New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1872-08-18
MARSHFIELD,
An Enchanted VOyaEe-The MarshfeiId
MeadOws-Fletcher Webster's Place
The Webster MansiOn-The Herd-The
EIm-The Homestead,

Elm-Ihe Homestead
The New York Tribune is publishing q
series of letters from the Old Colony, one
of which we reproduce because it relates tC
Marshield, the home Of Daniel Webster:
STANDIsH House, Duxbury, July q.
An excursion, however beautiful, is
| not always its own excuse for be-
! ing, but requires an objective pur-
! pose. Most of US, also, have an
instinct to see with our own eyes, and in
our own way, localities which pen and pen
| ell may often have described; to catch their
! spiritual atmosphere by actual inhalation
| OF the winds that hover about them. From
! a double motive l have thus been led to
| visit the almost forgotten home of that
| large-mOlded statesman who, more than all
| his cOmpeeTs, was the nations pride and
| sorrow: that best-belOved, adopted son of
| Massachusetts upon whom she lavished her
heart, her loyalty, and her treasure, freely
| and unIegTetfully, to the very last She
! could not else, as a mother cherishing him
in his strength and weakness; and though
she might not follow him in the path where
himself had guided her, it was tenderly,
and with no averted eyes, that she laid him
in his homestead sepulchre and cOnsecrated
it thenceforth to the possession of those
who inherited his blood and name.
translucent July morning beacOned me
uJOu MY pilgrimage 70 Ju6 ulSIOElC uONuS
Of Marshheld. Who, going Uhither, would
follow weary miles Of dusty turnpike, when
the blue ocean could bear him to its very
border by the same unfurTOwed path which
Webster loved to take-acrOss the bay
along the winding inlet, and up the reedy
river whose sedges seem to murmur Of him
still. And so on this "sheeny summer
mOTn,"
"The tide of time flowed back with me,
The forward flowing tide Of time
as, in company of an eager-eyed American
boy whose possibilities Of life are all before
him, l pushed my shallOp from the beach,
and, with the wind abaft, soon was gliding
over the flats, and headed for the Clarz's
island channel that enters Duxbury bay.
A clear, fair sky and steady, favOring
breeze. Look over the gunWale, and see all
the marvels of Eden gIimmering beneath
"Sea-tan and tangIe, the blooms and palms
Of the ocean, with pointed feathery plum
age, compact of gorgeous dyes, bend slowly
to the current, like a wind-kissed tropical
forest, under the waves; and in open, rock
strewn places the star-tish, mussel shells
and cookies have a pTismatic, mingled
beauty; and even the huge, Ungainly soul
pins nOsing among them-sO hideous above
seas-are here in sinuOus keeping, and re-
new for us the lesson that
There is in nature nothing mean or base
But only as our baseness makes it so.
On our right the waters about the Gurnet
are so placid that you wonder how the
ship-Channel can rage so wildly there in q
stormy time. LongfelIOw must have made
close study, whether in his library or on the
spot itself Of the scene of his Old Colony
heXameters, his topography is everywhere
very correct, and you can here plainly see
how the Maytiower
-"sailed from the harbor,
Rounded the point Of the GuTuet, and leaving far
to the southwark
Encounter,
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the
open Atlantic
"The Gurnet is a name so resonant and I
distinctive that have been moved to ask |
Of its origin, and have asked in vain-Ob- !
security Of local tradition prevailing here as
elsewhere. After all, it seems to be derived |
from the tOad-headed fish which | have |
mentioned. Turning to the Unabridged, l |
find that the. gurnet is a horny-headed spe- |
ciCs found along the Devon coast, England. /
whence came the Pilgrim sires The old |
fishermen hereabOut tell me that sculpns |
were often called "guTneys' until within a |
score of years. Great numbers are caught |
around the point in question, and l doubt |
not that the explorers, installing them for |
their English cousins, gave their name to |
the headland whose waters are their haunt. |
But we have crossed the bay, steering
through the guzzle Of the shOal, upon which
the current is roaring, even in this calm
weather, like the crack OF doom. We heed |
it not, but shoot like ArgO between the |
jOstling rocks, and in a moment are under
the lee of Saquish, and have a tiOOd-tide to
help US over the shadows and up the tor
tuOUs channal still before our PROV We
speed past DuXbury; the scattered houses
Of Marshtield break into view; while our
boat, fitting over submerged lOwlands,
the tide, halt creek. half canal, by |
which, going noTthward, you can reach
Green sriyer, and thence again the ocean
above the glorious Marshtield beach,
Winding up this salty stream, on either
side OF us lie bottom lands, where in
5he fall all kinds Of marine fowl are wont
to cOngregate or fly over within the sports
mans range. Beyond them, far as the eye
ian sec, are the woods, downs and wind
swept waters, that constantly afford Web
iter the chase of wing and lin and all the
l6st Of outdoor life so essential to his Wig
)rOUs, pTimeval nature. But we are OppO-
ute the wooded hummock where the French
able lands, and can see the barracks of the
officials who have the cis-AtlaItic station in
'harge. The county map shows that at a
onely bridge before us is a good place to
ct down sail and tasten painter; so, taking
% our feet, We find ourselves upon a
meadow road, lined with blackberry
pushes, alder and sweet fern, with but
niles walk yet further to: the Webster
Mansion.
In few minutes we reach a struggling,
,abled farmhouse, painted white, to which
eads a shaded by-walk; it was the resi-
lence Of the late Colonel Fletcher Webster,
he statesmans last surviving son, who
vas killed at the second Bull Run tight-a
nan Of brilliant parts, but handicapped
nd Overweighted from tue first with the
Prestige Of his fathers glory, and bern to a
hangefuI, easy-gOing, somewhat purpose
ess life. He died for his country il the
nd; and he who has fulfilled that Spartan
inhibition never yet has lived in vain. The
initials ID. W. deeply craven. IN poplar
lear the gateway, catch the quick eye Of
ny boy, who asks if the great Mr. Webster
ut them No; those letters are done in
bOyish style, most likely by
Daniel, Fletcher Webster's son, on whom
we're fastened the hopes and name of the
grandfather, but who died some years ago, |
Il sorrow and ObsCurity, after a brief, IN
estful manhood. His CrayOn likeness, as
youth of eight or nine summers, hangs in
lie paTlor at MaTshtield-an eXQuistely
hiseIed, girlish face, classical in beauty,
nut with something, l know not what, OF
PASSIONATE weakness about the mouth and |
hin.
The Fletcher Webster place has passed !
ntO strange hands, and is sadly neglected. !
The hedges have run to waste, and the !
hiCket near the entrance is like the cODse |
hat hid the sleeping palace during fated |
hundred years. We turned away and fol |
owed the road through an open farming !
egiOn, with houses few and far between.
ut lined with fragrant hay fields, and af-
ording here and there glimpses Of ocean
0 make US less fOrlOrn. Suddenly we came
pOn q noble herd of CATTLE ranging a |