Green
Harbor and the sea, where there now stands a boulder erected in 1914 by
the Boston University Law School Association, we would find a
comfortable, rambling house, distinguished among its New England
neighbors by an easy and delightful hospitality--the kind of hospitality
we call "Southern." There are many people in the house, on the veranda
and lawns: a hostess of gentle mien and manners; children attractive in
the spontaneity of those who continually and happily associate with
their elders; several house guests (yonder is Audubon the great
naturalist, here is an office-seeker from Boston, and that chap over
there, so very much at home, can be no other than Peter Harvey,
Webster's fond biographer). Callers there are, also, as is shown by the
line of chaises and saddle horses waiting outside, and old Captain
Thomas and his wife, from whom the place was bought, and who still
retain their original quarters, move in and out like people who consider
themselves part of the family. It is a heterogeneous collection, yet by
no means an awkward one, and every one is chatting with every one else
with great amiability. It is late afternoon: the master of the house has
been away all day, and now his guests and his family are glancing in the
direction from which he may be expected. For although every one is
comfortable and properly entertained, yet the absence of the host
creates an inexpressible emptiness; it is as if everything were
quiescent--hardly breathing--merely waiting until he comes. Suddenly the
atmosphere changes; it is charged with a strong vibrant quality;
everything--all eyes, all interest--is instantly focused on the figure
which has appeared among them. He is in fisherman's clothes--this
newcomer--attired with a brave eye for the picturesque, in soft hat and
flowing tie; but there are no fisherman's clothes, no, nor any other
cloakings which can conceal the resilient dignity of his bearing, his
impressive build, and magnificent, kingly head. Sydney Smith called
Webster a cathedral; and surely there must have been something in those
enormous, burning eyes, that craglike brow, that smote even the most
superficial observer into an admiration which was almost awe.

Many men--perhaps even the majority--whatever their genius in the outer
world, in their own houses are either relegated to--or choose--the
inconspicuous role of mere masculine appendages. But here we have a man
who is superbly the host: he knows and wel