In all matters of public importance brought before the house, whenever it was compatible with his station, Mr. Clay interested himself, concerning which his manifestation of regard for the welfare of his country was characterized by unusual uniformity. There was nothing fitful or erratic about his zeal; it burned with a steady, certain light, revealing the secrets of his very soul, in relation to his public intentions and desires. Defeat could not diminish, nor opposition extinguish it; always irrepressible, conflicting circumstances only rendered it more intense. No measures passed through his hands without bearing its impress, and so deep as to appear a part of the same. But there were periods of extraordinary interest, when it blazed with more than meteoric brilliancy――when it constituted the aurora borealis of the political horizon, seen and admired by the whole universe. One of these periods we now approach――a period which reflects the highest honor on his character, for philanthropy and benevolence, and which caused his memory to be enshrined in the hearts of millions remote from the field of his fame――the period of the struggles of the Spanish colonies in South America, to become independent of the mother country. These he contemplated with as much anxiety and solicitude for their result, as though he had been an actual participator in them. Happily for America, the allotment of Providence introduced Mr. Clay to the stage of public action at one of the most critical times in her history, when just such influence as he could exert was imperiously demanded. The din of the revolution had hardly died away, and the blood with which it was achieved scarcely dried up, when he first came forward in the defence of his country’s rights. The spirit of ‘seventy-six’ had indeed felled the tall trees of tyranny, and plucked up the rank weeds of oppression, and planted the germ of liberty. But the little band of men inhaling that spirit, who had arrayed around the place of the precious deposit a rampart of iron hearts, after irrigating and enriching it with their blood, had either sunk down to an enviable rest in the sacred soil, or with diminished energy, and flagging zeal still maintained their posts. Their pristine strength, however, the storm of war had swept away, and though they still stretched out their scar-covered arms to shield it from invasion, their feeble efforts were hardly sufficient to the task. Dangers were numerous, boding disaster in case the vigilance of that veteran band should slumber. The enemies of freedom, though beaten back, had retired with their weapons in their hands, and from their secret lurking places looked forth, ready to avail themselves of the first favorable moment to sally forth and nip it in the bud. Such were the circumstances, when Mr. Clay joined that weak and diminished company of watchers. He found the tree of liberty a strong and vigorous plant, unfolding its