solid, farmer-like man, but greatly esteemed for combining a sound patriotism with a consistent political career. On the whole, the general aspect of the Senate was that of high dignity, sobriety, and refinement. There were more persons of that body who had the marks of well-bred gentlemen, in their air, dress, and demeanor, than at the present day. In manners, the Senate has unquestionably degenerated.

During the half hour in which I was present, there was no debate. I went to the hall of the Supreme Court, but the proceedings were without special interest. Among the judges were Marshall and Story, both of whom riveted my attention. The former was now sixty-four years old, and still in the full vigor of his career. He was tall and thin, with a small face, expressive of acuteness and amiability. His personal manner was eminently dignified, yet his brow did not seem to me to indicate the full force of his

great abilities and lofty moral qualities. I saw him many times afterward, and learned to look with, reverence upon him, as being the best representative of the era and spirit of Washington, which lingered among us.

I pass over several visits which I made at different periods to the capital, and come to the winter of 1825, when J. Q. Adams was elected President by the House of Representatives. I was in the gallery of that body at the time the vote was declared. The result produced no great excitement, for it had been foreseen for some days. The popular sentiment of the country, however, was no doubt overruled by electing to the chief-magistracy the second* of the three candidates eligible to the office, and this was severely avenged four years afterward at the polls. Mr. Adams, with all the patronage of the government, was displaced by his rival, Gen. Jackson, in 1828, by an electoral vote of one hundred and seventy-eight to eighty-three.

But it is not my purpose to load these light letters with the weightier matters of politics. I only give an

outline of public events, which may serve as frames to the personal tableaux which I wish to present to your view. Let me take you, then, to the President's levee, the evening of the 2d of February, 1825--in the afternoon of which Adams had triumphed and Jackson had been defeated.

The apartments at the White House were thronged to repletion--for not only did all the world desire to meet and gossip over the events of the day, but this was one of the very last gatherings which would take place under the presidency of Monroe, and which had now continued for eight years. It was the first time that I had been present at a presidential levee, and it was therefore, to me, an event of no ordinary excitement.

The President I had seen before at Hartford, as I have told you; here, in the midst of his court, he seemed to me even more dull, sleepy, and insignificant in personal appearance, than on that occasion. He was under size, his dress plain black, and a little rusty; his neckcloth small, ropy, and carelessly tied; his frill matted; his countenance, wilted with age and study and care. He was almost destitute of forehead, and what he had, was deeply furrowed in two distinct arches over his eyes, which were small, gray, glimmering, and deeply set in large sockets. Altogether, his personal appearance was owlish and ordinary--without dignity, either of form or expression; indeed, I could scarce get over the idea that

there was a certain look of meanness in his countenance. The lowness of his brow was so remarkable that a person in the room, said to me, in looking at him--"He hasn't got brains enough to hold his hat on!" His manners, however, which were assiduously courteous, with a sort of habitual diplomatic smile upon his face, in some degree redeemed the natural indifference of his form and features. I gazed with eager curiosity at this individual--seeking, and yet in vain, to discover in his appearance the explanation of the fact that his presidency had been considered as the era of a millennial truce between the great parties whose strife had agitated the country to its foundations; and also of another fact--that he had, like Washington, been elected to the presidency a second time, almost without opposition. I could, however, find no solution of these events in the plain, homely, undemonstrative presence before me. History has indeed given the interpretation--for we know that, despite these traits in his personal appearance, Mr. Monroe possessed a quiet energy of character, combined with a sound and penetrating judgment, great experience, and strong sense, which rendered his administration in some respects eminently successful.

Mrs. Monroe appeared much younger, and was of very agreeable manners and person. During the eight years of her presidency over the sociabilities of the White House, she exercised a genial influence in

infusing elegance and dignity into the intercourse of the society which came under her sway.

I shall pass over other individuals present, only noting an incident which respects the two persons in the assembly who, most of all others, engrossed the thoughts of the visitors--Mr. Adams the elect, Gen. Jackson the defeated. It chanced in the course of the evening that these two persons, involved in the throng, approached each other from opposite directions, yet without knowing it. Suddenly, as they were almost together, the persons around, seeing what was to happen, by a sort of instinct stepped aside and left them face to face. Mr. Adams was by himself; Gen. Jackson had a large, handsome lady on his arm. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Gen. Jackson moved forward, and reaching out his long arm, said--"How do you do, Mr. Adams? I give you my left hand, for the right, as you see, is devoted to the fair: I hope you are very well, sir." All this was gallantly and heartily said and done. Mr. Adams took the general's hand, and said, with chilling coldness--"Very well, sir: I hope Gen. Jackson is well!" It was curious to see the western planter, the Indian fighter, the stern soldier who had written his country's glory in the blood of the enemy at New Orleans--genial and gracious in the midst of a court, while the old courtier and diplomat was stiff, rigid, cold as a statue! It was all the more remarkable from the fact that, four hours- before, the former

had been defeated, and the latter was the victor, in a struggle for one of the highest objects of human ambition. The personal character of these two individuals was in fact well expressed in that chance meeting: the gallantry, the frankness, and the heartiness of the one, which captivated all; the coldness, the distance, the self-concentration of the other, which repelled all.*

I pass over several years, and come to the period when Jackson was President, at which time I was often at Washington. It was a marked epoch, for Webster, Calhoun, and Clay were then in the Senate. It is seldom that three such men appear upon the theater of action at the same time. They were each distinct from the other in person, manners, heart, constitution; they were from different sections of the country, and to some extent reflected the manners, habits, and opinions of these diverse regions. They were all of remarkable personal appearance: Webster of massive form, dark complexion, and thoughtful, solemn countenance; Clay, tall, of rather slight frame, but keen, flexible features, and singular ease and freedom in his attitudes, his walk, and his gestures. Calhoun was also tall, but erect, and rigid in his form---his eye grayish blue, and flashing from beneath a brow at once imperious and scornful. All these men were great actors, not through art, but nature, and gave to the effect of their high intellectual endowments, the added power of commanding personal presence and singularly expressive countenances. They have passed from the stage, and all

that survives of them belongs to the domain of history. Many of the speeches, now recorded in their books, I heard and remember, with their lofty images still painted in my eye and their thrilling tones still echoing in my ear. Those who never heard them, never saw them, will hereafter read and ponder and admire the glowing words, the mighty thoughts they have left behind; but they can never compass the conceptions which linger in the minds of those who beheld them in the full exercise of their faculties, and playing their several parts on their great theater of life and action--the Senate of the United States.

Calhoun was educated in Connecticut, first graduating at Yale College, and then at the Litchfield law school. I have often heard his classmates speak of him as manifesting great abilities and great ambition, from the beginning. He was particularly noted for his conversational powers, and a cordiality of manners which won the hearts of all. He was deemed frank, hearty, sympathetic. One of his intimates at Yale, told me that about the year 1812 he was elected to Congress. Mr. Calhoun was then a member, and one of the greatest pleasures his classmate anticipated, was in meeting his college friend. He was kindly received, but in the first interview, he discovered that the heart of the now rising politician was gone. He had already given up to ambition what was meant for mankind.

Mr. Calhoun had, however, many friends in New

England, partly from the favorable impression he made while residing there, and partly also from his conduct during the earlier portion of his public career. He had, indeed, promoted the war of 1812, but in many of his opinions--especially in the support of a navy--he coincided with the North. His administration of the war department from 1817, during the long period of seven years, was singularly successful, and everywhere increased his reputation as a practical statesman. It is a curious circumstance, explained by the facts I have just mentioned, that in the election of 1824, while Jackson was defeated for the presidency, Calhoun was still chosen vice-president, and mainly by northern votes.* Thus far his measures, his policy, had been national; but he soon changed, and frequently shifting his position, lost the confidence of his own party and of the country. For the last fifteen years of his life, "he was like a strong man struggling in a morass: every effort to extricate himself only sinking him deeper and deeper." He has passed away, leaving abundant evidences of his abilities, but with the sad distinction of having successfully devoted the last years of his life to the establishment of the doctrine in his own State and among many of his admirers, that domestic Slavery is a good and beneficent institution--compatible with the Constitution of the United States, and entitled to pro-

tection and perpetuity beneath its banner! What a departure is this from the views and opinions of the founders of our National Independence and the Federal Union--Washington, Franklin, Jefferson, and Madison!

Mr. Clay was also a supporter of the war of 1812, and probably was, more than any other individual, responsible for it. During its progress, he was the eloquent defender of the administration, through its struggles and disasters, and was hence the special object of New England hostility. He, however, joined Mr. Adams, in 1825, and having contributed, by his commanding influence, to his election, became his Secretary of State. His policy upon the tariff afterward brought him into harmony with the North, and he was long the favorite candidate of the whigs for the presidency. But he, too, like Calhoun, was a man of "positions," and with all his abilities--with all his struggles--he slipped between them, and fell, without realizing the great object of his eager ambition--the presidency.*

The first time I ever saw Mr. Webster was on the 17th of June, 1825, at the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument. I shall never forget his appearance as he strode across the open area, encircled by some fifty thousand persons--men and women--waiting for the "Orator of the Day," nor the shout that simultaneously burst forth, as he was recognized, carrying up to the skies the name of "Webster!" "Webster!" "Webster!"

It was one of those lovely days in June, when the

sun is bright, the air clear, and the breath of nature so sweet and pure as to fill every bosom with a grateful joy in. the mere consciousness of existence. There were present long files of soldiers in their holiday attire; there were many associations, with their mottoed banners; there were lodges and grand lodges, in white aprons and blue scarfs; there were miles of citizens from the towns and the country round about; there were two hundred gray-haired men, remnants of the days of the Revolution; there was among them. a stranger, of great mildness and dignity of appearance, on whom all eyes rested, and when his name was known, the air echoed with the cry--"Welcome, welcome, Lafayette!"* Around all this scene, was a

rainbow of beauty such as New England alone can furnish.

I have seen many public festivities and ceremonials, but never one, taken all together, of more general interest than this. Every thing was fortunate : all were gratified; but the address was that which seemed uppermost in all minds and hearts. Mr. Webster was in the very zenith of his fame and of his powers. I have looked on many mighty men--King George, the "first gentleman in England;" Sir Astley Cooper, the Apollo of his generation; Peele, O'Connell, Palmerston, Lyndhurst--all nature's noblemen; I have seen Cuvier, Guizot, Arago, Lamartine--marked in their persons by the genius which have carried their names over the world; I have seen Clay, and Calhoun, and Pinkney, and King, and Dwight, and Daggett, who stand as high examples of personal endowment, in our annals, and yet not one of these approached Mr. Webster in the commanding power of their personal presence. There

was a grandeur in his form, an intelligence in his deep dark eye, a loftiness in his expansive brow, a significance in his arched lip, altogether beyond those of any other human being I ever saw. And these, on the occasion to which I allude, had their full expression and interpretation.

In general, the oration was serious, full of weighty thought and deep reflection. Occasionally there were flashes of fine imagination, and several passages of deep, overwhelming emotion.* I was near the speaker, and not only heard every word, but I saw every movement of his countenance. When he came to address the few scarred and time-worn veterans--some forty in number--who had shared in the bloody scene which all had now gathered to commemorate, he paused a moment, and, as he uttered the words "Venerable men," his voice trembled, and I could see a cloud pass over the sea of faces that turned upon the speaker. When at last, alluding to the death of Warren, he said--

"But ah, Him!--the first great martyr of this great cause. Him, the patriotic victim of his own self-devoting heart. Him, cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom: falling ere he saw the star of his country rise--how shall I struggle with the emotions that stifle the utterance of thy name!" Here the eyes of the veterans around, little accustomed to tears, were filled to the brim, and some of them "sobbed aloud in their fullness of heart." The orator went on:

"Our poor work may perish, but thine shall endure: this monument may molder away, the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to the level of the sea; but thy memory shall not fail. Wherever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall claim kindred with thy spirit!"

I have never seen such an effect, from a single passage: a moment before, every bosom bent, every brow was clouded, every eye was dim. Lifted as by inspiration, every breast seemed now to expand, every gaze to turn above, every face to beam with a holy yet exulting enthusiasm. It was the omnipotence of eloquence, which, like the agitated sea, carries a host upon its waves, sinking and swelling with its irresistible undulations.

It was some years subsequent to this that I became personally acquainted with Mr. Webster. From 1836, to the time of his death, I saw him frequently,

sometimes in public and sometimes in private. I have heard some of his great speeches, as well at Washington as elsewhere, but I must say that his conversation impressed me quite as strongly as his public addresses. I once traveled with him from Washington to Baltimore. During a ride of two hours, he spoke of a great variety of subjects--agriculture, horticulture, physical geography, geology--with a perfectness of knowledge, from the minutest details to the highest philosophy, which amazed me. One thing I particularly remarked, he had no half conceptions, no uncertain knowledge. What he knew, he was sure of. His recollection seemed absolutely perfect. His mind grasped the smallest as well as the greatest things. He spoke of experiments he had made at Marshfield in protecting trees, recently planted, by interposing boards between them and the prevailing winds, observing that these grew nearly twice as rapidly as those which were exposed to the full sweep of the blasts. He spoke of the recent discoveries of geology--which had converted the rocky lamina of the earth, hidden from the beginning, into leaves of a book, in which, we could trace the footprints of the Creator--with perfect knowledge of the subject, and a full appreciation of the sublimity of its revelations.

At Baltimore, while sitting at table after tea, the conversation continued, taking in a great variety of subjects. One of the ladies of our company asked

Mr. Webster if he chose Marshfield for a residence because it was near the sea.

"Yes, madam," was the reply.

"And do you love the seashore?"

"Yes, I love it, yet not perhaps as others do. I can not pick up shells and pebbles along the shore. I can never forget the presence of the sea. It seems to speak to me, and beckon to me. When I see the surf come rolling in, like a horse foaming from the battle, I can not stoop down and pick up pebbles. The sea unquestionably presents more grand and exciting pictures and conceptions to the mind, than any other portion of the earth, partly because it is always new to us, and partly, too, because of the majestic movement of its great mass of waters. The mystery of its depths, the history of its devastations, crowd the mind with lofty images.

     "'The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
     Of rook-built cities, bidding nations quake,
     And monarchs tremble in their capitals--
     The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
     Their clay creator the vain title take
     Of lord of thee and arbiter of war:
     These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake,
     They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

     "'Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
     Glasses itself in tempests:  in all time,
     Calm or convulsed--in breeze or gale or storm,
     Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime,

     Dark-heaving:  boundless, endless, and sublime--
     The image of Eternity--the throne
     Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
     The monsters of the deep are made:  each zone
Obeys thee:  thou goest forth dread, fathomless, alone!'

I know of few descriptions of nature equal in sublimity to that."

It is impossible to give any impression of the effect of this passage, recited in low, solemn tones like the bass of an organ, the brow of the speaker seeming to reflect the very scenes it described.

Yet Mr. Webster was not always serious. In the circle of intimate friends he was generally cheerful and sometimes playful, not only relishing wit and repartee, but contributing to it his proper share. I have heard of one occasion in which he kept a full table in a roar for half an hour with his sallies. Many years ago there was a contested election in Mississippi--the seats of two sitting members being claimed by a Mr. Word and the famous orator, S. S. Prentiss.* The two claimants came to Washington,

and argued their case before the House, but it was dismissed, and they were sent back for a new election. Prentiss, however, had sustained himself with so much ability, that before his departure a few of his whig friends concluded to give him a dinner. This was private, though some thirty persons were present. Late in the evening, when all were warmed with the cheer, Preston, of South Carolina, rose and proposed this sentiment:

"Daniel Webster--a Northern man with Southern principles!"

Mr. Webster, after a moment's hesitation, said: "Mr. Chairman, I rise in obedience to the flattering call of my good friend from South Carolina: Daniel Webster--a Northern man with Southern principles! Well, sir, I was born in New Hampshire, and therefore I am a northern, man. There is no doubt of that. And if what the people say of us be true, it is equally certain that I am a man of southern principles. 'Sir, do I ever leave a heel-tap in my glass? Do I ever pay my debts? Don't I always prefer

challenging a man who won't fight?" And thus he went on in a manner more suitable to the occasion than to these pages--until at last, amid roars of laughter and shouts of applause, he sat down.

The countenance of Mr. Webster was generally solemn, and even severe, especially when he was absorbed in thought: yet when, relaxed with agreeable emotions, it was irresistibly winning. I have heard an anecdote which furnishes a pleasing illustration of this. At the time Mr. Wirt was Attorney-general, Mr. Webster, having some business with him, went to his office. Mr. Wirt was engaged for a few moments at his desk, and asked Mr. Webster to sit down a short time, when he would come to him. Mr. Webster did as requested, and for some moments sat looking moodily into the fire. At length one of Mr. Wirt's children--a girl of six or eight years old--came in, and thinking it was her father, went to Mr. Webster, and putting her elbows on his knee, looked up in his face. In an instant she started back, shocked at her mistake, and appalled by the dark, moody countenance before her. At the same moment Mr. Webster became aware of her presence. His whole face changed in an instant: a smile came over his face; he put out his hand, and all was so winning, that the child, after hesitating a moment, also smiled, and went back and resumed her confiding position, as if it had indeed been her father.

That Mr. Webster had his faults, we all know;

but the general soundness of his heart and character, as well as the soundness of his intellect, are demonstrated by his works. These are an indestructible monument, attesting alike his greatness and his goodness. Among all these volumes, so full of thought, so pregnant with instruction, so abounding in knowledge, there is not an impure suggestion, not a mean sentiment, not a malicious sentence. All is patriotic, virtuous, ennobling. And the truths he thus uttered--how are they beautified, adorned, and commended by the purity of the style and the elegance of the diction! In this respect there is a remarkable difference between him and his great rivals, Clay and Calhoun. Mr. Webster's works abound in passages which convey beautiful sentiments in beautiful language*--gems of

thought set in golden sentences, fitting them to become the adornments of gifted and tasteful minds, for all future time. With these other orators it is not so: there is an earnest, direct, vigorous logic in Calhoun, which, however, can spare not a sentence to any subsidiary thought; there is a warm, glowing, hearty current of persuasion in Clay, yet he is too ardent in the pursuit of his main design, to pause for

a moment to gather or scatter flowers by the wayside. In all the works of these two great men, it is not easy to select a page which, may challenge admiration on account of its artistic beauty, or because it enshrines general truth and philosophy, so happily expressed as to enforce them upon the worship of the heart.

Of Mr. Webster's magnanimity, there are abundant

evidences. His whole course in the House as well as in the Senate evinced it. He never displayed, because he never felt that littleness of soul, which signalizes itself in envy, and malice, and uncharitableness, Nothing can be finer than the uniform dignity of his conduct through a congressional period of more than twenty years. But there are two instances of his greatness of soul, which have appeared to me remarkable, and especially worthy of being recorded, because they refer to those individuals, Clay and Calhoun, who of all others he might have been supposed to regard with feelings of aversion, if not of hostility.

It is well remembered by all those who are conversant with the history of the times, that Mr. Webster, then acting as Secretary of State in the Tyler Cabinet, thought fit to continue in his place, when the

other members resigned. This conduct drew upon him attacks from various quarters, and especially from those who were known to take counsel of Mr. Clay. It was manifest, as well from the bitterness as the persistence of the onslaught, that the purpose was to effect Mr. Webster's destruction as a public man. This object was not accomplished, for it soon appeared to the world that he had been governed by the. highest motives of patriotism, in the course he had adopted, and that he had indeed made it the means of accomplishing a great national benefit--the settling of the irritating and threatening question of the "Maine boundary." In fact, Mr. Webster rather gained than lost in the confidence of men whose opinions are of value, in spite of this conspiracy which sought to overwhelm him.

In the spring of 1844, Mr. Clay, having been on a trip to the South, came to Washington. He was already indicated by public opinion as the whig candidate for the presidency, and it seemed highly probable that the time had now come for the realization of his known and cherished aspirations, in respect to that high position. He was himself sanguine of success. On the 1st of May he was nominated at Baltimore, by a whig convention, for the office in question, and the next day there was to be a grand rally of young men, to ratify the nomination. It was suggested to Mr. Clay that it was' eminently desirable that Mr. Webster should add his influence in behalf

of the nomination; but he is said to have felt that he neither needed nor desired it. His friends, however, thought otherwise, and a message was dispatched to Mr. Webster, begging him to come on to the convention, already gathering at Baltimore. This reached him while he was dining at the Astor House, in New York. He immediately left the table, and after a brief communion with himself, departed, and arrived in time to join his voice in a powerful speech, to the enthusiasm of the occasion.

A very short period after this, the clouds began to thicken in the political horizon. Mr. Polk had been nominated, and the important State of Pennsylvania was seen to be in danger of giving him her vote. In this emergency, Mr. Webster was besought to go there and address the people at Philadelphia, and in the mining districts, where large masses were congregated. Perfectly well knowing Mr. Clay's sentiments and conduct toward him, he still went, and made a series of addresses, among the most eloquent that he ever uttered. In the course of these, he had occasion to speak of Mr. Clay. It was a delicate task, therefore, to do justice to his position, as an advocate of Mr. Clay's candidacy, while at the same time Mr. Clay's treatment of him was fresh in the public mind. Yet with a tact, which does infinite credit to his good taste, and a magnanimity which equally honors his heart, he spoke of Mr. Clay in the following words:

We may not only refer to this passage as evidence of Mr. Webster's magnanimity of soul, but as a high example of gentlemanly dignity--in the very heat of an animated party discussion, not forgetting to render justice even to an adversary.

In respect to Mr. Calhoun, Mr. Webster displayed similar elevation of mind. It is matter of history that, in the earlier periods of their congressional life, these two men were drawn together by mutual admiration. But party exigences have no respect for private feelings, and accordingly Mr. Calhoun joined the conspiracy, which, in 1832, was formed to crush Mr. Webster; a measure which it was hoped to accomplish through the eloquence of Mr. Hayne, assisted by the united talent of the democratic party, at that time powerfully represented in the Senate. That he escaped, was owing to his own matchless abilities*--for there is hardly an instance on record in which a man, single-handed, has withstood and baffled and punished so formidable a combination. For several years immediately following, Mr. Webster was called into an almost perpetual conflict with Mr. Calhoun--from this point his stern, unflinching adversary. By general consent, others stood aloof, almost in awe of the conflict between these two champions. The struggle furnishes some of the most remarkable passages in our political history. But an event at last

arrived which was to put an end to the strife. Mr. Calhoun, who had gradually been sinking under a decay of health and constitution, expired at Washington on the 31st of March, 1850. It was then that Mr. Webster rose in the Senate and pronounced upon him a eulogium, in which all his merits were beautifully set forth, without one of the many shadows which truth might have furnished.

Was there not something grand and at the same time affecting in a scene like this--a great man--all selfish, thought rebuked, all passed bitterness forgot--uttering words like these, over the now prostrate competitor with whom it had been his lot to wrestle through long years of the bitterest party conflict?

But I must draw this chapter to a close; yet my memory is, indeed, full of the images of other men of mark whom I have seen upon the great stage of action at Washington. Among them was William Wirt, an able lawyer, an elegant writer, an accomplished gentleman--and, at the time I knew him, Attorney-general of the United States; Mr. Forsyth, Gen. Jackson's accomplished Secretary of State, at whose house I remember once to have dined when Mr. Benton, Isaac Hill, John M. Niles,* and others

were present; "John Taylor of Caroline," an able Virginian statesman, and the very personification of old-fashioned dignity and courtesy; Albert Gallatin, a dark, swarthy man, with an eye that seemed to penetrate the souls of all who approached him; Henry R. Storrs,* a native of Connecticut, but a representative from New York--one of the ablest debaters of his day; Hayne of South Carolina, the gallant but unsuccessful jouster with Mr. Webster; Burgess of Rhode

Island--a man of prodigious powers of sarcasm, and who made even John Randolph quail; Silas Wright of New York, ever courteous, ever smiling--a giant in strength, conquering his antagonists with such an air of good-humor as to reconcile them to defeat: these, and still others among the departed, live in my memory, and were there time and occasion, would furnish interesting themes of description and comment. Of those among the living--Crittenden, noted for his close argument and polished sarcasm; Benton of Missouri, who has fought his way through many prejudices, till he has attained the reputation of unrivaled industry1, vast acquisitions, and an enlarged statesmanship; Bell of Tennessee, always dignified and commanding respect--these linger in my memory as connected with the senate-chamber, where indeed their chief laurels have been won. In the other house, I have often seen and heard Winthrop, Cushing, Wise, T. Marshall--all brilliant orators, and accustomed to "bring down the House," when the spirit moved.

In the White House, I have seen Monroe and Adams, and Jackson and Van Buren, and Harrison and Tyler, and Taylor and Fillmore. How many memories rise up at the mention of these names--associated as they are in my mind with the brilliant throngs I have seen at their levees, or with the public events connected with their names, or the whirlpools of party strife which I have seen, fretting and foaming ut the periods of their election!

But I must forbear. A single domestic event claims to be recorded here, and I shall then take leave of Washington. I have told you that I had come hither with my family. Among them was one to whom existence had hitherto been only a bright, unbroken spring. Gifted, beautiful, healthful, happy--loving all and loved by all--he never suggested by his appearance, an idea but of life, and enjoyment, and success, and prosperity. Yet he was suddenly taken from us. We mourned, though remembrances were mingled with our grief which softened, if they could not wholly remove it. His simple virtues, faintly recorded in the following stanzas, are still more indelibly written on our hearts:

     A MEMORIAL.

Oh, tell me not that Eden's fall
Has left alike its blight on all--
For one I knew from very birth,
Who scarcely bore the stains of earth.
No wondrous bump of skull had he--
No mark of startling prodigy;
His ways were gentle, tranquil, mild--
Such as befit a happy child--
With thoughtful face, though bland and fair--
Of hazel eye and auburn hair.

When with his mates in mirthful glee--
A simple, joyous boy was he,
Whose harmless wit, or gentle joke,
A laughing echo often woke.

He gaily joined the ardent chase,
And often won the bantering race.
His sled, endowed with seeming skill,
Flew swiftest down the snowy hill;
And o'er the lake his gliding skates
Left far behind his panting mates.
Yet 'mid the strife the gentle boy
Caught only bliss, and no alloy.
The vulgar oath--th' offensive word--
The lie, the jeer, the scoff, he heard--
Yet none of these e'er soiled his tongue,
Or o'er his breast their shadow flung;
No hidden vice, no lurking sin,
Told on his brow a curse within;
And still, as years flew lightly o'er,
The stamp of truth and peace he bore.

If thus he loved the sportive mood,
Still more he loved alone to brood
Along the winding river's brim,
Through arching forests hoar and dim;
Beside the ocean's shelly shore,
And where the surly cataracts pour.
Yet not an idle dreamer he,
Who wasted life in reverie;
For ocean, forest, fall, and brook--
Each was to him a speaking book:
And thus, untaught, he gained a store
Of curious art and wondrous lore.
I oft have seen him in the wood,
Wrapt in a meditative mood--
Now gazing at the forest high,
Now searching flowers with heedful eye,
Now watching with inquiring view,
Each feathered craftsman as he flew--

-----

The Student.

"Oft have I seen him in the wood,
Wrapt in a meditative mood."      Vol. 2, p. 433.

Now studying deep the spider's thread,
With wondrous cunning twined and spread--
Now tracing out the beetle's den,
Where sturdy insects work like men;
Now on his knees o'er ant-hill bent,
Upon the bustling town intent;
Now snatching with a skillful swoop,
From out the brook, a wriggling troop 
Of tadpole, frog, and nameless wight,
O'er which he pored in strange delight.
And thus, all nature's varied lore 
He loved to ponder o'er and o'er--
To watch alike, with studious gaze,
The insects and their wondrous ways;
The forest, with its flush of flowers--
The landscape, with its bloom of bowers--
The river, winding far away--
The ocean, in its ceaseless play--
The trembling stars, that seem to trace 
God's footsteps o'er the depths of space!

And as in years he older grew,
Still sterner science won his view:
From books he gathered hidden lore,
Though none saw how he gained his store,
Yet most he loved to break the seal 
Of nature's secrets, and reveal 
The wondrous springs that hidden lie 
Within her deep philosophy--
In pulley, axle, wedge, and beam--
In trembling air and flowing stream.
His mind, with shrewd invention fraught,
His hand, with ready practice wrought --
Constructing engines, sped by steam,
That flew o'er mimic rail and stream:

Meanwhile his room a shop became,
With lathe and bellows, forge and flame;
And in the midst, as each could see,
Mechanic--chemist--all was he.

And thus with knowledge he was fraught,
Not by an instinct, but by thought--
Patient and tranquil--bent with care--
O'er many a book--a student rare.
And while he thus the useful knew,
He still was just and truthful too:
He loved the good, the dutiful--
The tasteful, and the beautiful;
Still modest--simple--was his air;
Still found he pleasure everywhere;
Still found he friends on every hand:
The humble loved, for he was bland;
The high admired, for all refined,
His look and manner matched his mind.
No envy broke his bosom's rest--
No pride disturbed his tranquil breast--
No praise he heeded, for he knew 
To judge himself by standards true;
And words to him were vain and waste,
If still unsatisfied his taste.

With rapid hand his pencil drew 
Light sketches of the scenes he knew,
Which told how well his studious eye 
Had traced the hues of earth and sky--
The playful change of light and shade 
O'er rippling wave or spreading glade.
And music from his fingers swept 
So sweet--so deep--the listener wept.
The tutored and untutored round,
In trembling trance, alike were bound;

For not alone with hand and heart,
He mastered all the gems of art,
But bade the soft piano's key 
Reveal unwritten melody--
A flowing fount of playful feeling,
O'er which a plaintive tone was stealing--
As twilight oft is seen to throw 
Its saddening shade o'er sunset's glow.
'Tis said, alas! that those who love 
Sad melodies, go soon above;
And that fair youth--that gentle boy--
So full of light, and love, and joy--
Sixteen bright summers o'er his head--
He sleeps, companion of the dead!

How vain are tears! but memory's art,
While yet it wrings, still soothes the heart;
For if it bring the lost to sight,
He comes in some fond robe of light.
Of all his sports in life's fair day,
He loved the best down yonder bay 
To speed his boat with shivering sail,
Or glide, before the whispering gale;
For in the presence of the sea 
He found a quiet ecstasy,
As if it came with mystic lore,
And beckoned to some happier shore.
And when his last sad hour was nigh,
And clouds were gathering o'er his eye,
His mother asked, "How now, my boy?"
He answered, with a beam of joy--
"I'm in my boat!" and thus he passed--
These simple, meaning words--his last!

LETTER LVI.

London and Paris compared--Paris thirty years ago--Louis XVIII.--The Parisians--Garden of the Tuileries--Washington Irving--Mr. Warden, the American Consul--Société Philomatique--Baron Larrey--Geoffroy St. Hilaire--The Institute--Arago--Lamarck--Gay-Lussac--Cuvier--Lacroix--Laplace--Laennec--Dupuytren--Talma--Mademoiselle Mars.

My dear C******

About the middle of April, 1851, I arrived in Paris, and soon after took charge of the Consulate there. As you know, I have frequently been in this gay city, and I now propose to gather up my recollections of it, and select therefrom a few items which may fill up the blank that yet remains in my story, and in some degree contribute to your amusement.

I first visited Paris in January, 1824, as I have told you. I had spent a month in London, which is always a rather gloomy place to a stranger, and in winter is peculiarly depressing. The people who have houses there, burrow into them, and lighting their coal fires, make themselves happy; but the wanderer from his country, shut out from these cheerful scenes, and forced into the streets, grimed with dirt and drizzle below and incumbered with bituminous fogs above, feels that he is in a dreary wilderness, where man and nature conspire to make him miserable and melancholy. In most great cities, there is something

to cheer the new-comer: it is precisely the reverse with London, and particularly at this dismal season. Its finest streets, its most sumptuous squares, even its noble monuments, which are not few, have always a rather dull aspect, and in the pitchy atmosphere of winter, they seem to be in mourning, and communicate their gloom to all around. St. Paul's, incrusted with soot and dripping with an inky deposit from the persistent fogs; Nelson's monument, black with coal-smoke, and clammy with the chill death-damp of the season,--all these things--the very ornaments and glories of the city-- are positively depressing, and especially to an American, accustomed to the transparent skies, the white snow-drifts, the bracing, cheering atmosphere of his own winter climate.

Paris is the very opposite of London. The latter is an ordinary city, impressed by no distinctive characteristics, except its gloom and its vast extent. It is little more than twenty Liverpools, crowded together, and forming the most populous city in the world. Paris, on the contrary, is marked with prominent and peculiar traits, noticed at once by the most careless observer. On entering the streets, you are struck with the air of ornament and decoration which belongs to the architecture, the effect of which is heightened by the light color of the freestone, the universal building material. The sky is bright, and the people seem to reflect its cheerfulness. The public gar-

dens and squares, surrounded with monuments of art and teeming with men, women, and children, including abundance of rosy nurses and plump babies, all apparently bent on pleasure, and this, too, in midwinter--are peculiar and striking features of this gay metropolis. To an American who has just left London, his heart heavy with hypochondria, Paris is indeed delightful, and soon restores him to his wonted cheerfulness.

At the time I first arrived here, this city was, however, very different from what it now is. Louis XVIII. was upon the throne, and had occupied it for nine years. During this period he had done almost nothing to repair the state of waste and dilapidation in which the allies had left it. These had taken down the statue of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendôme, and left its pedestal vacant; the king had followed up the reform and erased the offensive name of the exiled emperor from the public monuments, and put his own, Louis XVIIL., in their place; he had caused a few churches to be repaired, and some pictures of the Virgin to be painted and placed in their niches. But ghastly mounds of rubbish--the wrecks of demolished edifices--scattered heaps of stones at the foot of half-built walls of buildings, destined never to be completed,--these and other unsightly objects were visible on every hand, marking the recent history of Napoleon, overthrown in the midst of his mighty projects, and leaving his name and his

works to be desecrated alike by a foreign, foe and a more bitter domestic adversary.

The king, Louis XVIII., was a man of good sense and liberal mind, for one of his race; but he was wholly unfit to administer the government. He was a sort of monster of obesity, and, at the time I speak of, having lost the use of his lower limbs, he could not walk, and was trundled about the palace of the Tuileries in a cripple's go-cart, I have often seen him let down in this, through the arch in the southeastern angle of the palace, into his coach, and returning from his ride, again, taken up, and all this more like a helpless barrel of beef than a sovereign. Had the allies intended to make legitimacy at once odious and ridiculous, they could not better have contrived it than by squatting down this obese, imbecile extinguisher upon the throne of France, as the successor of Napoleon!

The Parisians are, however, a philosophic race: as they could not help themselves, they did not spend their lives like children, in profitless poutings. They had their jokes, and among these, they were accustomed to call Louis Dix-huit, Louis des huîtres--a tolerable pun, which was equivalent to giving him the familiar title of Old Oyster Louis. Deeming it their birthright to have three or four hours of pleasure every day--whoever may be in power--they still frequented the promenades, the Boulevards, and the theaters. When, therefore, I first visited the gardens

of the Tuileries of a bright Sunday afternoon, and immediately after quitting the "dull fuliginous abyss" of London, the scene seemed to me like enchantment. I find my impressions thus chronicled in my notes:

"Weather fine, bright, and mild; some shrubs still green, and many flowers yet in bloom; jets of fountains playing in the sunshine; too early in the day for a great throng, yet a great many people here; all have a quiet, sauntering look; hundreds of tidy nurses, with bare arms and neat caps on their heads, the children they carry about being richly dressed, their little rosy cheeks imbedded in lace; the ladies tastefully attired, and walking with a peculiar air of grace--very sentimental and modest in their countenances--never look at you, as they do in London; very provoking. There is no Sunday air in the scene, but rather that of a calm pleasure-day; children are rolling hoops; one boy making a dirt pie; two dogs, which have probably been shut up for a week, having a glorious scamper; wild-pigeons cooing above in the tree-tops; sparrows hopping about on the green sod at the foot of the statues of Flora and Diana, and picking up crumbs of bread thrown to them by the children; a number of old men in the sunshine, sheltered by a northern wall, reading newspapers; several nurses there, sunning their babies; palace of the Tuileries of an architecture never seen in America, but still imposing; the Rue de Rivoli on the north,

superb; the Place Louis Quinze,* fine; the mint and other edifices along the opposite bank of the Seine, beautiful. Wonderful place, this Paris; different from any thing I have seen. It seems devised, in its sky, its edifices, its decorations, its ornaments, for a tasteful and pleasure-loving people. Even I, a wanderer, feel no sense of solitude, of isolation, here. London is repulsive, and seems continually to frown upon the stranger as an outcast; Paris smiles upon him and welcomes him, and makes him feel at home. The genial spirit of the French nation speaks in this, its capital: just as the temper and spirit of John Bull seem to be built into the brick and mortar of the streets of London.

I can not, perhaps, do better than to give you a few more passages from the hasty jottings I made at the time.

"February 6--Washington Irving returned our call. Strikingly mild and amiable; dress--claret coat, rather more pigeon-tailed than the fashion at New York; light waistcoat; tights; ribbed, flesh-colored silk stockings; shoes, polished very bright. This a fashionable dress here. He spoke of many

things, all in a quiet manner, evidently with a fund of feeling beneath.

"February 14--Went with Mr. Warden* to a meeting of the 'Société Philomatique,' composed of members of the Institute; saw Fourier, the famous geometrician and physician; he accompanied Napoleon to Egypt; wears a great brown wig; a dull, clumsy speaker: Thénard, a famous chemist, associated with Gay-Lussac; looks about forty: Larrey; has long black hair parted on the forehead, with an air of gravity and solidity, mingled with simplicity; spoke slowly, but with great clearness. Bonaparte said he was the most honest man he ever knew. He accompanied the expedition to Egypt; is still a distinguished surgeon, and in full practice. Poisson, one of the first mathematicians in Europe; he has a very fine head and splendid eye--seems about forty-eight: Geoffrey St. Hilaire, a zoologist, second only to Cuvier; a bustling, smiling man, of very demonstrative manner; he had two huge fish-bones, which he used for the purpose of illustrating his observations. He was also in the Egyptian expedition, and contributed largely to its scientific results. He seemed about forty-eight, and was listened to with great

attention. Bose, a celebrated agriculturist, botanist, &c., old, respectable, gentlemanly.

"The proceedings were conducted with order and simplicity, forming a striking contrast to the pompous declamation I heard in London, in the Academy of Arts, upon hatching eggs.

"February 16--Went with Mr. Warden to a meeting of the Institute, held in the Hotel Mazarin: one hundred and fifty members present. Arago, president; he is tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing in appearance, with a dark, swarthy complexion, and a black, piercing eye. Lamarck, the famous writer on natural history--old, infirm, blind--was led in by another member--a distinguished entomologist, whose name I have forgotten; Fontaine, the architect--tall, homely, and aged: Gay-Lussac, a renowned chemist, under forty, active, fiery in debate: Cuvier, rather a large man, red face, eyes small, very near-sighted; eyes near together and oddly appearing and disappearing; features acute, hair gray, long, and careless; he spoke several times, and with great pertinency and effect: Lacroix, the mathematician, old, and looks like a '76er: Laplace, the most famous living astronomer, tall, thin, and sharp-featured-- reminded me of the portraits of Voltaire; he is about seventy-five, feeble, yet has all his mental faculties.

"The principal discussion related to gasometers, the police of Paris having asked the opinion of the Institute as to the safety of certain new kinds, lately

introduced. The subject excited great interest, and the debate was quite animated. Thénard, Gay-Lussac, Girard, Laplace, Cuvier, and others, engaged in the debate. Nearly all expressed themselves with great ease and even volubility. They were occasionally vehement, and when excited, several spoke at once, and the president was obliged often to ring his bell to preserve order.

"It was strange and striking to see so many old men, just on the borders of the grave, still retaining such ardor for science as to appear at a club like this, and enter with passion into all the questions that came up. Such a spectacle is not to be seen elsewhere, on the earth. The charms of science generally fade to the eye of threescore and ten; few passions except piety and avarice survive threescore. It is evident, in studying this association, that the highest and most ardent exercises of the mind are here stimulated by the desire of glory, which is the reward of success. One thing struck me forcibly in this assembly, and that was the utter absence of all French foppery in dress, among the members. Their attire was plain black, and generally as simple as that of so many New England clergymen.

"In the evening, went to the Théâtre Français, to see Talma in the celebrated tragedy of Sylla, by Jouy. Did not well understand the French, but could see that the acting was very masterly. Had expected a great deal of rant, but was agreeably disappointed. In

the more passionate parts there was a display of vigor, but at other times the performance was quiet and natural--without any of the stage-exaggeration I am accustomed to. Most of the scenes were such as might actually take place, under the circumstances indicated in the play. Talma is said to resemble Napoleon in person; he certainly looked very much like his portraits. His hair was evidently arranged to favor the idea of resemblance to the emperor. He is a very handsome man, and comes up to my idea of a great actor.

"February 20th--Went to see a new comedy by Casimir Delavigne, "L'Ecole des Vieillards." Talma and Mademoiselle Mars played the two principal parts. The piece consisted of a succession of rather long dialogues, without any change of scenery. The whole theater had somewhat the quiet elegance of a parlor. There were no noisy disturbers; there was no vulgarity--no boisterous applause. The actors appeared like groups of genteel people, conversing, as we see them in actual life. There was nothing very exciting in the situations, nothing highly romantic in the plot or denouement. The interest of the play consisted in playful wit, sparkling repartee, and light satire upon life and society--represented by the most beautiful acting I have ever seen. Talma is inimitable in the character of a refined but somewhat imbecile man, who has passed the prime of life; and Mademoiselle Mars is, beyond comparison, the most graceful and

pleasing of actresses. I am struck with the strict propriety, the refinement even of the manners of the audience. The whole entertainment seems, indeed, to be founded upon a very different idea from that of the English stage, which is largely adapted to delight the coarse tastes of the pit. Here the pit--called the parterre--is filled with people of refinement.

"February 21st--Went to the Hospital of La Charité. Saw Laennec, with his pupils, visiting the patients. He makes great use of the stethoscope, which is a wooden tube applied to the body, and put to the ear: by the sound, the state of the lungs and the vital organs is ascertained. It is like a telescope, by which the interior of the body is perceived, only that the ear is used instead of the eye. It is deemed a great improvement, Laennec is the inventor, and has high reputation in the treatment of diseases of the chest. He has learned to ascertain the condition of the lungs by thumping on the breast and back of the patient, and putting the ear to the body at the same time. He is a little man, five feet three inches high, and thin as a shadow. However, he has acute features, and a manner which bespeaks energy and consciousness of power.

"The whole hospital was neat and clean; bedsteads of iron. French medical practice very light; few medicines given; nursing is a great part of the treatment. Laennec's pupils followed him from patient to patient. He conversed with them in Latin.

One of the patients was a handsome, black-eyed girl, not very sick. All the young men must apply the stethoscope to her chest; she smiled, and seemed to think it all right.

"Same day, went to the Hotel Dieu, a medical and surgical hospital. Saw Dupuytren and his pupils, visiting the patients. He is a rather large man, of a fine Bonapartean head, but sour, contumelious looks. He holds the very first rank as a surgeon. His operations are surprisingly bold and skillful. Edward C...., of Philadelphia, who is here studying medicine, told me a good anecdote of him. He has a notion that he can instantly detect hydrocephalus in a patient, from the manner in which he carries his head. One day, while he was in the midst of his scholars at the hospital, he saw a common sort of man standing at a distance, among several persons who had come for medical advice. Dupuytren's eye fell upon him, and he said to his pupils--'Do you see yonder, that fellow that has his hand to his face, and carries his head almost on his shoulder? Now, take notice: that man has hydrocephalus. Come here, my good fellow!'

"The man thus called, came up. 'Well,' said Dupuytren--'I know what ails you; but come, tell us about it yourself. What is the matter with you?'

"'I've got the toothache!' was the reply.

"'Take that'--said Dupuytren, giving him a box on the ear--'and go to the proper department and have it pulled out!'"