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 of New England, although there is great opposition in the New England States against Webster, particularly among the Anti-slavery party. Each of these, although old, has been a mighty champion; at the same time admired and feared, loved and hated. There yet remain two; the third fell on the scene of combat, fighting in death, and as it seemed, even against it.

His portrait and bust, of which I have seen many, give me the impression of a burning volcano. The hair stands on end, the deep-set eyes flash, deep furrows plough that keen, thin countenance. It is impossible from this exterior, which seems to have been ravaged by sickness and passion, to form any idea of the fascinating man in society, the excellent head of a family, with manners as pure as those of a woman, affectionate to all his relatives, a good master, almost adored by his servants and slaves—in a word, the amiable human being, which even his enemies acknowledge him to have been.

Political ambition and party-spirit seem to have been his demons, and to have hastened his death. Clay in his speech on Calhoun in the Senate, makes some gently warning allusions to this. His fight for slavery was “a political bravado,” said a clever lady, who was not one of the anti-slavery party. Pity that so good a man should live—and died for so wretched a thing!

In South Carolina, the idolatry with which he was regarded was carried to the extreme, and it has been said, in joke, that “when Calhoun took snuff the whole of Carolina sneezed.” Even now people talk and write about him as if he had been a divine person.

During the procession a whole crowd of negroes leapt about the streets, looking quite entertained, as they are by any pomp. Some one told me that he heard the negroes say, “Calhoun was indeed a wicked man, for he wished that we might remain slaves.” On the evening of this day we had strangers at home,