BEFORE all hearts and minds in this august assemblage the vivid image of _one man_ stands. To some aged eye he may come forth, from the dim past, as he appeared in the neighboring city of his native state, a lithe and ardent youth, full of promise, of ambition, and of hope. To another he may appear as in a distant state, in the courts of justice, erect, high-strung, bold, wearing the fresh forensic laurel on his young and open brow. Some may see him in the earlier, and some in the later, stages of his career, on this conspicuous theatre of his renown; and to the former he will start out on the back-ground of the past, as he appeared in the neighboring chamber, tall, elate, impassioned――with flashing eye, and suasive gesture, and clarion voice, an already acknowledged ‘Agamemnon, King of Men;’ and to others he will again stand in this chamber, ‘the strong staff’ of the bewildered and staggering state, and ‘the beautiful rod,’ rich with the blossoms of genius, and of patriotic love and hope, the life of youth still remaining to give animation, grace, and exhaustless vigor, to the wisdom, the experience, and the gravity of age. To others he may be present as he sat in the chamber of sickness, cheerful, majestic, gentle――his mind clear, his heart warm, his hope fixed on Heaven, peacefully preparing for his last great change. To the memory of the minister of God he appears as the penitent, humble, and peaceful Christian, who received him with the affection of a father, and joined with him in solemn sacrament and prayer, with the gentleness of a woman, and the humility of a child. ‘Out of the strong came forth sweetness.’ ‘How is the strong staff broken, and the beautiful rod!’ But not before this assembly only does the venerated image of the departed statesman, this day, distinctly stand. For more than a thousand miles――east, west, north, and south――it is known and remembered that, at this place and hour, a nation’s representatives assemble to do honour to him whose fame is now a nation’s heritage. A nation’s mighty heart throbs against this capitol, and beats through you. In many cities banners droop, bells toll, cannons boom, funereal draperies wave. In crowded streets and on sounding wharfs, upon steamboats and upon cars, in fields and in workshops, in homes, in schools, millions of men, women, and children have their thoughts fixed upon this scene, and say mournfully to each other, ‘This is the hour in which, at the capitol, the nation’s representatives are burying Henry Clay.’ ‘_Burying_’ Henry Clay! Bury the records of your country’s history――bury the hearts of living millions――bury the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, and the spreading lands from sea to sea, with which his name is inseparably associated, and even then you would not bury Henry Clay――for he lives in other lands, and speaks in other tongues, and to other times than our’s.