more, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and places still more distant — men and women had come in great numbers to hear him. The avenues of the Senate chamber were buzzing with an eager multitude who in vain struggled to gain access to the thronged galleries and the equally crowded floor. When Clay arose to speak, an outburst of applause in the chamber greeted him. The noise was heard without, and the great crowd assembled there raised such a shout that the orator could not make himself heard until the officers of the Senate had gone out and cleared the entrances. Clay's speech occupied two days. With a faltering voice he began, but gradually he recovered his strength; and the elevation of his sentiments, the sonorous flow of his words, and the lofty energy of his action, enchanted his audience to the last. There was a pathetic interest added to the old charm; for his hearers felt that this manifestation of strength was owing only to a supreme effort of a strong will over failing powers, and that this effort might be his last. On the second day of the speech some of his fellow-Senators, observing that he overtaxed himself, interrupted him repeatedly with suggestions of an adjournment, but he declined, feeling uncertain whether he would be able to go on the next day. When he had concluded, a great throng of friends, men and women, rushed toward him to shake his hand and to kiss him.
His speech was an appeal to the North for concession, and to the South for peace. He asked the
