osperous, and powerful. The child has reached his
manhood, his middle age, his old age, and is dead. In all that has
concerned the nation the man ever sympathized; and now the nation mourns
the man.

The day after his death one of the public journals, opposed to him
politically, held the following pathetic and beautiful language, which I
adopt partly because such high and exclusive eulogy, originating with a
political friend, might offend good taste, but chiefly because I could not
in any language of my own so well express my thoughts:

"Alas, who can realize that Henry Clay is dead! Who can realize that never
again that majestic form shall rise in the council-chambers of his country
to beat back the storms of anarchy which may threaten, or pour the oil of
peace upon the troubled billows as they rage and menace around! Who
can realize that the workings of that mighty mind have ceased, that the
throbbings of that gallant heart are stilled, that the mighty sweep of
that graceful arm will be felt no more, and the magic of that eloquent
tongue, which spake as spake no other tongue besides, is hushed hushed for
ever! Who can realize that freedom's champion, the champion of a civilized
world and of all tongues and kindreds of people, has indeed fallen! Alas,
in those dark hours of peril and dread which our land has experienced, and
which she may be called to experience again, to whom now may her people
look up for that counsel and advice which only wisdom and experience and
patriotism can give, and which only the undoubting confidence of a nation
will receive? Perchance in the whole circle of the great and gifted of
our land there remains but one on whose shoulders the mighty mantle of
the departed statesman may fall; one who while we now write is doubtless
pouring his tears over the bier of his brother and friend brother, friend,
ever, yet in political sentiment as far apart as party could make them.
Ah, it is at times like these that the petty distinctions of mere party
disappear. We see only the great, the grand, the noble features of the
departed statesman; and we do not even beg permission to bow at his
feet and mingle our tears with those who have ever been his political
adherents--we do [not] beg this permission, we claim it as a right, though
we feel it as a privilege. Henry Clay belonged to his country--to the
world; mere party cannot claim men like him. His career has been national,
his fame has filled the earth, hi