tions elsewhere was in store for him, to test the popular temper. But before Clay left Washington he had to witness a solemn scene which might have sobered his ambition. On February 25 John Quincy Adams was stricken down by paralysis in the House of Representatives. The grand old hero of duty, the grim warrior of conscience, fell, as he had hoped to fall, in the service of his country. When he lay in the Speaker's room unconscious, Clay was taken to him: he held the hand of the dying man in his, and the tears streamed down his face. From the scene of death he went forth, himself an old man of nearly seventy-one, to the last struggle for that which, as an object of ambition, as he might well have learned from Adams's life, was valueless. At Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York he was received with great demonstrations of enthusiasm which filled the newspapers with gorgeous descriptions. At New York, where the city authorities took him in charge, the festivities lasted several days. There was no end of hand-shaking and cheers. The people seemed to think of nothing but Henry Clay.
Until then he had maintained what he called a passive attitude, — weighing chances with apparent coolness of judgment, but always ready to be deceived when the truth did not accord with his wishes. The assurances of friends in New York that, if nominated, he would triumphantly carry that state, and information equally flattering from influential Whigs in Ohio, the most prominent and
