On the 29th of June, 1852, as the members of both Houses were on their way to the Capitol, the tidings of an event reached them, which, with the suddenness of a blow, smote every heart with grief. As soon as the Senate had assembled, before the reading of its Journal, Mr. Hunter, of Virginia, rose and said :

"Mr. President, a rumor has been circulated that Henry Clay is dead. I therefore move that the Senate adjourn."

It was indeed too true. Henry Clay was dead. The mournful tidings, with lightning speed, swept over the land. Everywhere it was received with a silent grief, almost akin to awe.-There was something more than ordinarily terrible in the death of that colossal man. Detraction, which for years had leveled the engines of a slanderous and relentless persecution at the Great American Commoner, now stood abashed and dumb; while friendship and patriotism, all over the land, felt another and more poignant sorrow. The favorite of a nation was laid low, and a nation mourned. The Orator of almost matchless lips, the Statesman of profoundest skill, the Patriot of spotless worth, the Citizen, not of his own Ashland, not of his own Kentucky, not of his own country alone, but higher and nobler than all these, the Citizen of a struggling people everywhere, had

passed away from earth, and orators, statesmen, patriots and citizens vied in the expression of their sorrow, and mingled their tears over the fresh-made grave of the noblest of them all.

I know not how it is with others, but for myself, I have always loved that man. I have loved him, not as Orator, not as Statesman, not as the Representative of a great party, but I have loved him simply as Henry Clay. It was not eloquence, though his eloquence was fervid and overpowering; it was not logic, though his logic was keen and searching, and yielded only to that of Calhoun; it was not statesmanship, though he accomplished more, almost, in statesmanship, than all his compeers; it was none of these alone, which secured for him a lasting hold upon the gratitude and affection of his people, but it was the superadded wealth of a great heart, which never knew a single pulsation that was not warm with love to country and love to all mankind.

No wonder, then, that the American people should greet him with triumphal processions and multiplied honors when alive, for in him they recognized not only the illustrious statesman, but their noblest advocate, and their truest friend. When death came and despoiled him of his strength, no wonder that the same people should greet the funeral cortege with demonstrations of sorrow, as it slowly passed through the cities and towns which lined the route to Lexington, for, in the coffin lay the imperial dead, whose life had been so closely linked with public good, and whose death had left a vacancy in the National Councils and National heart, which no living statesman could supply. It was meet that Kentucky should pay him the last and saddest of earthly honors; but not to her, not to his native State, not to the Republic even, but to South America, and to Greece, and to posterity he bequeathed his memory, and the treasure of a bright example. The lesson is not new. It is as old as history and as universal as our race. It is the lesson which is taught in the lives of great and good men, whose characters have come down to us through the ages, moulding by their silent, but powerful influences, the lives of living men, and teaching all that there is something higher than self, somehing nobler than fame. It teaches us that our object in life is to do >od, and, in its fulfillment, that intellect, grand as its power and sube as its mission confessedly is, must, for its perfect triumph, be ed to a loyal and sympathetic heart.

o be simply great is, at best, a poor ambition. History is full of the lives of men, who have achieved for themselves, either by some peculiar endowment of talent, or sometimes by the mere force of cir

cumstances, this doubtful and dangerous reputation; and one we call a great general, another a great statesman, another a great lawyer, and another still-a great rascal. The halo of glory, which" the safe distance of half a century" wreathes around an event of the past, too often glimmers with fictitious beauty, and is mellowed by the mild obscurity which that distance only can impart. Thus the muse of history may tell a mutilated story, and while she records brilliant deeds, and hands down to us illustrious names, it is too often to extol the hero but forget the man. Even in the present, we know how natural it is for men to be influenced by intellectual display. We are carried away, willing and delighted captives, by flights of eloquence, and long after the orator has ceased, there linger about his production still, a peculiar charm and power, which all men have felt, but which we cannot describe. It is right that it should be so, for it shows the magnetic power of the human mind, and the grand results it can accomplish when directed towards a noble end.

To become a great orator, in a word, to become great in anything, for the mere sake of greatness, should not be our highest aim in life. We cannot all be orators, all statesmen, all lawyers, all public men in their varied capacities, but we all can and all ought, first of all, to be good citizens and good men. It is as private men that for the most part we must act. Here will lie the sphere of our greatest influence. We grow up in a community, identify ourselves with its interest, mingle with its people, help to shape its progress, help to uphold its laws, to cultivate its tastes, to increase its refinement; and, to do all this with anything like success, we must educate ourselves for the enjoyments of social life, and for the duties of citizenship. By-and-by, perhaps, we may have to discharge other duties-but they will all of them be the better performed, if we have first fulfilled the duties of a citizen. Many of us, it is true, will leave College to enter actively upon some profession. Politics, law, divinity, medicine open their avenues and invite us to make their study the work of our lives. If we enter upon the career which they open, to be first in our profession, to enjoy the honors of well earned superiority, is a powerful stimulus to active and continued labor; but we must not rest satisfied even here. We did not lay aside our citizenship nor our individuality when we entered the pulpit or the bar, but their responsibilities have only increased with our progress; and when we think we have accomplished all that is worth accomplishing in our career, high above the honors of the bar and the rewards of a successful industry, stand the duties of the citizen and the man. These unperformed, all other success is of

comparatively little worth; these first and always performed, all other success but adds to the dignity and the power of a truly noble life.

Our duties then as citizens, so soon to begin, demand at our hands an earnest and attentive consideration. How shall they be best discharged, is the question we ought to answer. It is moreover a practical question, and one which possesses for us, as students, a peculiar significance. Our advantages, our position as educated men, have of themselves laid new responsibilities upon us. They cannot and ought not to be ignored. Instead of denying what society expects, nay, reasonably demands, and thus giving ourselves up to a selfish enjoyment, our duty is to acknowledge the justice of her claims, and to prepare ourselves for their fulfillment. I do not argue that we have no duties which we owe strictly to ourselves-duties too, which concern no one else, and which ought first of all to be discharged. But I do say, that they all do not end with ourselves; they extend to society by virtue of the relations men mutually sustain, and by virtue of a common humanity. Moreover, if we throw out of consideration the good we thereby do to others, our individual elevation demands that they should be performed. We are so constitued that, in the very act of benefiting society, we are ourselves improved. Says Guizot, "Man is formed for society. Isolated and solitary, his reason would remain perfectly undeveloped. Against his total defeat for rational development God has provided the social relations. In proportion as these are extended, regulated and perfected, man is softened, ameliorated, cultivated."

Such, then, being the relations we sustain, and the duties we owe to society, it is our business in College, as well as elsewhere, to make such preparation for their fulfillment, as their importance and our own position demand. Of course, our first duty is a thorough education. That is the purpose for which the five hundred of us have made this College our present home. Here are the rare opportunities which the wisdom and experience of a century have provided. The mental vigor and discipline, which a careful study of the course would impart, will be of countless worth; but that study must not be altogether exclusive. We must, at times, go aside from it, or we will not obtain all the good which it is capable of affording. An unswerving and persevering application to the daily routine of College study, will discipline the mind and develop its powers; but it is not always unattended with serious evils. We are each day of our lives adding some new thought, and feeling some new influence, which go to make up the unity of our character. They are so hidden and so subtle, that we pass our College life almost unconscious of their power. If, then,