self, the bar-tender, happening to look up, started, as if he had seen a spirit, and cried "Stop!" with great vehemence. He then took the decanter from Webster's hand, replaced it on the shelf whence it came, and disappeared beneath the counter. Rising from these depths, he bore to the surface an old-fashioned black bottle, which he substituted for the decanter. Webster poured a small quantity into a glass, drank it off with great relish, and threw down half a dollar in payment. The bar-keeper began to fumble in a drawer of silver, as if selecting some smaller pieces for change; whereupon Webster waved his hand with dignity and with rich and authoritative tones pronounced these words: "My good friend, let me offer you a piece of advice. Whenever you give that good brandy from under the counter, never take the trouble to make change." As we turned to go out, the dealer in liquors placed one hand upon the bar, threw himself over it, and caught me by the arm. "Tell me who that man is!" he cried with genuine emotion. "He is Daniel Webster," I answered. The man paused, as if to find words adequate to convey the impression made upon him, and then exclaimed in a fervent half-whisper, "By Heaven, sir, that man should be President of the United States!" The adjuration was stronger than I have written it; but it was not uttered profanely, it was simply the emphasis of an overpowering conviction. The incident was but a straw upon the current; but it illustrates the commanding magnetism of Webster. Without asking the reason, men once subjected to his spell were compelled to love, to honor, and (so some cynics would wish to add) to forgive him. No man of mark ever satisfied the imagination so completely. THERE AT CRAIGIE HOUSE. HERE were some half-a-dozen houses on the avenue leading from the colleges to Sweet Auburn; they had been built before the Revolution, and were abandoned by their tory proprietors. The largest and most conspicuous was the fine mansion which had been the headquarters of Washington, and which has since gained additional interest as the residence of the poet Longfellow. It was then occupied by Mrs. Craigie, the widow of a gentleman very notable in his day. He had made a large fortune by buying up government promises, and by other speculations during the Revolution. He kept a princely bachelor's establishment at the old house, and was in the habit of exercising a generous hospitality. A curious story relating to his marriage was current among his contemporaries, and there can be now no harm in giving it as I have heard it from their lips. A great garden party had been given by Mr. Craigie, and all the fashion and beauty of Boston were assembled in his spacious grounds. The day was perfect, the entertainment was lavish, and the company were bent on enjoying themselves. Smiles and deference met the host. upon every side, and new-comers were constantly arriving to pay that homage to wealth and sumptuous liberality which from imperfect mortals they have always elicited. "Craigie!" exclaimed an intimate friend to the host during one of the pauses of compliment, "what can man desire that you have not got? Here are riches, friends, a scene of enchantment like this, and you the master of them all!" "I am the most miserable of men!" was the startling reply. "If you doubt it, you shall know my secret: do you see those two young ladies just turning down the walk? Well, they are both engaged, and with one of them I am desperately in love." There was no time for more, for the crowd again surged round the host, and the friend was left to meditate upon the revelation which had been made. One of the ladies who had been pointed out was a great beauty of the time, and it so happened that Mr. Craigie's confidant was on very intimate terms with her family. It was well known that the match she was about to make did not gratify the ambitious views of her relations. Now whether Mr. Craigie's friend. betrayed his secret to the father of this young person cannot certainly be known; but the current report was that he did so. At all events, shortly after the garden party, he broke in upon the Croesus of Cambridge with an exultant air, exclaiming, "Craigie, I have come to tell you glorious news; the coast is clear; Miss has broken off her engagement!" "Why, what the deuce is that to me?" was the disappointing reply. "Good heavens, man, don't you remember telling me that you were desperately in love with one of the young ladies you pointed out at the garden party?" "To be sure I did," sighed Mr. Craigie, "but unfortunately I referred to the other young lady." Now there is a fallacy of which logicians warn us, and which they designate as the fallacy of post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Bearing this in mind, it seems quite clear that the disclosure that was made respecting the supposed state of Mr. Craigie's affections had nothing whatever to do with the dissolution of the young lady's engagement. It was undoubtedly only one of those queer coincidences which seem to connect. ev nts that have really no connection with one another. And this is the more probable because another of these strange freaks of chance is found in the sequel of the story. For it happened-or was said to have happened that "the other young lady" subsequently found good reason to break off her engagement, and, as Mrs. Craigie, came to preside overall future garden parties. RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE, ABOUT ten the next morning I called upon Mr. Randolph, and was admitted to his bedchamber. He was sitting in flannel dressinggown and slippers, looking very thin, but with a strange fire in his swarthy face. He seemed more like a spiritual presence than a man adequately clothed in flesh and blood. Before I visited Mr. Randolph again, I had listened with admiration to his wonderful improvisations in the Senate, and had determined to get at his views about the oratory of Patrick Henry, of which I had heard John Adams speak in terms of some disparagement. I accordingly put a question which I supposed would call out a panegyric upon the orator of Virginia. I asked who was the greatest orator he had ever heard. The reply was startling, from its unexpectedness. "The greatest orator I ever heard," said Randolph, "was a woman. She was a slave. She was a mother, and her rostrum was the auctionblock." He then rose and imitated with thrilling pathos the tones with which this woman had appealed to the sympathy and justice of the bystanders, and finally the indignation with which she denounced them. "There was eloquence!" he said. "I have heard no man speak like that. It was overpowering!" He sat down and paused for some moments; then, evidently feeling that he had been imprudent in expressing himself so warmly before a visitor from the North, he entered upon a defence of the policy of Southern statesmen in regard to slavery. "We must concern ourselves with what is," he said, "and slavery exists. We must preserve the rights of the States, as guaranteed by the Constitution, or the negroes are at our throats. The question of slavery, as it is called, is to us a question of life and death. Remember, it is a necessity imposed on the South; not a Utopia of our own seeking. You will find no instance in history where two distinct races have occupied the soil except in the relation of master and slave." I brought away only these few fragments of an elaborate defence of the course which he and other Southerners felt compelled to pursue; but they give its nature with sufficient clearness. Ralph Waldo Emerson. BORN in Boston, Mass., 1803. DIED at Concord, Mass., 1882. THE PROBLEM. [Poems. Revised Edition. Edited by J. E. Cabot. 1884.] Not from a vain or shallow thought The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter's dome Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know'st thou what wove yon wood bird's nest Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, |