resist the collection of revenues at Charleston. Then Jackson, with his
undaunted courage and indomitable will, ordered a body of troops to
South Carolina, and threatened to hang Calhoun and his nullifiers as
"high as Haman."
Then the "great pacificator" came forward to heal the wounds between
North and South, and preserve the Union. He prepared his "Compromise
Bill," which provided for a gradual reduction of duties till the year
1842, when twenty per cent. at a home valuation should become the rate
on dutiable goods. He spent much time and thought on this bill, visiting
the great manufacturers of the country, and urging them to accede for
the sake of peace.
After this bill passed he was more esteemed than ever. He visited by
request the Northern and Eastern States, and spoke to great gatherings
of people in nearly all the large cities. A platform having been erected
on the heights of Bunker Hill, Edward Everett addressed him in the
presence of an immense audience, and Clay responded with his usual
eloquence. The young men of Boston presented him a pair of silver
pitchers, weighing one hundred and fifty ounces. The young men of Troy,
New York, gave him a superbly mounted rifle. Other cities made him
expensive presents.
After the first four years of Jackson's "reign," as it was called by
those who deprecated the unusual power held by the executive, Clay was
again nominated for the presidency by the Whigs, and again defeated,
Jackson receiving two hundred and nineteen electoral votes and Clay only
forty-nine.
Again in 1840, after the four years' term of Van Buren, the protege of
Jackson, all eyes turned toward Clay as the coming President. But
already he had been twice the nominee and been twice defeated. The
anti-slavery element had become a serious factor in party plans. The
secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society in New York wrote Clay:
"I should consider the election of a slave-holder to the presidency a
great calamity to the country." The slave-holders meantime denounced
Clay as an abolitionist.
When the Whig national convention met, December 4, 1839, they chose, not
Clay, but General William Henry Harrison, a good man and a successful
soldier, but a very different man from the popular Clay. The statesman
was sorely disappointed. "I am," he said, "the most unfortunate man in
the history of parties: always run by my friends when sure to be
defeated, and now betrayed for a nomination when I or any one would be
sure of an election."
His friends throughout the country were grieved and indignant. But Clay
supported with all his power the true-hearted old soldier, who, when
elected, offered him the first place in the Cabinet, which was declined.
Harrison died a month after his inauguration, and John Tyler became
President. Clay and Tyler differed constantly, till Clay determined to
retire from the Senate. He said: "I want rest, and my private affairs
want attention. Nevertheless, I would make any personal sacrifice if, by
remaining here, I could do any good; but my belief is I can effect
nothing, and perhaps my absence may remove an obstacle to something
being done by others." When it became known that Clay would make a
farewell address, the Senate chamber was crowded.
He spoke of his long career of public service, and the memorable scenes
they had witnessed together. His feelings nearly overcame him as he
said: "I emigrated from Virginia to the State of Kentucky now nearly
forty-five years ago; I went as an orphan boy who had not yet attained
the age of majority, who had never recognized a father's smile nor felt
his warm caresses, poor, penniless, without the favor of the great, with
an imperfect and neglected education, hardly sufficient for the ordinary
business and common pursuits of life; but scarce had I set foot upon her
generous soil when I was embraced with parental fondness, caressed as
though I had been a favorite child, and patronized with liberal and
unbounded munificence. From that period the highest honors of the State
have been freely bestowed upon me; and when, in the darkest hour of
calumny and detraction, I seemed to be assailed by all the rest of the
world, she interposed her broad and impenetrable shield, repelled the
poisoned shafts that were aimed for my destruction, and vindicated my
good name from every malignant and unfounded aspersion. I return with
indescribable pleasure to linger a while longer, and mingle with the
warm-hearted and whole-souled people of that State; and, when the last
scene shall forever close upon me, I hope that my earthly remains will
be laid under her green sod with those of her gallant and patriotic
sons."
When Clay reached Lexington he was welcomed like a prince. A great
public feast was given in his honor. In his speech to the people he
said: "I have been accused of ambition, often accused of ambition. If to
have served my country during a long series of years with fervent zeal
and unshaken fidelity, in seasons of peace and war, at home and abroad,
in the legislative halls and in an executive department; if to have
labored most sedulously to avert the embarrassment and distress which
now overspread this Union, and, when they came, to have exerted myself
anxiously, at the extra session and at this, to devise healing remedies;
if to have desired to introduce economy and reform in the general
administration, curtail enormous executive power, and amply provide, at
the same time, for the wants of the government and the wants of the
people, by a tariff which would give it revenue and then protection; if
to have earnestly sought to establish the bright but too rare example of
a party in power faithful to its promises and pledges made when out of
power,--if these services, exertions, and endeavors justify the
accusation of ambition, I must plead guilty to the charge.
"I have wished the good opinion of the world; but I defy the most
malignant of my enemies to show that I have attempted to gain it by any
low or grovelling acts, by any mean or unworthy sacrifices, by the
violation of any of the obligations of honor, or by a breach of any of
the duties which I owed to my country."
In 1844, at the Whig convention at Baltimore, May 1, Clay was
unanimously nominated for the presidency, with a great shout that shook
the building. It seemed as though his hour of triumph had come at last.
James K. Polk was the Democratic nominee. Another party now appeared,
the "Liberty Party," with James G. Birney of Kentucky as its candidate.
He was an able lawyer, and a man who had liberated his slaves through
principle. The contest was one of the most acrimonious in our national
history. Texas was clamoring for admission to the Union, with the
Mexican War sure to result. The Whigs feared to commit themselves on the
slavery question. When the votes were counted Birney had received over
sixty-two thousand, enough to throw the election into the hands of the
Democrats. The abolitionists had done what they were willing to
do,--bury the Whig party, that from its grave might arise another party,
which should fearlessly grapple with slavery, and they accomplished
their desire, when, in 1860, the Republican party made Abraham Lincoln
President.
The disappointment to Mr. Clay was extreme, but he bore it bravely. His
friends all over the country seemed broken-hearted. Letters of sorrow
poured into Ashland. "I write," said one, "with an aching heart, and
ache it must. God Almighty save us! Although our hearts are broken and
bleeding, and our bright hopes are crushed, we feel proud of our
candidate. God bless you! Your countrymen do bless you. All know how to
appreciate the man who has stood in the first rank of American patriots.
Though unknown to you, you are by no means a stranger to me." Another
wrote: "I have buried a revolutionary father, who poured out his blood
for his country; I have followed a mother, brothers, sisters, and
children to the grave; and, although I hope I have felt, under all these
afflictions, as a son, a brother, and a father should feel, yet nothing
has so crushed me to the earth, and depressed my spirits, as the result
of our late political contest."
"Permit me, a stranger, to address you. From my boyhood I have loved no
other American statesman so much except Washington. I write from the
overflowing of my heart. I admire and love you more than ever. If I may
never have the happiness of seeing you on earth, may I meet you in
heaven."
A lady wrote, "I had indulged the most joyous anticipations in view of
that political campaign which has now been so ingloriously ended. I
considered that the nation could never feel satisfied until it had
cancelled, in some degree, the onerous obligations so long due to its
faithful and distinguished son."
Another lady wrote, "My mind is a perfect chaos when I dwell upon the
events which have occurred within the last few weeks. My heart refused
to credit the sad reality. Had I the eloquence of all living tongues, I
could not shadow forth the deep, deep sorrow that has thrilled my inmost
soul. The bitterest tears have flowed like rain-drops from my eyes.
Never, till now, could I believe that truth and justice would not
prevail."
A lady in Maryland, ninety-three years old, wrought for Clay a
counterpane of almost numberless pieces. New York friends sent a silver
vase three feet high. The ladies of Tennessee sent a costly vase. Tokens
of affection came from all directions. But the grief was so great that
in some towns business was almost suspended, while the people talked "of
the late blow that has fallen upon our country."
Other troubles were pressing upon Mr. Clay's heart. By heavy
expenditures and losses through his sons, his home had become involved
to the extent of fifty thousand dollars. The mortgage was to be
foreclosed, and Henry Clay would be penniless. A number of friends had
learned these facts, and sent him the cancelled obligation. He was
overcome by this proof of affection, and exclaimed, "Had ever any man
such friends or enemies as Henry Clay!"
Two years later, his favorite son, Colonel Henry Clay, was killed under
General Taylor, in the battle of Buena Vista. "My life has been full of
domestic affliction," said the father, "but this last is the severest
among them." A few years before, while in Washington, a brilliant and
lovely married daughter had died. When Mr. Clay opened the letter and
read the sad news, he fainted, and remained in his room for days.
Mr. Clay was now seventy years old. Chastened by sorrow, he determined
to unite with the Episcopal Church. Says one who was present in the
little parlor at Ashland, "When the minister entered the room on this
deeply solemn and interesting occasion, the small assembly, consisting
of the immediate family, a few family connections, and the clergyman's
wife, rose up. In the middle of the room stood a large centre-table, on
which was placed, filled with water, the magnificent cut-glass vase
presented to Mr. Clay by some gentlemen of Pittsburg. On one side of the
room hung the large picture of the family of Washington, himself an
Episcopalian by birth, by education, and a devout communicant of the
church; and immediately opposite, on a side-table, stood the bust of the
lamented Harrison, with a chaplet of withered flowers hung upon his
head, who was to have been confirmed in the church the Sabbath after he
died,--fit witnesses of such a scene. Around the room were suspended a
number of family pictures, and among them the portrait of a beloved
daughter, who died some years ago, in the triumphs of that faith which
her noble father was now about to embrace; and the picture of the late
lost son, who fell at the battle of Buena Vista. Could these silent
lookers-on at the scene about transpiring have spoken from the marble
and the canvas, they would heartily have approved the act which
dedicated the great man to God."
In 1848, Clay was again talked of for the presidency, but the party
managers considered General Taylor, of the Mexican War, a more available
candidate, and he was nominated and elected. Clay was again unanimously
chosen to the Senate for six years from March 4, 1849. Seven years
before, he had said farewell. Now, at seventy-two, he was again to
debate great questions, and once more save the nation from disruption
and civil war,--for a time; he hoped, for all time.
The territory obtained from Mexico became a matter of contention as to
whether it should be slave territory or not. California asked to be
admitted to the Union without slavery. The North favored this, while the
South insisted that the Missouri Compromise of 1820, which forbade
slavery north of 36 deg. 30', if continued to the Pacific Ocean, would
entitle them to California. Already the Wilmot Proviso, which sought to
exclude slavery from all territory hereafter acquired by the United
States, had aroused bitter feeling at the South. Clay, loving the Union
beyond all things else, thought out his compromise of 1850. As he walked
up to the Capitol to make his last great speech upon the measure, he
said to a friend accompanying him, "Will you lend me your arm? I feel
myself quite weak and exhausted this morning." The friend suggested that
he postpone his speech.
"I consider our country in danger," replied Clay; "and if I can be the
means in any measure of averting that danger, my health and life are of
little consequence."
Great crowds had come from Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and elsewhere
to hear the speech, which occupied two days. He said: "War and
dissolution of the Union are identical; they are convertible terms; and
such a war!... If the two portions of the confederacy should be involved
in civil war, in which the effort on the one side would be to restrain
the introduction of slavery into the new territories, and, on the other
side, to force its introduction there, what a spectacle should we
present to the contemplation of astonished mankind! An effort to
propagate wrong! It would be a war in which we should have no sympathy,
no good wishes, and in which all mankind would be against us, and in
which our own history itself would be against us."
For six months the measure was debated. Clay came daily to the Senate
chamber, so ill he could scarcely walk, but determined to save the
Union. "Sir," said the grand old man, "I have heard something said about
allegiance to the South. I know no South, no North, no East, no West, to
which I owe any allegiance.... Let us go to the fountain of
unadulterated patriotism, and, performing a solemn lustration, return
divested of all selfish, sinister, and sordid impurities, and think
alone of our God, our country, our conscience, and our glorious
Union.... If Kentucky to-morrow unfurls the banner of resistance
unjustly, I never will fight under that banner. I owe a paramount
allegiance to the whole Union,--a subordinate one to my own State. When
my State is right, when it has a cause for resistance, when tyranny and
wrong and oppression insufferable arise, I will then share her fortunes;
but if she summons me to the battlefield, or to support her in any cause
which is unjust against the Union, never, _never_ will I engage with her
in such a cause!"
Finally the Compromise Bill of 1850 was substantially adopted. Among its
several provisions were the admission of California as a free State, the
abolition of the slave-trade in the District of Columbia, the
organization of the Territories of New Mexico and Utah without
conditions as to slavery, and increased stringency of the Fugitive Slave
Laws.
Mr. Clay's hopes as to peace seemed for a few brief months to be
realized. Then the North, exasperated by the provisions of the Fugitive
Slave Bill, by which all good citizens were required to aid
slave-holders in capturing their fugitive slaves, began to resist the
bill by force. Clay could do no more. He must have foreseen the bitter
end. Worn and tired, he went to Cuba to seek restoration of health.
In 1852 he was urged to allow his name to be used again for the
presidency. It was too late now. He returned to Washington at the
opening of the thirty-second Congress, but he entered the Senate
chamber but once. During the spring, devoted friends and two of his sons
watched by his bedside. He said: "As the world recedes from me, I feel
my affections more than ever concentrated on my children and theirs."
The end came peacefully, June 29, 1852, when he was seventy-six. On July
1 the body lay in state in the Senate chamber, and was then carried to
Lexington. In all the principal cities through which the cortege passed,
Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland,
Cincinnati, and others, thousands gathered to pay their homage to the
illustrious dead, weeping, and often pressing their lips upon the
shroud. On July 10, when the body, having reached Lexington, was ready
for burial, nearly a hundred thousand persons were gathered. In front of
the Ashland home, on a bier covered with flowers, stood the iron coffin.
Senators and scholars, the rich and the poor, the white and the black,
mourned together in their common sorrow. The great man had missed the
presidency, but he had not missed the love of a whole nation. The
"mill-boy of the Slashes," winsome, sincere, had, unaided, become the
only and immortal Henry Clay.
[Illustration: CHARLES SUMNER.]
CHARLES SUMNER.
Henry Ward Beecher said of Charles Sumner: "He was raised up to do the
work preceding and following the war. His eulogy will be, a lover of his
country, an advocate of universal liberty, and the most eloquent and
high-minded of all the statesmen of that period in which America made
the transition from slavery to liberty."
"The most eloquent and high-minded." Great praise, but worthily
bestowed!
Descended from an honorable English family who came to Massachusetts in
1637, settling in Dorchester, and the son of a well known lawyer,
Charles Sumner came into the world January 6, 1811, with all the
advantages of birth and social position. That he cared comparatively
little for the family coat-of-arms of his ancestors is shown by his
words in his address on "The True Grandeur of Nations." "Nothing is more
shameful for a man than to found his title to esteem not on his own
merits, but on the fame of his ancestors. The glory of the fathers is,
doubtless, to their children, a most precious treasure; but to enjoy it
without transmitting it to the next generation, and without adding to
it yourselves,--this is the height of imbecility."
Sumner added to the "glory of the fathers," not by ease and
self-indulgence, not by conforming to the opinions of the society about
him, but by a life of labor, and heroic devotion to principle. He had
such courage to do the right as is not common to mankind, and such
persistency as teaches a lesson to the young men of America.
Charles was the oldest of nine children, the twin brother of Matilda,
who grew to a beautiful womanhood, and died of consumption at
twenty-one. The family home was at No. 20 Hancock Street, Boston, a
four-story brick building.
Charles Pinckney Sumner, the father, a scholarly and well bred man of
courtly manners, while he taught his children to love books, had the
severity of nature which forbade a tender companionship between him and
his oldest son. This was supplied, however, by the mother, a woman of
unusual amiability and good-sense, who lived to be his consolation in
the struggles of manhood, and to be proud and thankful when the whole
land echoed his praises.
The boy was tall, slight, obedient, and devoted to books. He was
especially fond of reading and repeating speeches. When sent to
dancing-school he showed little enjoyment in it, preferring to go to the
court-room with his father, to listen to the arguments of the lawyers.
When he visited his mother's early home in Hanover, he had the extreme
pleasure of reciting in the country woods the orations which he had read
in the city.
In these early days he was an aspiring lad, with a manner which made his
companions say he was "to the manor born." The father had decided to
educate him in the English branches only, thus fitting him to earn his
living earlier, as his income from the law, at this time, was not large.
Charles, however, had purchased some Latin books with his pocket money,
and surprised his father with the progress he had made by himself when
ten years old. He was therefore, at this age, sent to the Boston Latin
School. So skilful was he in the classics that at thirteen he received a
prize for a translation from Sallust, and at fifteen a prize for English
prose and another for a Latin poem. At the latter age he was ready to
enter Harvard College. He had desired to go to West Point, but,
fortunately, there was no opening. The country needed him for other work
than war. To lead a whole nation by voice and pen up to heroic deeds is
better than to lead an army.
All this time he read eagerly in his spare moments, especially in
history, enjoying Gibbon's "Rome," and making full extracts from it in
his notebooks. At fourteen he had written a compendium of English
history, from Caesar's conquest to 1801, which filled a manuscript book
of eighty-six pages.
His first college room at Harvard was No. 17 Stoughton Hall. "When he
entered," says one of his class-mates, "he was tall, thin, and somewhat
awkward. He had but little inclination for engaging in sports or games,
such as kicking foot-ball on the Delta, which the other students were in
almost the daily habit of enjoying. He rarely went out to take a walk;
and almost the only exercise in which he engaged was going on foot to
Boston on Saturday afternoon, and then returning in the evening. He had
a remarkable fondness for reading the dramas of Shakespeare, the works
of Walter Scott, together with reviews and magazines of the higher
class. He remembered what he read, and quoted passages afterwards with
the greatest fluency.... In declamation he held rank among the best; but
in mathematics there were several superior. He was always amiable and
gentlemanly in deportment, and avoided saying anything to wound the
feelings of his class-mates." One of the chief distinguishing marks of a
well bred man is that he speaks ill of no one and harshly to no one.
In Sumner's freshman year his persistency showed itself, as in his
childhood, when, in quarrelling with a companion over a stick, he held
it till his bleeding hands frightened his antagonist, who ran away. By
the laws of the college, students wore a uniform, consisting of an
Oxford cap, coat, pantaloons, and vest of the color known as "Oxford
mixed." In summer a white vest was allowed. Sumner, having a fancy for a
buff vest, purchased one, wore it, and was summoned before the teachers
for non-conformity to rules. He insisted, with much eloquence, that his
vest was white. Twice he was admonished, and finally, as the easiest way
to settle with the good-principled but persistent student, it was voted
by the board, "that in future Sumner's vest be regarded as white!"
In scholarship in college he ranked among the first third. He gave much
time to general reading, especially the old English authors, Milton,
Pope, Dryden, Addison, Goldsmith. Hazlitt's "Select British Poets" and
Harvey's "Shakespeare" he kept constantly on his table in later life,
ready for use. The latter, which he always called THE BOOK, was found
open on the day of his death, with the words marked in Henry VI:--
"Would I were dead! if God's good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?"
On leaving college, Sumner's mind was not made up as to his future work.
He was somewhat inclined to the law, but questioned his probable success
in it. He spent a year at home in study, mastering mathematics, which he
so disliked, and reading Tacitus, Juvenal, Persius, Hume, Hallam, and
the like. In the winter he composed an essay on commerce, and received
the prize offered by the "Boston Society for the Diffusion of Useful
Knowledge." Daniel Webster, the president of the society, gave the
prize, Liebner's "Encyclopaedia Americana," to Sumner, taking his hand
and calling him his "young friend." He did not know that this youth
would succeed him in the Senate, and thrill the nation by his eloquence,
as Webster himself had done.