On the 4th day of July, 1776, the people of a few feeble and oppressed
colonies of Great Britain, inhabiting a portion of the Atlantic coast
of North America, publicly declared their National Independence, and
made their appeal to the justice of their cause, and to the God of
battles, for the maintenance of that declaration. That people were
few in numbers, and without resources, save only their wise heads and
stout hearts. Within the first year of that declared independence, and
while its maintenance was yet problematic--while the bloody struggle
between those resolute rebels and their haughty would-be masters, was
still waging, of undistinguished parents, and in an obscure district
of one of those colonies, Henry Clay was born. The infant nation and
the infant child began the race together. For three-quarters of a
century they have traveled hand in hand. They have been companions
ever. The nation has passed its peril, and is free, prosperous, 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 for the man.
But do we realize that Henry Clay is dead? Who can realize that
never again that majestic form shall rise in the council-chamber 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 forever? Who can realize that
freedom's champion--the champion of a civilized world, and of all
tongues and kindred and 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?
But Henry Clay is dead. His long and eventful life is closed. Our
country is prosperous and powerful; but could it have been quite all
it has been, and is, and is to be, without Henry Clay? Such a man the
times have demanded, and such, in the Providence of God, was given us.
But although his form is lifeless, his name will live and be loved and
venerated in both hemispheres. For it is
"One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die."