duty, for his constitution, until within a short time of his death, exhibited a sound mind in a sound body, and neither appeared essentially injured or decayed, to the hour of his exit from this world.

He never sought public honors, nor literary or political distinctions, and therefore had none of those throes and agonies so common to vaulting ambition; not that he declined all public trusts, when he was conscious that he could do any good to his fellow-men. He was several years a member of one or other branch of the Legislature of New Hampshire, and served as a trustee of Dartmouth College. He was at different times put up for a member of Congress, but it was at periods when his friends thought that his name would do some good to his political party, as the members of Congress in New Hampshire are chosen by a general ticket; but when they were decidedly in power, he would seldom or never consent to be a candidate. This was much to be regretted, for he was admirably calculated for public life by his extensive knowledge and incorruptible integrity. He would have been a first-rate speaker on the floor of Congress. His eloquence was impressive and commanding. There was in his delivery a slight defect in the labial sounds—in the familiar use of his voice, which was rather pleasant to the listener than otherwise, for it was a proof of a natural manner; but warmed by his subject, a more rich, full, and sonorous voice was seldom heard in any public body; not that his tones were delicate or mel

lifluous, but full of majesty and command, free from arrogance, timidity, or hesitation. His gestures were graceful, but not in the slightest degree studied; his language was rich, gentlemanly, select, but not painfully chosen; he not only had words for all occasions, but the very words he should have used.

As a writer he excelled in judgment and taste: there was a classical elegance in his familiar writings; and his higher compositions were marked with that lucid order and clearness of thought and purity of expression, which distinguished the Augustan age. His sentences were not grappled together by hooks of steel, but connected by golden hinges, that made a harmonious whole. His library was rich in works of merit, ancient and modern. The history of literature and science was as familiar to him as that of his native State, and he had the means of turning to it with much greater facility.

He was an instance in point that a man may be a good lawyer, and yet devote some of his time to classical pursuits.

Ezekiel Webster was one of those great men, rare instances in the world, who had thrown away ambition; and who preferred to be learned and happy in his course of life, rather than to court the gale and spread his sails, to be wafted along on popular opinion. He sought not popularity, but he had it; that popularity which follows, not that which is run after. He watched the signs of the times, and was as good a diviner in politics

as any one; but whatever the presages were, he looked at coming events unmoved, leaving their results to Heaven.

For several of the last years of his life, he was curtailing his business in order to devote some portion of the prime of his manhood to literary and scientific pursuits, so congenial to his heart; but in this he was disappointed, for yet while in the fulness of his strength he was called to leave the world, for whose benefit he was formed. The ways of Providence are right, however hidden the laws are from us. It is to be regretted that one so able should have written so little as he has; probably he was waiting for those hours of leisure, in which he was contemplating to form his plan of some literary work. The writer of these remarks,-his classmate and his friend, once suggested to him the history of his native State as a subject for his pen, and the thought did not seem unpleasant to him. In the boyish days of the writer, he undertook to translate Anacreon, and carried his productions daily for the corrections of his friend, whose mature mind gave the translation all the finish it possessed.

No one he ever knew had a more admirable spirit of criticism than Ezekiel Webster, united with that generous indulgence which only great minds feel and practice. A few months before he died, some symtoms of a disease of the heart were perceptible, but not alarming to his friends, but he knew the uncertainty of human life, and without any special command set his

house in order, and made preparation for his long journey. There is a beauty in that calm, deep, silent, religious feeling, that none but great and pure minds can ever know. After having put all his worldly affairs into a most perfect train for settlement at his death, and wishing his friends to be free from all doubts upon his religious impressions and belief, he sat down and wrote his sentiments on this momentous subject, which were found on his table after his death. This was his last composition. How true it is, that the enjoyment of health, the accumulating of wealth, the pursuits of science and the love of letters, and the world's applause, sanctioned by the good man's benison, are not sufficient for an immortal mind. All these things are, in a great measure, connected with fellow mortals, and are finite in their influences upon the mind, while religion is a connexion with infinity,—with Deity,-it enters into eternity, leaves time and sense to earth, and by the bright inspirations of faith takes the sting from Death, and from the grave its victory. A great mind accustomed to 'long converse with the invisible world,' and seeing, day after day, his friends falling around him, breathes, as each descends to the tomb,

'How dreary is this gulph! how dark-how void―
The trackless shores, that never were repass'd!
Dread separation! on the depth untry'd,
Hope falters, and the soul recoils aghast!

'Wide round the spacious heav'ns I cast my eyes;
And shall these stars glow with immortal fire!
Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies!
And could thy bright, thy living soul expire!—

Far be the thought! The pleasures most sublime,
The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear,
The soaring wish that scorns the bounds of time,
Chill'd in the vale of death, but languish here.'

The adoption of the Constitution of the United States was almost a miracle of itself. It was effected by the perseverance of the first intelligence of the land. The patriots who reasoned as well as felt, found all their labors would be lost, if something towards concentrating the energies and giving a uniformity to commercial regulations were not effected. The whole matter was a compromise, and but few were entirely satisfied. There can be no doubt, but that a portion of the community thought the Constitution was too feeble to last long, they supposed that its tendency would be towards democracy, and that after a while difficulties would arise, such as it would be impossible to overcome. Some believed that it would, from year to year, grow more aristocratic, and therefore watched every thing, excited by fear that all would be lost in the power of the few. Between hopes and fears the machine went on, to the wonder and satisfaction of almost every one. The instrument was likened to the Amphictyonic league, and considered as if there were something sacred about it. Others said, that it was modelled on the principles of the United Provinces; and there was some truth in that. The framers of the old Confederation, no doubt, had that compact in view when the States, by their delegates, first assembled at Philadelphia; and there were not a few who wished to find a resemblance in