Mr. Speaker, when I remember the party strifes in which he was so much mingled, and through which we all more or less have passed, and then survey this scene, and think how far, as the lightning has borne the news that he is gone, half-masted flags are drooping and church-bells are tolling, and men are sorrowing, I can but feel that it is good for man to die. For when death enters, O! how the unkindnesses, and jealousies, and rivalries of life do vanish, and how like incense from an altar do peace, and friendship, and all the sweet charities of our nature, rise around the corpse which was once a man! And of a truth, Mr. Speaker, never was more of veritable noble _manhood_ cased in mortal mould than was found in him to whose memory this brief and humble, but true and heartfelt tribute is paid. But his eloquent voice is hushed, his high heart is stilled. ‘Like a shock of corn fully ripe, he has been gathered to his fathers.’ With more than three score years and ten upon him, and honors clustered thick about him, in the full possession of unclouded intellect, and all the consolations of Christianity, he has met the fate which is evitable by none. Lamented by all his countrymen, his name is bright on fame’s immortal roll. He has finished his course, and he has his crown. What more fruit can life bear? What can it give that Henry Clay has not gained? Then, Mr. Speaker, around his tomb should be heard not only the dirge that wails his loss, but the jubilant anthem which sounds that on the world’s battle-field another victory has been won――another _incontestable greatness_ achieved. * * * * * Mr. CHANDLER, of Pennsylvania, said: Mr. Speaker, It would seem as if the solemn invocation of the honorable gentleman from Kentucky (Mr. EWING) was receiving an early answer, and that the heavens are hung in black, and the wailing elements are singing the funeral dirge of Henry Clay. Amid this elemental gloom, and the distress which pervades the nation at the death of Henry Clay, private grief should not obtrude itself upon notice, nor personal anguish seek for utterance. Silence is the best exponent of individual sorrow, and the heart that knoweth its own bitterness shrinks from an exposition of its affliction.