in his office, he tells us, and was content therewith. He was the last
high officer of the government to fight a duel. That bloodless contest
between the Secretary of State and John Randolph was as romantic and
absurd as a duel could well be. Colonel Benton's narrative of it is at
once the most amusing and the most affecting piece of gossip which our
political annals contain. Randolph, as the most unmanageable of
members of Congress, had been for fifteen years a thorn in Mr. Clay's
side, and Clay's later politics had been most exasperating to Mr.
Randolph; but the two men loved one another in their hearts, after
all. Nothing has ever exceeded the thorough-bred courtesy and tender
consideration with which they set about the work of putting one
another to death; and their joy was unbounded when, after the second
fire, each discovered that the other was unharmed. If all duels could
have such a result, duelling would be the prettiest thing in the
world.

The election of 1828 swept the administration from power. No man has
ever bowed more gracefully to the decision of the people than Henry
Clay. His remarks at the public dinner given him in Washington, on his
leaving for home, were entirely admirable. Andrew Jackson, he said,
had wronged him, but he was now the Chief Magistrate of his country,
and, as such, he should be treated with decorum, and his public acts
judged with candor. His journey to Ashland was more like the progress
of a victor than the return homeward of a rejected statesman.

He now entered largely into his favorite branch of rural business, the
raising of superior animals. Fifty merino sheep were driven over the
mountains from Pennsylvania to his farm, and he imported from England
some Durham and Hertford cattle. He had an Arabian horse in his
stable. For the improvement of the breed of mules, he imported an ass