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Page 12
When the disruption of the Union came to be attempted, none of us who
knew Fletcher Webster doubted for a moment what position he would take.
The same "passionate and exultant nationality," which had nerved him to
bear the loss of friends at the North, and to forego the chance of a
public career, rather than countenance any measure calculated to excite
ill-will at the South, now prompted him to advocate military coercion
for the preservation of the Union. Notwithstanding President Lincoln had
just deprived him of the office upon which he depended for the
maintenance of his family, he did not hesitate to tender to the
administration his personal support in the field.
In the oration already quoted, he had said: "There are certain ultimate
rights which must be maintained; and when force is brought to overthrow
them, it must be resisted by force." Among the rights which must thus be
maintained, in his view, was the right of the United States to maintain,
forever, the union of these States. The policy of coercion, bitterly as
he bewailed its necessity, was not new to him. His father had advocated
the Force Bill almost thirty years before. The time had come, when, in
the words of Jefferson (words spoken when only the Articles of
Confederation held the States in union): "Some of the States must see
the rod; perhaps some of them must feel it." Accordingly, on the
twentieth of April, 1861, while the bombardment of Fort Sumter and the
attack on the Sixth Regiment were firing the Northern heart, Fletcher
Webster called that memorable Sunday-morning meeting in State Street,
which resulted in the organization of the Twelfth Regiment of
Massachusetts Infantry. Referring to that occasion, George S, Hillard
said it recalled to the minds of those present, Colonel Webster's
father, who had then been but nine years in the grave. "To the mind's
eye, that majestic form and grand countenance seemed standing by the
side of his son; and in the mind's ear, they heard again the deep music
of that voice which had so often charmed and instructed them."
Colonel Webster said: "He whose name I bear had the good fortune to
defend the Union and the Constitution in the forum. That I cannot do,
but I am ready to defend them in the field." Like other national men, he
refused to listen to the "sixty-day" prattle by which others were
deceived. He saw that by no "summer excursion to Moscow" could the
Southern Confederacy be suppressed; that immense forces would be
marshalled in aid of that Confederacy; and that the war for the Union,
like the war for Independence, would be won only by 'suffering, and
struggle, and death.
Ten years earlier, it seemed to Rufus Choate as if the hoarded-up
resentments and revenges of a thousand years were about to unsheath the
sword for a conflict, "in which the blood should flow, as in the
Apocalyptic vision, to the bridles of the horses; in which a whole age
of men should pass away; in which the great bell of time should sound
out another hour; in which society itself should be tried by fire and
steel, whether it were of Nature and of Nature's God, or not."
Such a conflict was indeed impending, and Fletcher Webster appreciated
its extreme gravity, when, from the balcony of the Old State House, on
that Sunday morning, he made his stirring appeal: "Let us show the world
that the patriotism of '61 is not less than that of '76; that the noble
impulses of those patriot hearts have descended to us."
On the eighteenth of July, 1861, Edward Everett presented to Colonel
Webster a splendid regimental flag, the gift of the ladies of Boston to
the Twelfth Regiment.[1] It need not be said that the presentation
speech of Mr. Everett, and the reception speech of Colonel Webster, were
of the first order. But not even the words of a Webster or an Everett
could adequately express the profound emotion of the vast concourse of
people then assembled. For it was one of those occasions when, as the
elder Webster said, "Words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and
all elaborate oratory contemptible."
History will transmit the fact that on that day the simple, homely,
stirring, and inspiring melody of Old John Brown was heard for the first
time by the people of Boston. It was a surprising and a gladsome
spectacle--a regiment bearing Daniel Webster's talismanic name,
commanded by his only surviving son, carrying a banner prepared by the
fairest daughters of Massachusetts, carrying also the benediction of
Edward Everett, and of "the solid men of Boston," and marching to the
tune of Old John Brown! Did the weird prophet-orator who spoke of
"carrying the flag and keeping step to the music of the Union" ever
dream of such a strange combination?
On the seventeenth of June, 1861, by invitation of Governor Andrew,
Colonel Webster spoke on Bunker Hill: "From this spot I take my
departure, like the mariner commencing his voyage, and wherever my eyes
close, they will be turned hitherward towards this North; and, in
whatever event, grateful will be the reflection, that this monument
still stands--still, still is glided by the earliest beams of the rising
sun, and that still departing day lingers and plays upon its summit."
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