How many a heart reproached itself with a sneering word, hasty anger, and disdainful laugh.

But what was she now?
dust and ashes.
They wept as they saw her hidden from their eyes, turning from the grave with a better sense of their duties.
Reader, it is well for the soul to ponder on the great mystery, Death! Is there not a charm in it?
The mystery of so many opposite memories, the strange union of adverse ideas.

The young, the old, the gay, the proud, the beautiful, the poor, and the sorrowful.

Silence, darkness, repose, happiness, woe, heaven and hell.

Oh! they should come now with a startling solemnity upon us all, for while I write, the solemn tolling of the bells warns me of a nation's grief; it calls to millions--its sad resonance is echoed in every heart.
HENRY CLAY IS DEAD! Well may the words pass from lip to lip in the thronged street.