When, in 1849, he reappeared in the Senate, to assist, if possible, in removing the slavery question from politics, he was an infirm and serious, but not sad, old man of seventy-two.  He never lost his cheerfulness or his faith, but he felt deeply for his distracted country.  During that memorable session of Congress he spoke seventy times.  Often extremely sick and feeble, scarcely able, with the assistance of a friend’s arm, to climb the steps of the Capitol, he was never absent on the days when the Compromise was to be debated.  It appears to be well attested, that his last great speech on the Compromise was the immediate cause of his death.  On the morning on which he began his speech, he was accompanied by a clerical friend, to whom he said, on reaching the long flight of steps leading to the Capitol, “Will you lend me your arm, my friend? for I find myself quite weak and exhausted this morning.”  Every few steps he was obliged to stop and take breath.  “Had you not better defer your speech?” asked the clergyman.  “My dear friend,” said the dying orator, “I consider our country in danger; and if I can be the means, in any measure, of averting that danger, my health or life is of little consequence.”  When he rose to speak, it was but too evident that he was unfit for the task he had undertaken.  But, as he kindled with his subject, his cough left him, and his bent form resumed all its wonted erectness and majesty.  He may, in the prime of his strength, have spoken with more energy, but never with so much pathos and grandeur.  His speech lasted two days, and, though he lived two years longer, he never recovered from the effects of the effort.  Toward the close of the second day, his friends repeatedly proposed an adjournment; but he would not desist until he had given complete utterance to his feelings.  He said afterwards that he was not sure, if he gave way to an adjournment, that he should ever be able to resume.

In the course of this long debate, Mr. Clay said some things to which the late war has given a new interest.  He knew, at last, what the fire-eaters meant.  He perceived now that it was not the few abhorred Abolitionists of the Northern States from whom danger to the Union was to be apprehended.  On one occasion allusion was made to a South Carolina hot-head, who had publicly proposed to raise the flag of disunion.  Thunders of applause broke from the galleries when Mr. Clay retorted by saying, that, if Mr. Rhett had really made that proposition, and should follow it up by corresponding acts, he would be a TRAITOR; “and,” added Mr. Clay, “I hope he will meet a traitor’s fate.”  When the chairman had succeeded in restoring silence, Mr. Clay made that celebrated declaration which was so frequently quoted in 1861: 

“If Kentucky to-morrow should unfurl the banner of resistance unjustly, I will never fight under that banner.  I owe a paramount allegiance to the whole Union,—­a subordinate one to my own State.”

He said also: