"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° 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."