The treaty, as finally agreed upon, settled a vexatious quarrel over our Northeastern boundary, it overthrew the British claim to exercise the right of search, and it established the right of property in slaves on an American vessel driven by stress of weather into a British port. But the treaty did not settle the exasperating controversy over the fisheries on the North Atlantic coast or the disputed Northwestern boundary. When the treaty finally reached the Senate, it was debated for several weeks in executive session, Mr. Benton leading a strong opposition to it. Near the close of the debate Mr. Calhoun made a strong speech in favor of ratification, in which he praised both Lord Ashburton and Mr. Webster. This speech secured the ratification of the treaty.
Having concluded the Ashburton Treaty, Mr. Webster started for New England to enjoy the rural life so dear to him on his farm at Franklin, New Hampshire, and at Marshfield, Massachusetts. He announced, before he left Washington, that on his arrival at Boston he should address his friends in Faneuil Hall, and there was an intense desire to her what he might have to say on public affairs. The leaders of the Whig party hoped that he would announce a resignation of his office as Secretary of State, denounce the duplicity of President Tyler, and come gracefully to the support of Henry Clay, who had imperiously demanded the Presidential nomination. But Mr. Webster declined to accept the advice given him, and spoke his mind very freely and frankly. There was—said one who heard the speech—no sly insinuation of innuendo, but a straightforward, independent expression of truth, a copious outpouring of keen reproof, solemn admonition, and earnest entreaty.
Among those former home-friends whose behavior was very annoying to Mr. Webster at this time was Mr. Abbott Lawrence, a Boston merchant, who, having amassed a large fortune, coveted political honors, and was a liberal contributor to the campaign fund of his party. Astute and observing, he imagined himself a representative of the merchant-princes of Venice under the Doges and England under the Plantagenets, and he spoke in a measured, stately tone, advancing his ideas with a positiveness that would not brook contradiction. On several occasions he had been one of the "solid men of Boston" who had contributed considerable sums for the pecuniary relief of Mr. Webster, and this emboldened him to assume a dictatorial tone in advising the Secretary of State to resign after the Ashburton Treaty had been negotiated. The command was treated with sovereign contempt, and thenceforth Mr. Lawrence looked upon Mr. Webster as ungrateful, and as standing in the way of his own political advancement. But Mr. Webster defied the would-be cotton-lord, saying: "I am a Whig—a Faneuil Hall Whig—and if any one undertakes to turn me out of that communion, let him see to it who gets out first."
While Mr. Webster had been negotiating the Ashburton Treaty, and after he had found rest at Marshfield, he displayed the same sprightly humor and tender sweetness which so endeared him to those who were permitted to enjoy intimate social relations with him. He always rose with the sun, visiting his farm-yards at Marshfield, and going to market at Washington, before breakfast, with a visit at either place to the kitchen, where he would gravely discuss the culinary programme of the day with Monica, a cook of African descent, whose freedom he had purchased. After breakfast, he would study or write or fish all day, dressing for a late dinner, after which he gave himself up to recreation; sometimes, as Colonel Seaton's daughter has pleasantly told us, singing hymns or songs, generally impartially to the same tune; or gravely essaying the steps of a minuet de la cour, which he had seen danced in the courtly Madisonian era; or joining in the jests of the gay circle, magnificent teeth gleaming, his great, living coals of eyes—"sleeping furnaces," Carlyle called them—soft as a woman's; or his rare, tender smile lighting up the dusky grandeur of his face. Mr. Webster was not, at that period of his life, an intemperate drinker, although, like many other gentlemen of that day, he often imbibed too freely at the dinner-table.
An amusing account has been given of an after-dinner speech by Mr. Webster at a gathering of his political friends, when he had to be prompted by a friend who sat just behind him, and gave him successively phrases and topics. The speech proceeded somewhat after this fashion: Prompter: "Tariff." Webster: "The tariff, gentlemen, is a subject requiring the profound attention of the statesman. American industry, gentlemen, must be ——" (nods a little). Prompter: "National Debt." Webster: "And, gentlemen, there's the national debt—it should be paid (loud cheers, which rouse the speaker); yes, gentlemen, it should be paid (cheers), and I'll be hanged if it sha'n't be—(taking out his pocket-book)—I'll pay it myself! How much is it?" This last question was asked of a gentleman near him with drunken seriousness, and, coupled with the recollection of the well-known impecuniosity of Webster's pocket- book it excited roars of laughter, amidst which the orator sank into his seat and was soon asleep.
Prominent among the Whig Senators was Nathan F. Dixon, of Westerly, Rhode Island. He was one of the old school of political gentlemen. His snow-white hair was tied in a long queue, he had a high forehead, aquiline nose, wide mouth, and dark eyes, which gleamed thorough his glasses. Respecting the body of which he was a member, he used to appear in a black coat and knee-breeches, with a ruffled shirt, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings. He was the Chairman of the Whig Senatorial caucus, and on the last night of the extra session Mr. Clay had complimented him, in rather equivocal language, on the ability with which he had presided. When the laughter had subsided, Senator Dixon rose, and with inimitable humor thanked the Senator from Kentucky. "I am aware," said he, "that I never had but one equal as a presiding officer, and that was the Senator from Kentucky. Some of you may have thought that he was not in earnest, but did you know him as well as I do, you would credit any remark he may make before ten o'clock at night—after that, owing to the strength of his night-caps, there may be doubts." Roars of laughter followed, and the Senate caucus adjourned, as the Senate had done, sine die.
President Tyler had great faith in the power of the newspaper press, and he secured, at an early period of his Administration, by a lavish distribution of the advertising patronage of the Executive Departments, an "organ" in nearly every State. The journals thus recompensed for their support of the Administration were generally without political influence, but Mr. Tyler prized their support, and personally looked after their interests. Alluding to them in a letter to a friend, he said: "Their motives may be selfish, but if I reject them for that, who among the great mass of office- holders can be trusted? They give one all the aid in their power, and I do not stop to inquire into motives." In another letter he complains of an official at New Orleans, saying: "I have felt no little surprise at the fact that he should have thrown into the Bee Republican, a paper zealous and able in the cause of the Administration." The central "organ," from which the others were to take their cues, was the Madisonian, originally established by Thomas Allen. He disposed of it after he married the handsome and wealthy Miss Russell, of Missouri, whose tiara and necklace of diamonds had been the envy of all the ladies at Washington. John B. Johnson, the author of Wild Western Scenes, then became the editor, and wrote ponderous editorials advocating "Justice to John Tyler," which the minor organs all over the country were expected to copy.
[Facsimile] Rufus Choate RUFUS CHOATE was born at Ipswich, Massachusetts, October 1st, 1819; was a Representative in Congress from Massachusetts, 1831-1834; was United States Senator, 1841-1845, and died at Halifax, Nova Scotia, July 13th, 1859.
CHAPTER XXII. THE CAPITOL AND THE DRAWING-ROOM.
When the Twenty-seventh Congress met in December, 1841, it was evident that there could be no harmonious action between that body and the President, but he was not disposed to succumb. Writing to a friend, he said the coming session was "likely to prove as turbulent and fractious as any since the days of Adam. But [he added] I have a firm grip on the reins." In this he was mistaken, or, rather, he had been deceived by the sycophants around him. Neither House paid any attention to the recommendations which he made in his messages, and only a few of his nominations were confirmed. The Whigs, who had elected the President, repudiated all responsibility for his acts and treated him as a traitor, and the Democrats, while they accepted offices from him, generally spoke of him with contempt.