the coffin, opened the fountain of their tears; she who had been the object
of their aversion was gone from them forever; they could not now show her
any kindness. How many a heart reproached itself with a sneering word,
hasty anger, and disdainful laugh. But what was she now? dust and ashes.
They wept as they saw her hidden from their eyes, turning from the grave
with a better sense of their duties.

Reader, it is well for the soul to ponder on the great mystery, Death! Is
there not a charm in it? The mystery of so many opposite memories, the
strange union of adverse ideas. The young, the old, the gay, the proud, the
beautiful, the poor, and the sorrowful. Silence, darkness, repose,
happiness, woe, heaven and hell. Oh! they should come now with a startling
solemnity upon us all, for while I write, the solemn tolling of the bells
warns me of a nation's grief; it calls to millions--its sad resonance is
echoed in every heart.

HENRY CLAY IS DEAD! Well may the words pass from lip to lip in the
thronged street. The child repeats it with a dim consciousness of some
great woe; it knows not, to its full extent, the burden of the words it
utters. The youth passes along the solemn sentence; there is a throb in his
energetic heart, for he has seen the enfeebled form of the statesman as it
glided among the multitude, and has heard his voice raised for his
country's good; he is assured that the heart that has ceased to beat glowed
with all that was great and noble.

The politician utters, too, the oft-repeated sound--Henry Clay is dead!
Well may he bare his breast and say, for _what_ is my voice raised where
his has been heard? Is it for my country, or for my party and myself? Men
of business and mechanics in the land, they know that one who ever
defended their interests is gone, and who shall take his place? The
mother--tears burst from her eyes, when looking into her child's face, she
says, Henry Clay is dead! for a nation's freedom is woman's incalculable
blessing. She thinks with grief and gratitude of him who never ceased to
contend for that which gives to her, social and religious rights.

Henry Clay is dead! His body no longer animated with life; his spirit gone
to God. How like a torrent thought rushes on, in swift review, of his
wonderful and glorious career. His gifted youth, what if it were attended
with the errors that almost invariably accompany genius like his! Has he in
the wide world an enemy who can bring aught