How class consciousness prevailed in those days is amusingly illustrated by Monroe’s resentment of the foreign conception of Americans. “People in Europe,” he had once said to the French Minister, while Secretary of State under Madison, “suppose us to be merchants occupied exclusively with pepper and ginger. They are much deceived. The immense majority of our citizens do not belong to this class, and are, as much as your Europeans, controlled by principles of honor and dignity. I never knew what trade was; the President was as much a stranger to it as I.” Perhaps it was because he knew so little about trade that he took pains to cultivate its acquaintance as soon as he became President. He made a grand tour of the new West, staying away from Washington more than four months and visiting especially the commercial centers, where he showed himself to the people as much as possible. He invited some criticism by making his tour in the buff-and-blue uniform of the Continental soldiery of forty years before, cocked hat and all; but his friends always contended that this appeal to patriotism vastly increased his popularity and went far to account for his wonderful success in his campaign for reëlection in 1820, when he captured all the electoral votes except one. The period covered by the last few pages brought to Washington two great men, whose share in shaping the history of the United States was such as to warrant our pausing to take a closer look at them. These were Henry Clay and Daniel Webster. Clay was probably the most popular man in our public life from Washington’s time to Lincoln’s, and his legislative career was unique both in its beginning and in its ending. He came to Washington first to fill a vacancy caused by the death of a Kentucky Senator, and held this position for several months while he was still too young to be eligible under the Constitution, because nobody was disposed to inquire into the years of one who possessed so mature a mind. Both before and after this experience he served in the Kentucky legislature, where, on account of an insult received in debate, he challenged its author and “winged” him in a duel. When the Twelfth Congress was about to meet, with every prospect that John Randolph and his little coterie were going to make trouble in the House, a demand arose for a Speaker who would be able to cope with the turbulent element. Clay had just been elected a Representative, and his prowess as a duelist drew all eyes in his direction. “Harry Clay can keep Randolph in order,” declared his Kentucky neighbors, “and he is the only man who can!” On this ground, then, he was elected Speaker before he had actually taken his seat in the House. He was the first man ever thus honored; and he was, I believe, the only one who ever made two formal farewells to the Senate. The first, preliminary to his resignation in 1842, appears among the classics of American eloquence; but, as he was