An Irish barber residing at Lexington, had always given Mr. Clay his vote, and on all occasions when he was a candidate for office, electioneered warmly for him. His ardent temperament and unrestrained passions frequently involved him in scrapes and difficulties, out of which Mr. Clay had generally succeeded in extricating him. While the canvass was progressing, after the compensation bill, the barber did not evince his usual zeal and animation, on the contrary seemed to be indifferent as to the result of the election. To all inquiries for whom he designed to vote he answered evasively. He was accosted a few days previous to the election, by a gentleman for whom he entertained the most profound regard, with the question, ‘for whom, _Jerry_, do you mean to vote?’ Regarding his interrogator with an earnest, shrewd look, he replied, ‘Faix, an’ sure, docthur, I mane to vote for the man who can’t put more nor one hand into the _threasury_.’ Mr. Pope, the opponent of Mr. Clay, had the misfortune to lose an arm in early life, and this circumstance, while it gave pertinence to the Irishman’s reply, indicated for whom he intended to vote. A few days ♦subsequent to the election, the barber met Mr. Clay in Lexington, and approaching him, burst into tears, saying that he had wronged him, and manifested bitter regret for his ingratitude. ‘My poor dear wife,’ said he, ‘got round me, blubbering, and was after vexing herself and me too. She tould me that I was _too bad, too bad_, to desart like a base spalpleen, me ould frind. “Niver’s the time, Jerry, dear, when you got in jail or any bad fixin’, _niver’s the time_ he didn’t come to you an’ hilp you out. Och! bad luck to you, for not giving him your vote.”’ The barber was ever after true to Mr. Clay.