peaking. He
descanted, in a second or third rate style, on the horrors of famine in
Ireland,--its horrors especially as seen in the family. Coming to a
period, he said, "It is under these circumstances that I want you to
put your hands into your pockets, and pull out something, and throw it
into the lap of starving Ireland!" This caused the most tremendous
cheering I ever heard,--"bravo--bravo--bravo,--whoo--hoo--whoo!" The
last sound was to me altogether new. Not having learned phonography, I
can give you no adequate notion of it; but it was a combination of the
owl's screech and the pig's scream. The favoured orator continued his
speech a little longer, and at the close there was a storm of applause
ten times more terrific than the former. And who was the speaker? It
was none other, as I subsequently ascertained, than the celebrated
Henry Clay! In departing from the tone of eulogy in which it is
fashionable to speak of him, I may be charged with a want of taste and
discrimination. That I cannot help. My simple object in these letters
is to tell how Transatlantic men and manners appeared to my eye or ear.
Before I went to America my respect for Henry Clay was very great. I am
sorry to say it is not so now. I have closely examined his conduct in
reference to "the peculiar institution," and find it to have been
that--not of a high-minded statesman and true philanthropist--but of a
trimming, time-serving partisan. He has been a main pillar of slavery;
and as the idol of the Whig party, a great stumbling-block in the way
of those who sought the overthrow of that system. The man of whom I
have thus freely, yet conscientiously expressed myself, is nevertheless
thus spoken of in the _New Englander_, a quarterly review of high
character now open before me:--"We intend to speak in the praise of
Henry Clay. His place among the great men of our country is permanently
fixed. He stands forth prominent above the politicians of the hour, in
the midst of the chosen few who are perpetual guardians of the interest
and of the honour [slavery?] of the nation. The foundations of his fame
are laid deep and imperishable, and the superstructure is already
erected. It only remains that the mild light of the evening of life be
shed around it."

The cheering at the close of Mr. Clay's speech merged into an awful
tempest of barking. I could compare it to nothing else,--500 men
barking with all their might! I thought it was all up with the
meetin