(PRIVATE.)
Washington, September 12, 1850.
MY DEAR SIR,—I use
the confidential hand of another to write you a short letter, my eyes holding
out only to perform a small part of the duty expected from them every day. I am
in the midst of my periodical catarrh, or "hay fever," or whatever
you please to call it, but which you know all about. I read nothing, and hardly
write any thing but signatures. The disease is depressing and discouraging. I
know that there is no remedy for it, and that it must have its course. It
produces loss of appetite and great prostration of strength, but since the
event of last week terminated, I have some little time for rest, and shutting
myself up very much, I keep as quiet as I can.
My dear Sir, I think
the country has had a providential escape from very considerable dangers. I was
not aware of the whole extent of the embarrassment likely to arise till I came
here, last December, and had opportunities of conversation with General Taylor,
and the gentlemen of his administration. General Taylor was an honest and truly
patriotic man; but he had quite enough of that quality, which, when a man is
right, we call firmness, and when he is wrong, we denominate obstinacy. What
has been called the President's plan, was simply this; to wit, to admit
California under her free constitution, and to let the territories alone
altogether, until they could come in as States. This policy, as it was thought,
would avoid all discussion and all voting on the question of the Wilmot
proviso. All that matter it was supposed, might be thus postponed, and the slavery
question staved off. The objection to this plan, was the same as that to poor
King Lear's idea of shoeing a company of horse in felt, and stealing upon his
enemies. It was flatly impossible; that's all. But the purpose was settled and
decided. General Taylor told me, in the last conversation I had with him, that
he preferred that California should not come in at all, rather than that she
should come in bringing the territories on her back. And if he had lived, it
might have been doubtful whether any general settlement would have been made.
He was a soldier, and had a little fancy, I am afraid, to see how easily any
military movement by Texas could have been put down. His motto was, "vi et
armis!" He had a soldier's foresight, and saw quite clearly what would be
the result if Texan militia should march into New Mexico, and there be met by
troops of the regular army of the United States. But that he had a statesman's
foresight, and foresaw what consequences might happen in the existing state of
men's opinions and feelings, if blood should be shed in a contest between the
United States and one of the southern States, is more than I am ready to
affirm. Yet long before his death, and in the face of that observation which he
made to me, as already stated, I made up my mind to risk myself on a
proposition for a general pacification. I resolved to push my skiff from the
shore alone, considering that, in that case, if she foundered, there would be
but one life lost. Our friend Harvey happened to be here, and with him and Mr.
Edward Curtis, I held a little council the evening before the speech. What
followed is known. Most persons here thought it impossible that I should
maintain myself, and stand by what I declared. They wished, and hoped, and
prayed, but fear prevailed. When I went to Boston soon afterwards, and was
kindly received, and intimated that I should take no march backward, they felt
a little encouraged. But truly it was not till Mr. Eliot's election that there
was any confident assurance here that I was not a dead man. It would be of
little consequence, my dear Sir, if I could only say that Boston saved me, but
I can say with all sincerity, and with the fullest conviction of its truth,
that Boston saved the country. From the commencement of the government, no such
consequences have attended any single election, as those that flowed from Mr.
Eliot's election. That election was a clear and convincing proof, that there
was breaking out a new fountain of brilliant light in the East, and men imbibed
hopes in which they had never before indulged. At this moment it is true that
Mr. Eliot is the greatest lion that exhibits himself on Pennsylvania avenue. He
is considered the personation of Boston; ever intelligent, ever patriotic, ever
glorious Boston; and whatever prejudices may have existed in the minds of
honorable southern men, against our good city, they are now all sunk and lost
forever in their admiration of her nationality of spirit.
But I must stop
here. There is much else that I could say, and may say hereafter, of the
importance of the crisis through which we have passed. I am not yet free from
the excitement it has produced. I am like one who has been sea-sick, and has
gone to bed. My bed rolls and tosses by the billows of that sea, over which I
have passed.
My dear Sir, this is
for your own eye. You are much younger than I am, and hereafter possibly you
may recur to this hastily dictated letter not without interest. If you think it
worth reading, you may show it to T. B. Curtis, Mills, Fearing, and Harvey,
&c. It is but half an hour's gossip, when I can do nothing but talk, and
dictate to a confidential clerk.
Yours, always truly,
DAN'L WEBSTER.
SOURCE: Fletcher
Webster, Editor, The Private Correspondence of Daniel Webster, Vol.
2, p. 386-8
