Henry Clay_ The Essential American.

by David S. Heidler.

Prologue

BEFORE THE CLOCKS struck noon, Washington's church bells began to toll, a signal to the capital that it was over. The telegraph sent the news across the country, and bells began to ring in cities and towns from the Atlantic coast to the deep interior. One of those first telegrams was sent to Lexington, Kentucky: "My father is no more. He has passed without pain into eternity." struck noon, Washington's church bells began to toll, a signal to the capital that it was over. The telegraph sent the news across the country, and bells began to ring in cities and towns from the Atlantic coast to the deep interior. One of those first telegrams was sent to Lexington, Kentucky: "My father is no more. He has passed without pain into eternity."1 Soon that message was speeding to the house nearby called Ashland, where an old woman at last had the hard news she had been expecting for months. Her husband of more than fifty years was dead. Lucretia Clay was a widow. The bells in Lexington were already ringing. Soon that message was speeding to the house nearby called Ashland, where an old woman at last had the hard news she had been expecting for months. Her husband of more than fifty years was dead. Lucretia Clay was a widow. The bells in Lexington were already ringing.Henry Clay was dead. Shop owners across the country paused to stare briefly into the distance before pulling shades and locking doors. Men reflexively pulled watches from their vest pockets and noted the time. The immediacy of the news was sobering. Clay had died at seventeen minutes after eleven that very morning of June 29, 1852. Only a few years before, reports of his death would have seeped out of Washington only as fast as the post office and knowledgeable travelers could carry them. People on rivers would have heard about it first, possibly in days, but days would have stretched into weeks before most people learned that the greatest political figure in the nation was dead. Time would have cushioned the blow, weakening its power until it became a piece of history, something that had happened a long way off, a long time ago.The telegraph made the news of Clay's death instant and therefore indelible. Only hours passed before cities from Maine to Missouri began draping themselves in crepe and men from Savannah to St. Louis began pulling on black armbands. Washington, already slowed by summer's heat, came to a halt. President Millard Fillmore shut down the government, and Congress immediately adjourned. Members scattered to boardinghouses, hotels, and taverns, some to draft eulogies they would deliver the next day in the legislative chambers that Henry Clay had deftly managed for almost a half century. Even after sunset, the bells continued to ring. Cannon at the Navy Yard were firing.2On June 30, the House of Representatives and the Senate heard recollections of Henry Clay. His passing was not unexpected-he had lain ill in his rooms at the National Hotel for months, and his visitors had been on what amounted to a deathwatch for weeks-but the expectation did not make its actual occurrence any less piercing. The sense that Clay's death was ending a momentous chapter in the country's history was also sobering. A little more than two years before, Clay's celebrated contemporary John C. Calhoun had died, and another, Daniel Webster, was gradually succumbing to maladies that were soon to carry him off as well. These three had become the fabled Great Triumvirate of American government. More than mere symbols of the Republic, they became personifications of it. The South Carolinian Calhoun was the South with its growing frustrations and emerging belligerency over the slavery issue. New England's Webster had become the conflicting ambiguities of the North with its moral repugnance over slavery and its allegiance to a country constitutionally bound to slavery's preservation. And the Kentuckian Clay was that national ambiguity defined. He was a westerner from the South. Yet he was not southern, because he deplored slavery. His owning slaves, however, meant that he was not northern. When an admirer said that "you find nothing that is not essentially AMERICAN AMERICAN in his life," it was meant as a compliment in a divisively sectional time, but in retrospect it was also a warning to the country. Like Henry Clay, it could not long continue to own slaves while denouncing slavery. in his life," it was meant as a compliment in a divisively sectional time, but in retrospect it was also a warning to the country. Like Henry Clay, it could not long continue to own slaves while denouncing slavery.3When Congress met on June 30, however, it was more in the mood to celebrate Clay's life than to find portents in his death. Some members quoted poetry; some of it was good. Several remarked on his humble birth and his admirable efforts to rise above it, a theme that had already become an American political staple by the mid-nineteenth century, an obligatory credential for establishing one's relationship with "the people." And though in some cases, such as Clay's, it was an exaggeration for election campaigns, he had indeed risen, and no less spectacularly because he started from relative comfort rather than poverty. His success resulted from ceaseless labor and fastidious attention to detail. Kentuckian Joseph Underwood reminded the Senate that Clay had been neat in everything from his handkerchiefs to his handwriting. Underwood was not just talking about wardrobes and penmanship.4All realized, some grudgingly, that Clay had become a great statesman. They also had to admit-again, some grudgingly-that he had been usually a jovial adversary with his opponents and always an endearing companion to his friends. New York Whig William Seward, destined to become Abraham Lincoln's secretary of state, did not particularly like or admire Clay, but he nevertheless dubbed him "the Prince of the Senate" and recalled that his "conversation, his gesture, his very look, was persuasive, seductive, irresistible." A House Democrat paid tribute to the peerless orator for "the silvery tones of his bewitching voice," and a Kentucky Whig said "he reminded us of those days when there were giants in the land," concluding with Shakespeare's Antony describing Caesar with "say to all the world, This was a man This was a man!"5The reference to Caesar was ironic. The closest thing to an American Caesar in Clay's time had been his most implacable foe, Andrew Jackson. "For near a quarter of a century," Virginia's Charles Faulkner observed, "this great Republic has been convulsed to its centre by the great divisions which have sprung from their respective opinions, policy, and personal destinies."6 But that didn't say the half of it. Andrew Jackson's shadow had cast a pall over Clay's political life for more than a quarter century in some way or other, starting with Clay's criticism of Jackson's foray into Florida in 1818, their rivalry in the 1824 presidential contest, and clashes during Jackson's presidency that included the titanic struggle over the national bank, a political brawl so devastating that it was called a war. Clay had lost that war. In fact, he had lost almost every time he challenged Andrew Jackson, and worse, he was defined for many Americans by the accusation Jackson and his friends leveled at Clay in 1825. He had, they said, entered into a "corrupt bargain" with John Quincy Adams to give Adams the presidency in exchange for Clay's appointment as secretary of state, a presumed springboard to the presidency. This example of what Americans now call the politics of personal destruction was called by Clay's generation simple candor by his foes, base slander by his friends. The argument over who was right would outlive both Jackson, who died in 1845, and Clay, but as his colleagues took the measure of his life on that hot June day, the question momentarily became irrelevant. When John Breckinridge, a young Democrat from Clay's Kentucky, proclaimed that Clay had been "in the public service for fifty years, and never attempted to deceive his countrymen," it was a slightly oblique jab at Jackson and the charge he had perpetuated. Walker Brooke reminded the Senate and James Brooks the House of Clay's famous response when advised to modify his principles for political advantage: "Sir, I had rather be right than be President." Clay's repeated failures as a presidential aspirant are evidence that he apparently meant it. But that didn't say the half of it. Andrew Jackson's shadow had cast a pall over Clay's political life for more than a quarter century in some way or other, starting with Clay's criticism of Jackson's foray into Florida in 1818, their rivalry in the 1824 presidential contest, and clashes during Jackson's presidency that included the titanic struggle over the national bank, a political brawl so devastating that it was called a war. Clay had lost that war. In fact, he had lost almost every time he challenged Andrew Jackson, and worse, he was defined for many Americans by the accusation Jackson and his friends leveled at Clay in 1825. He had, they said, entered into a "corrupt bargain" with John Quincy Adams to give Adams the presidency in exchange for Clay's appointment as secretary of state, a presumed springboard to the presidency. This example of what Americans now call the politics of personal destruction was called by Clay's generation simple candor by his foes, base slander by his friends. The argument over who was right would outlive both Jackson, who died in 1845, and Clay, but as his colleagues took the measure of his life on that hot June day, the question momentarily became irrelevant. When John Breckinridge, a young Democrat from Clay's Kentucky, proclaimed that Clay had been "in the public service for fifty years, and never attempted to deceive his countrymen," it was a slightly oblique jab at Jackson and the charge he had perpetuated. Walker Brooke reminded the Senate and James Brooks the House of Clay's famous response when advised to modify his principles for political advantage: "Sir, I had rather be right than be President." Clay's repeated failures as a presidential aspirant are evidence that he apparently meant it.Yet Clay's principles had never made him inflexible or doctrinaire, an ineffective posture for a party leader. Twenty years earlier, he had shaped the faction opposed to Andrew Jackson into a political party. Its members became known as Whigs because just as the Whigs of England had objected to the unchecked power of the throne, the American Whigs resisted "King Andrew's" excessive assumption of authority. Abraham Venable noted that Clay was a highly successful party leader, his "plastic touch" almost always shaping Whig plans and purposes. Another speaker praised his ability to "relax the rigor of his policy" if it endangered the government and the nation.7 Those traits had earned his reputation as a political peacemaker. He was the "Great Compromiser" and the "Great Pacificator," labels applied as tributes to a man who had always pursued political goals within the limits of the possible. Congress had the evidence for that in the most recent clash over slavery that had almost destroyed the Union. Clay, gravely ill and fading daily, had helped to save the country from that crisis in his last public act. These men now contemplating his death were ready to see that gesture as one of singular selflessness, a labor that had hastened a frail old man's demise, making him a martyr to the cause of Union, "a holy sacrifice to his beloved country." Those traits had earned his reputation as a political peacemaker. He was the "Great Compromiser" and the "Great Pacificator," labels applied as tributes to a man who had always pursued political goals within the limits of the possible. Congress had the evidence for that in the most recent clash over slavery that had almost destroyed the Union. Clay, gravely ill and fading daily, had helped to save the country from that crisis in his last public act. These men now contemplating his death were ready to see that gesture as one of singular selflessness, a labor that had hastened a frail old man's demise, making him a martyr to the cause of Union, "a holy sacrifice to his beloved country."8We know now what they could not imagine. Clay's sacrifice was ultimately in vain, and the ungainly compromise he had helped cobble together was already unraveling as he died. The country had no more compromises in it, and only nine years later, the Union that Clay knew and loved would disappear. The congressional eulogies on June 30 contained subtle hints of the divisions that would finally split that Union and turn its political arguments into a civil war. Of the thirteen eulogies in the House of Representatives, all but three were delivered by Whigs, and they were mostly from the East. Not a single New Englander rose to praise Henry Clay, and aside from two representatives from Kentucky, only congressmen from Tennessee and Indiana, both Whigs, spoke for the West. No representative from the Deep South spoke for Clay. The only southerners who did so were from Virginia, North Carolina, and Maryland. Many in the House apparently followed the rule that when unable to say anything good, one should say nothing at all.The time was fast coming-perhaps it had already arrived-when even a Great Pacificator could not soothe such troubled political waters. One Democrat even tinged his remarks with mild spite. Virginia senator Robert M. T. Hunter was still smarting from the bruising fight over the Compromise of 1850 and could not keep from reciting a series of backhanded compliments that damned with faint praise: Clay was not well educated but had managed to achieve success anyway; clearly past his prime, he had soldiered on; never bright or prescient, he at least had never exaggerated matters for political effect. Hunter closed by inviting the Senate to gaze upon the ghost of the Democrat Calhoun, the man Hunter clearly regarded as a genuine intellect and great statesman.9 Some muttered about Clay's popularity in death spanning the political breach and took small comfort in the reality that it was bad form to speak ill of the dead. Four days after the congressional eulogies, Democrat newspaper editor Francis Preston Blair privately groused that Democrats had made the best speeches but had apparently forgotten that Clay was a Whig. Some muttered about Clay's popularity in death spanning the political breach and took small comfort in the reality that it was bad form to speak ill of the dead. Four days after the congressional eulogies, Democrat newspaper editor Francis Preston Blair privately groused that Democrats had made the best speeches but had apparently forgotten that Clay was a Whig.10Nobody could forget, however, that Clay was a friendly, persistently cheerful man whose mark on the country was as indelible as his influence on its politics was profound. "The good and great can never die," said Walker Brooke, and Maryland's Richard J. Bowie observed that Clay's "name is a household word, his thoughts are familiar sentences." But Alabama senator Jeremiah Clemens, who happened to be a Democrat, spoke the simplest and most poignant sentiment, because it was the most personal. He had disagreed with Henry Clay about almost everything, but that was of no relevance now. "To me," Clemens said simply, "he was something more than kind."11THE NEXT MORNING Clay came to the Capitol for the last time. Overnight, Washington had dressed its buildings in black. As dignitaries spent the morning gathering at the National Hotel, the church bells resumed their tolling, and the cannon at the Navy Yard began firing as they had the previous night, one report every sixty seconds, hence their label as minute guns. All flags were at half-staff. It was 11:00 Clay came to the Capitol for the last time. Overnight, Washington had dressed its buildings in black. As dignitaries spent the morning gathering at the National Hotel, the church bells resumed their tolling, and the cannon at the Navy Yard began firing as they had the previous night, one report every sixty seconds, hence their label as minute guns. All flags were at half-staff. It was 11:00 A.M., A.M., and the day was steaming hot, making black attire even more oppressive. and the day was steaming hot, making black attire even more oppressive.It took an hour to organize everyone, but at noon the procession finally moved out for the Capitol, only a few blocks to the east. It headed up Pennsylvania Avenue behind two military companies and a regimental band setting a slow pace with dirges and muffled drums. The Senate Committee on Arrangements, wearing white scarves, and the Senate pallbearers with black scarves, led the funeral car, an elaborate creation covered in black cloth, its corners decorated by gilded torches wrapped in crepe, silver stars fastened to its sides, and a canopy of intertwined black and white silk arching over the coffin. Six white horses, each attended by a groom dressed in white, pulled the car up the avenue. A silent multitude lined the route. The slow pace took the procession almost an hour to cover the short distance to the Capitol's portico that opened to the Rotunda.President Fillmore, cabinet officers, and the diplomatic corps entered the Senate chamber at 12:20 P.M., P.M., and shortly afterward they were followed by the congressional chaplains, the pallbearers and the casket, Clay's son Thomas, friends, senators, representatives, Supreme Court justices, judges, senior military officers, mayors from Washington and other major cities, civic groups, and militiamen. The absolute silence of such a large gathering, especially among the citizens packing the gallery above, was eerie. As the casket was brought in, the imposing figure of Senate chaplain Charles M. Butler, clad in high canonical robes, stepped forward and broke the hush: "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord." and shortly afterward they were followed by the congressional chaplains, the pallbearers and the casket, Clay's son Thomas, friends, senators, representatives, Supreme Court justices, judges, senior military officers, mayors from Washington and other major cities, civic groups, and militiamen. The absolute silence of such a large gathering, especially among the citizens packing the gallery above, was eerie. As the casket was brought in, the imposing figure of Senate chaplain Charles M. Butler, clad in high canonical robes, stepped forward and broke the hush: "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord."12The coffin was placed in the center of the chamber. It was a distracting novelty, made of metal shaped to resemble the human form and with weighty silver mountings and handles. A large, thick silver plate bore the inscription HENRY CLAY HENRY CLAY, and another just above it could be removed to reveal the corpse's face under a glass pane, a practice to make sure that the encased body really was lifeless in order to avoid the nineteenth century's greatest nightmare, being buried alive. The president and Speaker of the House sat nearest the coffin at the center. Senators, diplomats, family, and friends formed a semicircle just beyond. Congressmen and visiting dignitaries filled the outermost circles.13The Reverend Dr. Butler was Clay's friend. He performed the service as much from affection for the deceased as from his official duty as the Senate's chaplain. He began by noting how different people would remember different Henry Clays. There was the Clay of youth and ambition, the Clay of great accomplishment and renown, the Clay of the sickroom, feeble but cheerful, and the Clay who rose to defend the beleaguered Union. But there was also the Henry Clay who had embodied all that was great and good about America. Butler invoked Jeremiah, chapter 48, verse 17, to describe this universal recollection of Henry Clay as "the strong staff" adorned with "the beautiful rod" of patriotism. He spoke of a nation in mourning, its cities silent but for pealing bells, an entire country swathed in crepe, its commerce stilled and its citizens reflecting on the sobering loss and the finality of burying Henry Clay. "Burying HENRY CLAY HENRY CLAY!" Butler roared. "Bury the records of your country's history-bury the hearts of living millions-bury the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, and the spreading lands from sea to sea, with which his name is inseparably associated, and even then you would not bury HENRY CLAY HENRY CLAY-for he lives in other lands, and speaks in other tongues, and to other times than ours."14As Butler spoke, Francis Preston Blair in the gallery scanned the assembly. His eyes found Daniel Webster among the cabinet, the last of the Great Triumvirate, now in his final days serving as Millard Fillmore's secretary of state. Blair saw in Webster's face haunting, inconsolable sadness.15 Daniel Webster himself had less than four months to live. Daniel Webster himself had less than four months to live.The service ended. Attendants quietly removed the silver plate covering Clay's face. President Fillmore paused only briefly to look on Clay for the last time. Tuberculosis had made him more skeleton than man and had drained the vitality out of his expressive face, but visitors in his last days had still seen something of the old spark, even at the very end. Now that was gone too, and what remained was only an effigy. Those who knew him well did not linger now to gaze upon it. At first, the plate was removed at stops on the lengthy journey home whenever Clay lay in state for public viewing, but the practice was soon discontinued. The remains had not been embalmed, and it was summer. In any case, those who knew him preferred to keep their memories unimpaired. When he arrived in Lexington, his family would leave the plate in place.16The coffin was soon moved to the Rotunda and set atop a bier. Despite its enormous size, the Rotunda was quickly crammed with a confused, shoving crowd. Outside, the throng overflowed the portico and public grounds. Grief, curiosity, and the limited time almost turned the scene into mayhem as the jostling and rising murmur of the mob alarmed the U.S. marshal and his deputies. The confusion was understandable. Henry Clay was the first American to lie in state at the Capitol. No other official of the government, not even a president, had ever been accorded that honor. Procedures for managing the resulting crowd did not exist, and the marshal and his assistants took a while to restore order and establish the proper decorum. At last the crowd formed an orderly file that entered the Rotunda and parted into two queues on either side of the funeral bier, never pausing, steadily passing to catch a glimpse of the shadowed face in the odd coffin. Americans would not do this again for thirteen years. Then it would be for Abraham Lincoln.AT 3:30 THAT afternoon it was time for Clay to start home. The Committee on Arrangements and the honorary pallbearers, led by four military companies and followed by a large crowd, accompanied the casket to the railroad station where a locomotive was standing by. At the station, thousands of men and women stood silently as the coffin was placed in a special car. The entire train was trimmed in crepe. The six senators selected to take Clay home prepared to board, a strange bunch split evenly between Whigs and Democrats. They included the venerable Lewis Cass, at seventy the eldest, and Tennessee's James C. Jones, a youngster at forty-three. Sam Houston, the flamboyant Tennessee transplant to Texas, confidant of Andrew Jackson, was part of the group, as was New Jersey's Robert F. Stockton, whose grandfather had signed the Declaration of Independence. The train's whistle wheezed to a full roar, and its wheels began their slow turns, easing out of Washington like a black snake, bound first for Baltimore. afternoon it was time for Clay to start home. The Committee on Arrangements and the honorary pallbearers, led by four military companies and followed by a large crowd, accompanied the casket to the railroad station where a locomotive was standing by. At the station, thousands of men and women stood silently as the coffin was placed in a special car. The entire train was trimmed in crepe. The six senators selected to take Clay home prepared to board, a strange bunch split evenly between Whigs and Democrats. They included the venerable Lewis Cass, at seventy the eldest, and Tennessee's James C. Jones, a youngster at forty-three. Sam Houston, the flamboyant Tennessee transplant to Texas, confidant of Andrew Jackson, was part of the group, as was New Jersey's Robert F. Stockton, whose grandfather had signed the Declaration of Independence. The train's whistle wheezed to a full roar, and its wheels began their slow turns, easing out of Washington like a black snake, bound first for Baltimore.It was a mark of Clay's importance that this last journey home began by heading away from it. The family agreed to allow the body to travel a much extended, roundabout route from Washington to Lexington, though Clay's son Thomas dreaded the prospect of it all. "Oh! how sickening is the splendid pageantry I have to go through from this to Lexington," Thomas wrote to his wife.17 In addition, the funeral procession was unprecedented. The funeral party would cover more than a thousand miles by train and steamboat, first to Baltimore and Wilmington and Philadelphia and then swinging north to New Jersey and New York, arcing over to Buffalo before heading south through Ohio to Kentucky. The journey consumed nine days-a direct passage could have taken Clay home in a fraction of that time-and attracted huge crowds in large cities and drew out the entire populations of towns. Aside from the journey's obvious symbolism, it held subtle significance too. When Clay first traveled from Lexington to Washington, the trip took weeks of hard trekking on horseback and rickety stagecoaches. That was in 1806, when Thomas Jefferson was president. The enormous continental heartland called Louisiana had only just been added to a country that was still mainly a wilderness crossed by trails, many only paths hemmed by trees and undergrowth. When Clay headed home four and a half decades later, he passed through a land unrecognizably altered and marked by unparalleled expansion and improvement. Americans had turned trails into roads, some paved with wooden planks or broken stones to make them passable in all weathers, allowing coaches to cover twenty, sometimes thirty miles a day. Travelers who decades before had slept under the stars now could stay in moderately comfortable lodgings. In addition, the funeral procession was unprecedented. The funeral party would cover more than a thousand miles by train and steamboat, first to Baltimore and Wilmington and Philadelphia and then swinging north to New Jersey and New York, arcing over to Buffalo before heading south through Ohio to Kentucky. The journey consumed nine days-a direct passage could have taken Clay home in a fraction of that time-and attracted huge crowds in large cities and drew out the entire populations of towns. Aside from the journey's obvious symbolism, it held subtle significance too. When Clay first traveled from Lexington to Washington, the trip took weeks of hard trekking on horseback and rickety stagecoaches. That was in 1806, when Thomas Jefferson was president. The enormous continental heartland called Louisiana had only just been added to a country that was still mainly a wilderness crossed by trails, many only paths hemmed by trees and undergrowth. When Clay headed home four and a half decades later, he passed through a land unrecognizably altered and marked by unparalleled expansion and improvement. Americans had turned trails into roads, some paved with wooden planks or broken stones to make them passable in all weathers, allowing coaches to cover twenty, sometimes thirty miles a day. Travelers who decades before had slept under the stars now could stay in moderately comfortable lodgings.Americans now call such wonders "infrastructure," but Clay's generation called them internal improvements. He had been their constant champion through both private initiative and public subsidies. Internal improvements, he preached, could speed American commerce, bolster American security, refine life on rough farmsteads, transform remote villages into thriving townships. With such encouragement, engineers had scoured harbors and dredged rivers. Where there were no rivers, they dug them in the form of canals that could float keelboats heavy with freight and passengers into the interior. Along the way, steam revolutionized water traffic to allow packets to strain against American rivers and moor in spacious harbors, courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers. Steam radically changed ground travel as well. When Clay first came to Washington, he would have heard only the wind in the trees, the songs of birds, the rush of untamed waters. On his last journey home, in 1852, the pounding cylinders of his locomotive joined a chorus of machined progress that had become an American expectation, a march that rarely paused for anything. It paused only briefly for Clay's passing. Americans felt in their bones the inevitability of material improvement as they saw the future dance to the music of roaring steam whistles atop grand riverboats and heard the pinging of spikes driven for new iron rails and more locomotives. That summer evening in 1852, one of those locomotives pulled Henry Clay into the American twilight, a full moon waxing.THE TRAIN ARRIVED at Baltimore's outer depot on Poppleton and Pratt streets at 6:00 at Baltimore's outer depot on Poppleton and Pratt streets at 6:00 P.M. P.M. Attendants placed the coffin on an ornate hearse that slowly made its way up Pratt Street between a vast crowd toward the towering domed rotunda of the Exchange, a building owned by a joint stock company of Baltimore merchants. There the coffin was placed on a large draped catafalque. Its faceplate was removed, and the men of the local militia, in this case the Independent Greys, managed the slow-moving lines that passed in tribute well into the night. Attendants placed the coffin on an ornate hearse that slowly made its way up Pratt Street between a vast crowd toward the towering domed rotunda of the Exchange, a building owned by a joint stock company of Baltimore merchants. There the coffin was placed on a large draped catafalque. Its faceplate was removed, and the men of the local militia, in this case the Independent Greys, managed the slow-moving lines that passed in tribute well into the night.18At 10:15 the next morning, a large procession escorted the coffin to the Philadelphia Depot. By 11:00 the train was on its way to Wilmington, where it stopped before proceeding at 7:00 P.M. P.M. to Philadelphia. A large crowd was gathered at that city's Baltimore Depot when the train arrived at 9:00, and a torchlight procession conveyed the remains to Independence Hall. That night into the next morning, Philadelphians filed passed the funeral bier, military guards at its corners. No one seemed to have noticed the coincidence of the date, especially the year. Clay came to this room exactly seventy-six years, almost to the day, after the Declaration of Independence had been signed there in the year 1776. to Philadelphia. A large crowd was gathered at that city's Baltimore Depot when the train arrived at 9:00, and a torchlight procession conveyed the remains to Independence Hall. That night into the next morning, Philadelphians filed passed the funeral bier, military guards at its corners. No one seemed to have noticed the coincidence of the date, especially the year. Clay came to this room exactly seventy-six years, almost to the day, after the Declaration of Independence had been signed there in the year 1776.On Saturday, July 3, the body was escorted to Kensington and placed on the steamboat Trenton Trenton bound for New York City. New York closed down and turned out on Broadway to see the makeshift parade that bore Clay to City Hall. He lay in state there for the rest of the day and all of the next, July 4, a Sunday. bound for New York City. New York closed down and turned out on Broadway to see the makeshift parade that bore Clay to City Hall. He lay in state there for the rest of the day and all of the next, July 4, a Sunday.19Despite a veneer of organization, almost everything about this funeral journey was impromptu and planned on the fly. It was a testament to the resourcefulness of the senators accompanying the remains. In New York City, for example, there was no set time for departure, and the city planned to have Clay lie in state "until the Congressional delegation determine to proceed onward."20 After the Fourth, after tens of thousands of New Yorkers had paid their respects, the congressional delegation decided it was time to move on. Another grand procession conveyed the remains and the funeral delegation to the After the Fourth, after tens of thousands of New Yorkers had paid their respects, the congressional delegation decided it was time to move on. Another grand procession conveyed the remains and the funeral delegation to the Santa Claus, Santa Claus, a Troy passenger steamer, which promptly headed up the Hudson River to Albany. The a Troy passenger steamer, which promptly headed up the Hudson River to Albany. The Santa Claus Santa Claus made only a few brief stops, but all the towns along the way paid respects anyway. As the steamer neared Poughkeepsie at 5:00 made only a few brief stops, but all the towns along the way paid respects anyway. As the steamer neared Poughkeepsie at 5:00 P.M. P.M., it slowed to allow citizens in small boats to hand up flowers for the coffin. Albany was alerted and ready for their arrival. By the time the Santa Claus Santa Claus docked, a general din of steamboat whistles, church bells, and firing guns had broken out. Preparing to disembark, the funeral party was startled to see the gigantic crowd that stretched into the dark distance of Albany's streets. After all, it was 11:00 at night. docked, a general din of steamboat whistles, church bells, and firing guns had broken out. Preparing to disembark, the funeral party was startled to see the gigantic crowd that stretched into the dark distance of Albany's streets. After all, it was 11:00 at night.21At 8:30 the next morning, the body and its growing entourage were escorted to the Erie Railroad Station, where another special funeral train began a slow journey to Buffalo, briefly pausing for large crowds at towns along the way. Like Albany, Buffalo remained up for the train despite its late arrival, greeting it with a torchlight procession that conveyed the coffin to the Buckeye State, Buckeye State, an enormous steamboat of the first class, almost three hundred feet long and boasting powerful engines that made her one of the fastest of the Great Lakes packets. She was soon under way, lighted from bow to stern, heading down the Erie shore toward Cleveland. an enormous steamboat of the first class, almost three hundred feet long and boasting powerful engines that made her one of the fastest of the Great Lakes packets. She was soon under way, lighted from bow to stern, heading down the Erie shore toward Cleveland.SOME FIVE HUNDRED miles to the west, as the miles to the west, as the Buckeye State Buckeye State sped toward Cleveland, citizens and officials in Springfield, Illinois, were doing what countless towns across America were doing-gathering to mourn the death of Henry Clay. In Springfield, plans for such ceremonies had been made the evening of Clay's death at a public meeting presided over by the young lawyer Abraham Lincoln. The next day a special committee set the following Tuesday as the day for the commemoration and the Illinois statehouse as the place. Stephen T. Logan, Lincoln's former law partner and a leader in Illinois politics, was to deliver the eulogy. Before July 6, however, Lincoln was tapped to take Logan's place. It has never been clear why this was done, but Lincoln must have been ambivalent about it. He was tired, having just returned from a long trip riding the Illinois judicial circuit, and he was busy preparing the defense of a Mexican War veteran, an amputee, who stood accused of stealing from the U.S. mails. sped toward Cleveland, citizens and officials in Springfield, Illinois, were doing what countless towns across America were doing-gathering to mourn the death of Henry Clay. In Springfield, plans for such ceremonies had been made the evening of Clay's death at a public meeting presided over by the young lawyer Abraham Lincoln. The next day a special committee set the following Tuesday as the day for the commemoration and the Illinois statehouse as the place. Stephen T. Logan, Lincoln's former law partner and a leader in Illinois politics, was to deliver the eulogy. Before July 6, however, Lincoln was tapped to take Logan's place. It has never been clear why this was done, but Lincoln must have been ambivalent about it. He was tired, having just returned from a long trip riding the Illinois judicial circuit, and he was busy preparing the defense of a Mexican War veteran, an amputee, who stood accused of stealing from the U.S. mails.22 It was also extremely short notice, and Lincoln's previous experience at writing a eulogy-he had delivered one when President Zachary Taylor died two years earlier-had been a frustrating disappointment. It was also extremely short notice, and Lincoln's previous experience at writing a eulogy-he had delivered one when President Zachary Taylor died two years earlier-had been a frustrating disappointment.He was likely troubled by the task for other reasons as well, for he admired Clay more than he did any other man on the American political scene, describing him later as "my beau ideal of a statesman."23 He had never met Clay, but he had devoured his speeches and had even heard him speak on one memorable occasion at Lexington in 1847. Lincoln had been visiting his in-laws, the important Robert Todd family, who knew Clay quite well. Clay was a frequent dinner guest in the Todd home, and Lincoln's wife, Mary, as a girl had once taken her new pony to Ashland to show it off to Clay. He had never met Clay, but he had devoured his speeches and had even heard him speak on one memorable occasion at Lexington in 1847. Lincoln had been visiting his in-laws, the important Robert Todd family, who knew Clay quite well. Clay was a frequent dinner guest in the Todd home, and Lincoln's wife, Mary, as a girl had once taken her new pony to Ashland to show it off to Clay.24Tackling this important and unexpected task, Lincoln hurriedly consulted Clay's own writings and published speeches for inspiration, even searching for a model eulogy to imitate, but he could find nothing helpful. When the observances opened on July 6 at the Springfield Episcopal Church before moving to the hall of the state House of Representatives for his speech, Lincoln felt ill prepared and showed it. He spoke for just under an hour and was as disappointed as his listeners with a lackluster, pedestrian effort. He was especially frustrated because Clay meant so much to him, and Lincoln obviously meant it when he noted how Clay's failed quests for the presidency had not diminished him in the slightest, how those who had won the office "all rose after, after, and set long before him." and set long before him."25 Most of all, though, Lincoln strained to describe Clay as a champion not only of the Union but of human freedom, from his support for Latin American and Greek independence to his advocacy of gradual emancipation of American slaves and their colonization in Africa. Lincoln found both courses wise and sensible. He did not say so on July 6, 1852, but he was convinced, like Clay, that only gradual emancipation would end slavery without destroying the Union, and only colonization would remove freed slaves from the enduring bigotry of white Americans. Most of all, though, Lincoln strained to describe Clay as a champion not only of the Union but of human freedom, from his support for Latin American and Greek independence to his advocacy of gradual emancipation of American slaves and their colonization in Africa. Lincoln found both courses wise and sensible. He did not say so on July 6, 1852, but he was convinced, like Clay, that only gradual emancipation would end slavery without destroying the Union, and only colonization would remove freed slaves from the enduring bigotry of white Americans.Although Lincoln's speech was strangely disappointing and its effect unmemorable, there was a seed of great meaning and portent in it. Haste and the emotion of the moment seemed to have overwhelmed his talent for soaring rhetoric, his flair for muscular prose, a talent that appeared in some of Clay's best speeches, a gift that had helped make Clay Lincoln's political idol. That July day in the Springfield statehouse, the task proved too much for Lincoln, and he confessed as much about understanding Henry Clay's appeal: "The spell-the long-enduring spell-with which the souls of men were bound to him, is a miracle," he said. He then asked, "Who can compass it?"26Lincoln was asking how such a miracle could be understood, and on that day he clearly did not know the answer. But the echo of Clay's words would sound in Lincoln's mind through the years and eventually find voice in Lincoln's own words, when it really mattered. Lincoln would in the end manage to compass the miracle that puzzled him that day. It would be later, when it really mattered.THE BUCKEYE STATE BUCKEYE STATE reached Cleveland, where a train waited to transport the funeral party south, at last heading toward Clay's home, passing through Columbus and arriving at Cincinnati at 11:00 reached Cleveland, where a train waited to transport the funeral party south, at last heading toward Clay's home, passing through Columbus and arriving at Cincinnati at 11:00 A.M. A.M. on July 8. The large gathering at the station there included citizens, military companies, local lodges of Masons and Oddfellows, and firemen. Immediately a long procession formed to convey the body and its growing number of companions to the wharves on the Ohio. It took two hours to reach the river and the steamer that would take Clay to Louisville. The boat, a special charter, had delayed its scheduled departure by an hour. on July 8. The large gathering at the station there included citizens, military companies, local lodges of Masons and Oddfellows, and firemen. Immediately a long procession formed to convey the body and its growing number of companions to the wharves on the Ohio. It took two hours to reach the river and the steamer that would take Clay to Louisville. The boat, a special charter, had delayed its scheduled departure by an hour.The earliest French explorers called the Ohio "the beautiful river," and most travelers ever since have agreed. The waters were clear and almost always smooth, resembling polished glass except when southerly breezes rippled them for a few hours, usually at midday. Before there were steamboats, those winds had allowed travelers to make sail and beat upriver against the current. At night, the river caught starlight like a mirror and reflected the rising moon in a long shaft that chased the hulls of watercraft and mesmerized their occupants.27 Clay had traveled the Ohio many times. This last trip would carry him on it for the rest of Thursday and into dawn on Friday. Along the way, emerging national greatness was evident in bustling towns that had sprung up on the river's banks and trim farms cultivating its fertile valley. They were lively places usually, but that Thursday they were subdued as the steamboat passed, steadily ringing its bell to signal its approach. Occasionally church bells and cannon answered from communities wrapped in black. Clay had traveled the Ohio many times. This last trip would carry him on it for the rest of Thursday and into dawn on Friday. Along the way, emerging national greatness was evident in bustling towns that had sprung up on the river's banks and trim farms cultivating its fertile valley. They were lively places usually, but that Thursday they were subdued as the steamboat passed, steadily ringing its bell to signal its approach. Occasionally church bells and cannon answered from communities wrapped in black.The steamer was the Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin, a U.S. mailboat that regularly made the Louisville run. Two years earlier, Ralph Waldo Emerson had taken the a U.S. mailboat that regularly made the Louisville run. Two years earlier, Ralph Waldo Emerson had taken the Ben Franklin Ben Franklin out of Cincinnati on the way to visit Mammoth Cave, and indeed the trip was often festive with tourists bound for excursions. But on this run all was quiet except for the ringing bell, the thrashing waters under the boat's paddle wheels, the reciprocating pistons of its engine sending a rhythmic thrum through its decks and cabins. The Senate delegation and others who had started this journey eight days earlier must have been exhausted, and everyone was certainly crowded and uncomfortable as the entourage had grown, increased along the way by delegations joining the trip to Lexington. out of Cincinnati on the way to visit Mammoth Cave, and indeed the trip was often festive with tourists bound for excursions. But on this run all was quiet except for the ringing bell, the thrashing waters under the boat's paddle wheels, the reciprocating pistons of its engine sending a rhythmic thrum through its decks and cabins. The Senate delegation and others who had started this journey eight days earlier must have been exhausted, and everyone was certainly crowded and uncomfortable as the entourage had grown, increased along the way by delegations joining the trip to Lexington.Yet the Ben Franklin Ben Franklin had been only a few hours under way when something remarkable happened. The ringing bell suddenly stopped, and curious passengers crowded to the boat's starboard rail. Indiana was off to the right, and just ahead on a community wharf stood more than two dozen ghosts, white shadows in the lowering sun. The regular beat of the bell having stopped, the silence was unsettling as the steamer glided closer. Gradually the passengers could see that the figures were not ghosts but girls. There were thirty-one of them, each to represent a state of the Union, and all but one dressed in white. The one in black was Kentucky. Behind them, off the wharf, the population of their town was gathered and hushed. had been only a few hours under way when something remarkable happened. The ringing bell suddenly stopped, and curious passengers crowded to the boat's starboard rail. Indiana was off to the right, and just ahead on a community wharf stood more than two dozen ghosts, white shadows in the lowering sun. The regular beat of the bell having stopped, the silence was unsettling as the steamer glided closer. Gradually the passengers could see that the figures were not ghosts but girls. There were thirty-one of them, each to represent a state of the Union, and all but one dressed in white. The one in black was Kentucky. Behind them, off the wharf, the population of their town was gathered and hushed.No one said a word, and the Ben Franklin Ben Franklin continued downriver. Its bell began ringing steadily again, and the passengers moved away from the rail. The crew, familiar with the towns along the route, could have told them the name of the place with the girls. It was Rising Sun, Indiana. continued downriver. Its bell began ringing steadily again, and the passengers moved away from the rail. The crew, familiar with the towns along the route, could have told them the name of the place with the girls. It was Rising Sun, Indiana.28--THE BEN FRANKLIN BEN FRANKLIN completed the 133-mile run to Louisville at six on Friday morning. Four hours later the funeral party departed on a train that stopped at Frankfort and finally at dusk arrived in Clay's hometown of Lexington. A large crowd carrying torches silently escorted the coffin through the black-cloaked town. Lexington's population was about nine thousand ordinarily, but in the first week of that July it became the most populous place in the state. It was impossible to make an accurate count, but at least thirty thousand-and some say as many as a hundred thousand-were gathered to pay respects to Clay. completed the 133-mile run to Louisville at six on Friday morning. Four hours later the funeral party departed on a train that stopped at Frankfort and finally at dusk arrived in Clay's hometown of Lexington. A large crowd carrying torches silently escorted the coffin through the black-cloaked town. Lexington's population was about nine thousand ordinarily, but in the first week of that July it became the most populous place in the state. It was impossible to make an accurate count, but at least thirty thousand-and some say as many as a hundred thousand-were gathered to pay respects to Clay.A procession conducted the coffin to the Ashland estate, where it arrived at eight o'clock that evening and was placed in the large dining room. The Senate committee along with the family filled the house. Clay's son Thomas had made the grueling journey with his father's remains, and he was now joined by his brothers James and John and his mother, Lucretia. She was seventy-one and feeble, an intensely private woman who had never publicly shown much emotion or displayed much affection, masking what her family and friends knew to be a turbulent and loving heart. The years had made her resemble a frail bird, her eyes hard as diamonds. She had many devoted friends in Lexington, but now she had lost her best one, the only person in the world who had ever thoroughly understood her. She, the boys, and their families stood next to the coffin that night. Just five years earlier, Lucretia had been sitting down to dinner with her family in this same room when she had received devastating news about one of her sons. Now, surrounded by fine china and crystal gleaming in the candlelight, she gazed at her husband's coffin. The family did not remove the faceplate; they did not need to. Clay was not really in that metal container, but he was there in that room. And for the rest of the night so was Lucretia.29The Clay Guard that had come down from Cincinnati stood vigil through that night as thousands continued to stream into Lexington for the funeral the next day, Saturday, July 10. At 10:00 A.M. A.M. the Reverend Edward F. Berkeley, rector of Clay's church in Lexington and the man who had baptized him only five years earlier, read a sermon and eulogy in a small outdoor service at Ashland. The coffin was then taken to Lexington in a grandly designed car drawn by eight horses, each as white as snow and wearing silver-fringed crepe. Lucretia watched the procession leave in the rising heat of the July morning before going back into the house and closing the door. She did not feel well, she had said simply. She would not go to the cemetery. the Reverend Edward F. Berkeley, rector of Clay's church in Lexington and the man who had baptized him only five years earlier, read a sermon and eulogy in a small outdoor service at Ashland. The coffin was then taken to Lexington in a grandly designed car drawn by eight horses, each as white as snow and wearing silver-fringed crepe. Lucretia watched the procession leave in the rising heat of the July morning before going back into the house and closing the door. She did not feel well, she had said simply. She would not go to the cemetery.In Lexington a spectacular pageant grew to immense proportions, the procession extending farther and farther as muffled drums beat the cadence toward the Lexington Cemetery. The now familiar sounds of bells and cannon echoed out from the city across the countryside. Lucretia would have heard them. The crowd overflowed the cemetery's grounds, many out of earshot of Berkeley's reading of the Episcopal service and unable to see the ritual by the local Masons. During the ceremony, they placed on his coffin a Masonic apron, a gift to Clay from the Marquis de Lafayette, removing it just before the coffin was placed in its vault.And so it ended, nine days and more than a thousand miles from where it had begun with the death of Clay and the beginning of his extraordinary journey home. The man whom The New York Times The New York Times had judged "too great to be president" had been given a farewell to make a monarch envious. The London had judged "too great to be president" had been given a farewell to make a monarch envious. The London Times Times spoke of Clay's "antique greatness" and said that Clay's death deprived many Americans of something noble and fine, something connected to the beginning of the country, spanning from the Revolution through the tumult and strain of first creating and then building an American dream. spoke of Clay's "antique greatness" and said that Clay's death deprived many Americans of something noble and fine, something connected to the beginning of the country, spanning from the Revolution through the tumult and strain of first creating and then building an American dream.30Henry Clay's part in that adventure had been always central and often crucial. But there was more to it than that. Lincoln had described the enduring affection for Clay as a miracle, as mysterious as it was tangible. Lincoln and many of his fellow Americans could not fully grasp it, he said, but they certainly felt it, and Lincoln would draw on it to help him save the country when the time came. Some of those girls in Rising Sun would later send off fathers, husbands, and sweethearts to fight and die for their country, and for the same reason that they had wrapped themselves in peculiar clothes and waited on a hot wharf that July afternoon for a steamboat.In 1852 all of the country mourned Clay's passing, marking a rare instance of agreement among people who had gotten into the habit of disagreeing about almost everything. He was a titanic symbol of Union to the very end, promoting compromise to prevent his country's demise and the slaughter he was certain would follow. He saved his country until its muscles and sinews could weather a terrible civil war, until "fair seed time" and his example could produce a man like Lincoln, who when Clay died was yet straining to understand what it all meant, to understand the miracle that stemmed from Clay's life, a life that had begun seven and a half decades earlier amid Virginia's swampy rills. Clay's life began in the midst of a war that was, as Lincoln's would be, for national survival.Losing Henry Clay was a uniquely personal event for the nation because his life had been the mirror of his country and its aspirations. In that, it was an extraordinary life. "I will forgive your weakness," wrote a student at Yale, who could have been speaking for the entire country, "if you bow your head and weep for the departure of his noble spirit."31

CHAPTER ONE.

The Slashes

IN THE YEAR 1777 the United States was less than a year old and at war. It was also deeply divided over the wisdom of that war and doubtful in the main about its conclusion. And yet for much of the country the war was a distant event. Britain chose to focus on what it regarded as the hotbeds of pro-war sentiment, which were in the Northeast. The strategic decision to isolate New England kept the war centered on New York and made it remote for the rest of the thirteen erstwhile colonies, at least for a time. Now styling themselves as sovereign states united for the purpose of fighting this war and not much else, the new United States confronted the complicated and divisive nature of their enemy. The rebellion that had become the Revolution also became a civil war. Little wonder that many did not hold out much hope for success. 1777 the United States was less than a year old and at war. It was also deeply divided over the wisdom of that war and doubtful in the main about its conclusion. And yet for much of the country the war was a distant event. Britain chose to focus on what it regarded as the hotbeds of pro-war sentiment, which were in the Northeast. The strategic decision to isolate New England kept the war centered on New York and made it remote for the rest of the thirteen erstwhile colonies, at least for a time. Now styling themselves as sovereign states united for the purpose of fighting this war and not much else, the new United States confronted the complicated and divisive nature of their enemy. The rebellion that had become the Revolution also became a civil war. Little wonder that many did not hold out much hope for success.

This was the world that greeted Henry Clay on April 12, 1777, two years almost to the day after the shedding of first blood at Lexington and Concord in Massachusetts that marked the beginning of the shooting war with Britain. In that respect, he and his country were intertwined in both origin and destiny.

Henry Clay was a member of the sixth generation of a family that had been in colonial Virginia for more than a hundred and fifty years. John Clay was the first of that line, emigrating from England around 1612. Descendants maintained that John was the son of a Welsh aristocrat, but there is no definitive proof of the claim. If John's pedigree was unremarkable, though, his industry once he arrived in the New World was admirable. Hard work and two good marriages brought him property and prominence. His marriage to Elizabeth-his second, her third-produced Charles in 1645. Ten years later, when John died, he left a considerable estate. Charles married Hannah Wilson and commenced something of a Clay tradition for producing large families. He and Hannah had seven children, three of them girls, though the female children had a distressing way of dying young, a peculiarity that tragically repeated itself in subsequent generations. Charles's boys, however, were not only hale, two of them were well-nigh immortal. Charles Jr., born in 1676, lived to see ninety, and his older brother, Henry, born in 1672, nearly matched that endurance, dying in 1760 at age eighty-eight. Such longevity was rare anywhere in the world, let alone in hardscrabble colonial Virginia.

The elder Charles was a prosperous planter whose lands lay on the Virginia frontier, vulnerable to hostile Indians and persistently ignored by the colonial government in Jamestown. For those beyond the sight line of the eastern elite, prosperity did not necessarily mean security, and success did not breed prudence when it came to their relations with the Crown's neglectful representatives. Sir William Berkeley's administration proved indifferent to mounting protests, and Charles Clay joined Nathaniel Bacon's rebellion in 1676 that chased Governor Berkeley to the Eastern Shore of Virginia and briefly set up a rival government for the colony. Bacon's Rebellion did not last long, but its occurrence made an impression on the royal administration. Charles Clay emerged from the event unpunished.

Clay lands were originally in Henrico County, a large district that spanned both sides of the James River. In 1749, the Virginia Assembly had established Chesterfield County out of Henrico, making it the new district within which sat "The Raels," the Clay plantation that belonged to Charles's son, the long-lived Henry. While in his late thirties, Henry married teenaged Mary Mitchell sometime before 1709 and began a family that would also number seven children. The youngest, John, survived Henry by only two years, dying young at forty-one in 1762. Around 1740, though, he married affluent Sarah Watkins and had two sons with her before her untimely death at age twenty-five; the elder of them, also named John, was Henry Clay's father.

John Clay was born in 1742 and at age twenty inherited his father's plantation, "Euphraim," in Henrico County with about twelve slaves. Three years later, he married fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Hudson, the daughter of a substantial Hanover County family. The Hudsons owned roughly five hundred acres of cultivated fields and pasturage three miles from Hanover Court House and sixteen miles north of Richmond. Elizabeth and her older sister, Mary, were to inherit this property in equal portions, a legacy sure to enhance John's already impressive holdings.

John and Elizabeth lived at Euphraim and in characteristic Clay fashion began working on a large family. Sadly, they had limited success, for their children died with a frequency remarkable even for a time when it was frightfully easy for children to die. They lost their first girl, Molly, so quickly that she does not even appear in many genealogical charts or biographical accounts. Their second child, Betty, lived only a little more than ten years, and the third, a boy named Henry after his paternal great-grandfather, only about eight years. Even the subsequent children were for the most part frail or just unlucky: George, born in 1771 and named after Elizabeth's father, did not reach twenty, and Sarah, born some three years later, died at twenty-one.

George Hudson's estate technically belonged to Mary and Elizabeth after his death in 1773, but his will also stipulated that their mother could remain on the farm in Hanover County for the rest of her life. She herself was elderly and feeble, and her need for care and companionship probably prompted the Clays to move from Euphraim to the Hudson farm in early 1777. Elizabeth was heavy with her seventh child, who turned out to be her fourth son. Thus it happened that Henry Clay was born at the Hudson home in Hanover County on April 12. They named him in remembrance of both his ancestor and his dead brother.

JOHN MADE ARRANGEMENTS to establish sole ownership of the Hudson farm by buying out the interest Mary and her husband, John Watkins, had in the property. It was there, his birthplace, that Henry would spend his first years. He responded to a question many years later about its exact location by casually observing that his memory was sketchy about the matter because "I was very young at my birth." But he could approximately place it as having been "between Black Tom's Slash, and Hanover Court-house." to establish sole ownership of the Hudson farm by buying out the interest Mary and her husband, John Watkins, had in the property. It was there, his birthplace, that Henry would spend his first years. He responded to a question many years later about its exact location by casually observing that his memory was sketchy about the matter because "I was very young at my birth." But he could approximately place it as having been "between Black Tom's Slash, and Hanover Court-house."1 The farm sat in that part of Hanover County called "the Slashes" because of the swampy terrain covered with thick undergrowth. The house was probably much like the one at Euphraim in Henrico County, though possibly more accommodating for a growing family. The Hudson home was a clapboard structure of one and a half stories, three prominent dormer windows resembling doghouses jutting from the sloping roof and offering a pleasant view through old growth trees of nearby Machump's Creek. Two large masonry chimneys of either stone or brick rose prominently on each end of the house, a mark of affluence when poor farmers had only one chimney, often made of logs. The farm sat in that part of Hanover County called "the Slashes" because of the swampy terrain covered with thick undergrowth. The house was probably much like the one at Euphraim in Henrico County, though possibly more accommodating for a growing family. The Hudson home was a clapboard structure of one and a half stories, three prominent dormer windows resembling doghouses jutting from the sloping roof and offering a pleasant view through old growth trees of nearby Machump's Creek. Two large masonry chimneys of either stone or brick rose prominently on each end of the house, a mark of affluence when poor farmers had only one chimney, often made of logs.

The old Hudson place, which John and Elizabeth named Clay's Spring, was modest in comparison with the grand mansions of the Virginia Tidewater. Clay's forebears had at one time owned thousands of acres, but successive generations had divided the lands among numerous heirs. Earlier, until Virginia abolished entail in 1776, eldest sons inherited the lion's share of estates, relegating their siblings to the ranks of lesser planters. Except for his father, most of Henry Clay's paternal ancestors had not been eldest sons.

Clay's Spring was a handsome establishment, though. In addition to the main house, an extra room had been added around one of the chimneys, and the yard was fenced. Various outbuildings helped in the workaday business of growing corn, tobacco, and wheat as well as livestock, all with the labor of about twenty slaves. The income from the farm and Euphraim, left in the hands of an overseer, supported a growing family. In addition to John Clay (born around 1775) and young Henry, Elizabeth bore another son, in 1779, whom they named Porter.

Little remains to draw a clear picture of Henry Clay's father, John Clay. No physical description survives, nor is there any detailed recollection of memorable events in his life. He might have been an imposing man with an air of authority, characteristics suggested by references to him in legal records of Hanover and Chesterfield counties as "Sir John Clay." Neither he nor any of his American ancestors had been knighted, and even the supposition that the title was an honorific out of respect for the family's aristocratic British ancestry makes little sense. Years later Henry explained away the title as merely "a sobriquet" his father had somehow acquired. It was a credible explanation suggesting that like the honorary Kentucky colonel, John Clay was respected enough by both neighbors and the courts to merit the mark of natural nobility. It was, in any case, destined to be something of a family trait.2 It was not an easy life, but it must have seemed a good one, with God not only in His heaven but also very much in the household and life of the Clays. Generally, religion was not as important for Virginians as for, say, New Englanders. The rural setting with scattered, sparse populations meant that churches tended to be isolated in both material and spiritual ways. People wed in their parlors, christened their children in their homes, and buried family in graves dug on their farms rather than among orderly headstones in church cemeteries. Noah Webster, visiting from New England, observed these practices with sniffing disdain when he noted that Virginians placed "their churches as far as possible from town and their play houses in the center."3 John Clay expended considerable effort trying to correct that. Around the time of his marriage he received "the call." Eventually he became the Baptists' chief apostle in Hanover County, working to change attitudes that were not necessarily irreligious but did find the Church of England emotionally unsatisfying and spiritually moribund. After the Great Awakening swept its revivalist fervor across the country, Virginians found the mandatory nature of Anglican worship-dissenters could be fined and even imprisoned-infuriating, and a simmering discontent over the lack of religious freedom helped stoke dissatisfaction with other aspects of British rule. Presbyterians became the dominant denomination in literate areas as converts in the Tidewater and Piedmont were matched by Scots-Irish migrations from Pennsylvania into the Shenandoah Valley. In the region between-Henrico, Chesterfield, and Hanover counties-the less literate gravitated to the Baptists, whose services were long on emotion and short on complicated liturgical teachings.4 Because of this, the number of Baptists markedly increased in the 1760s and 1770s, particularly among lower-class whites and slaves. Preachers could be unschooled and were always uncompensated, at least by any hierarchical authority. They came to their pulpits after an extraordinary religious experience referred to as "the call." After John Clay received the call, he organized churches in Henrico and Hanover counties, including a large congregation at Winn's Church in 1776. Most of his flock comprised a sect known as New Light Baptists, not exactly economic levelers but noted for simple attire and the practice of calling each other "sister" and "brother" regardless of social rank or economic status. They were clearly more democratic than class-conscious Anglicans, and congregations even allowed slaves to participate in worship services. That eccentric practice alone caused Anglican planter elites anxiety over the influence of Baptists, a troubling, troublesome lot who made even Presbyterians look respectable.5 Baptists took such contempt as a badge of honor. They and the Presbyterians grew increasingly angry about the power of establishment Anglicans, in particular evidenced by onerous taxes and reflexive persecution. At least once John Clay himself felt the weight of Anglican anger when he was jailed for his dissent. Such experiences, though, fueled rather than suppressed enthusiasm for religious liberty. As protests over British taxes became more strident, calls for spiritual freedom matched them. The drive for independence gained momentum, and the calls for disestablishing the Church of England became more vocal.6 Even though the fighting was far away, Virginia was in the middle of the American Revolution from the start, and no part of Virginia more than Hanover County. The county's burgess in the Virginia Assembly, after all, was for years the famous firebrand Patrick Henry, who had been calling the king a tyrant for more than a decade when the shooting started. For his part, John Clay openly supported independence, tying it to Anglican disestablishment and helping to circulate a Baptist petition in 1776 pledging support to the new nation if it would stand for religious as well as political liberty. John and Elizabeth were notably fiery patriots in a region known for its radicalism.7 Then, in 1780, John became sick. It only took him a few months to deduce that his illness was fatal, though no one has ever been able to tell what exactly was wrong with him, only that it brought about an exceedingly untimely end to his life. He was only thirty-eight years old and had been hearty enough to make Elizabeth pregnant just before falling ill. Yet his decline was rapid and remorseless. We can only guess the pall it cast over the household. Aside from the emotional distress, there were sobering practical considerations: six children, the oldest only nine and the youngest an infant, would be dependent on a thirty-year-old expectant mother. Adding to these heartbreaking burdens, Elizabeth's elderly mother was seriously ill as well. And there was more. Reports told of British raids in the area. As Clay's Spring became the scene of two wrenching deathwatches, the Revolutionary War came to Virginia.

On November 4, 1780, John Clay summoned several neighbors to witness his last will and testament, a simple document that named Elizabeth custodian of both plantations until the children grew up or she remarried. He wanted the estate kept intact until the children came of age in any case, which was eighteen for the girls and twenty for the boys. The oldest, George, was to inherit Euphraim, and Clay's Spring was to be sold and the proceeds divided among all the male children. Each child, including the girls, was to have an equal share in the livestock. John left two slaves, specified by name, to each child. Henry was to inherit James and Little Sam.8 It was as thorough a document as the modest patrimony of John Clay warranted. The settlement of the estate's land on the oldest son sustained the habit of primogeniture. Clay anticipated Elizabeth's remarriage as likely for a young widow and consequently made modest provisions for her maintenance, lending for her use the Henrico County property slated for George, obviously in the certainty that he would take care of his mother should she remain a widow.

His affairs in order, John Clay lingered through his last winter. He had started it "very sick & week [sic]" and never regained any lost ground.9 He and his mother-in-law sank together-she would survive him by only a few months-and when spring came, shortly after Elizabeth bore him another child, he died. The child, a girl, died too. He and his mother-in-law sank together-she would survive him by only a few months-and when spring came, shortly after Elizabeth bore him another child, he died. The child, a girl, died too.

AS CLAY'S SPRING mourned these losses, the war came not just to the Slashes but to Elizabeth's doorstep. The British had been in Virginia for months, starting when former American general Benedict Arnold completed his transformation into turncoat by accepting a British general's commission and setting out on a hunt for forces under the Marquis de Lafayette. Then Lord Cornwallis abandoned his indecisive southern campaign to head north out of the Carolinas. By the spring of 1781, the war's focus had shifted to Virginia as these varied British contingents converged in the state. In the fall, the war would end there as well, when Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington and the Comte de Rochambeau at Yorktown. mourned these losses, the war came not just to the Slashes but to Elizabeth's doorstep. The British had been in Virginia for months, starting when former American general Benedict Arnold completed his transformation into turncoat by accepting a British general's commission and setting out on a hunt for forces under the Marquis de Lafayette. Then Lord Cornwallis abandoned his indecisive southern campaign to head north out of the Carolinas. By the spring of 1781, the war's focus had shifted to Virginia as these varied British contingents converged in the state. In the fall, the war would end there as well, when Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington and the Comte de Rochambeau at Yorktown.

That spring, however, Washington was encamped outside New York City, Rochambeau was at Newport, Rhode Island, and Lafayette was on the run from Cornwallis's superior numbers. Virginia was extremely vulnerable, especially its isolated western settlements. The campaign mounted by Cornwallis had as its primary objective a storage depot at Point of Forks on the upper James River, and he dispatched a large force to that place. A smaller one under Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton was to harry the countryside by destroying its farms, a legitimate military objective because those farms could feed Patriot forces. Tarleton's other goal was to disrupt Virginia's government, which had repaired to the supposed safety of Charlottesville when the British entered the state.

Tarleton began by burning several buildings in Hanover Court House before fanning his men out across the county.10 They came to Clay's Spring in late May, possibly the day after the family had buried John Clay. As Tarleton's dragoons approached, Elizabeth hurried her overseer-a white man running the farm during John's illness-out the back door, sending him scampering into the woods to avoid capture. It was a wise move. Tarleton's men meant business. They came to Clay's Spring in late May, possibly the day after the family had buried John Clay. As Tarleton's dragoons approached, Elizabeth hurried her overseer-a white man running the farm during John's illness-out the back door, sending him scampering into the woods to avoid capture. It was a wise move. Tarleton's men meant business.

That business was one of proficient if random destruction and simple theft. The British soldiers shouldered their way into the house, ransacked it for valuables, and packed away any food they could not eat on the spot. They smashed furniture and slashed open feather beds. It snowed feathers in the yard as they emptied the mattresses out the windows. Others chased chickens to kill and throw across their saddles. They rounded up some of the slaves to take away. Spying the new grave, they inspected it for hidden treasure by running their swords into the freshly turned earth.

Elizabeth Clay watched all this with Porter and Henry clinging to her skirts. The children were terrified. It is difficult to know how much of what happened next was embellished by family legend and postwar patriotic fervor. Possibly Clay's campaign biographers later exaggerated events; it's hard to resist a good story. Clay himself was quite young (only four), but the event remained understandably vivid for him for the rest of his life: the sight of those strangely costumed men on snorting horses with flashing swords that cut up the family's beds and stabbed at his father's grave, the smashing of furniture, the chaos of shouting men, squawking chickens, and the frightened slaves standing amid the prancing, crisscrossing horses, all under the soft snowfall of the mattress feathers; and his mother, her arm tight around his shoulder, pressing him to her side, Porter crying, her voice rising in anger, and the man they later learned was "Bloody Ban" himself-a name given him for having massacred Abraham Buford's surrendering Patriots just a year earlier in the Carolina Waxhaws, an act that had made the phrase "Tarleton's Quarter" a description for warfare without mercy. Possibly Elizabeth angrily denounced Tarleton, as family lore was to recall. But it is doubtful that he paused, as was later said, to pull from his pocket a small pouch from which he emptied a clutch of coins onto a table, explaining as he stalked out to mount his horse that it was to make up for the mess.

The raid was brief because the British had more important quarry. Tarleton and his men were soon heading for Charlottesville, where they put the Virginia Assembly to flight and nearly captured Thomas Jefferson at his home, Monticello. They had indeed left Clay's Spring a mess. Grandchildren later told how Elizabeth scorned Tarleton's gesture as much as she had him. She swept up the coins, they would say, and angrily hurled them into the fire.11 This scene of this quaint family legend almost certainly did not happen. Yet, given what Elizabeth Clay faced that spring and how she managed it all, there is no reason to doubt her capacity for defiance. The destruction of her house was quite real, a grim accompaniment to the destruction of her life with the loss of her husband and baby on top of the burden of tending to her dying mother while taking care of six children. There is not a single recollection, however, of Elizabeth Clay's ever uttering a word of complaint, let alone showing any self-pity, as she put her family's life back together. Instead, she immediately commenced rebuilding the farm and her children's future. She must have wept as she faced the insurmountable odds, braced for her mother's death, and buried her husband and baby, but Henry did not see it. This remarkable woman probably did not throw Tarleton's money into the fire, because he probably did not leave any, but in the months that followed she performed quiet deeds of even greater courage. This scene of this quaint family legend almost certainly did not happen. Yet, given what Elizabeth Clay faced that spring and how she managed it all, there is no reason to doubt her capacity for defiance. The destruction of her house was quite real, a grim accompaniment to the destruction of her life with the loss of her husband and baby on top of the burden of tending to her dying mother while taking care of six children. There is not a single recollection, however, of Elizabeth Clay's ever uttering a word of complaint, let alone showing any self-pity, as she put her family's life back together. Instead, she immediately commenced rebuilding the farm and her children's future. She must have wept as she faced the insurmountable odds, braced for her mother's death, and buried her husband and baby, but Henry did not see it. This remarkable woman probably did not throw Tarleton's money into the fire, because he probably did not leave any, but in the months that followed she performed quiet deeds of even greater courage.

At least the war did not come back. In only a few months, in fact, word filtered back from the east of the British surrender at Yorktown. Yet the good luck of peace or even her personal fortitude would not better Elizabeth's situation. For one thing, when John died he had not finished paying John and Mary Watkins for their share of Clay's Spring. This did not pose a problem-the Watkinses were moving to Kentucky and did not want the property-but it did become a complication when Elizabeth remarried less than a year after John's death.

The brevity of her widowhood was not unusual in a world framed by essential material want. She could not long have provided for her family otherwise. And Elizabeth herself presented an attractive prospect to suitors, a still youthful woman in possession of some measure of an estate that included salable property. As it happened, her suitor did not have to go far to find her, and she did not have to wait long to be found. He was Henry Watkins, the younger brother of her sister's husband, John. In fact, he was even more family than that: John Clay's mother and Henry Watkins's father were sister and brother, making him John Clay's first cousin. The family connections were not coincidences, nor should they be ridiculed as resulting from the ignorant practices of the inbred. Rather, they were a demonstration of the clannish nature of colonial Virginia, where the most elite families often included married cousins because of the scarcity of marriageable upper-class prospects. For the Clays and Watkinses, it was evidence of the interwoven nature of communities in rural settings.

For reasons not clear, Elizabeth delayed probating John's will. When she remarried, however, the will stipulated the termination of her role as custodian of the plantations, the sale of Clay's Spring, and the distribution of the assets to the children. In February 1782, everyone agreed to let the court sort the matter out. The judge ordered the property sold to retire the debt on it, with the remainder going to the heirs. Everyone apparently anticipated this sensible solution, and Elizabeth's new husband quickly resolved the matter of debt and distribution by purchasing Clay's Spring from the estate, a belated wedding present for his bride.12 Henry Watkins was a captain in the Virginia militia, a pleasant young man, Hal to his friends. He was also a man of good prospects as well as current substance, as his purchase of Clay's Spring indicated. He brought to the marriage seventeen slaves (the family now owned a total of twenty-five) as well as livestock and two carriages. An affront to modern sensibilities, the presence of slaves was in that time simply another aspect of daily life. The aspiration to live as English country gentlemen was only just that for colonists in the decades before Henry Clay's birth, but the wealth of the great tobacco barons and their reliance on slave labor to build grand fortunes created a southern oligarchy that lived in material grandeur and moral ambiguity. The middling farms with the modest clapboard houses-the place in the social pyramid of the Clays and the Watkinses-also relied on slavery for more than a source of labor. Social status came with owning slaves, determining everything from the circles one moved in to the girls one could court and marry.13 Years later, when it became politically prudent to claim impoverished origins framed by hardship, Henry Clay would say that he grew up an orphan in straitened circumstances. Campaign biographies took the cue and succeeded in creating the myth that he came of age with callused hands and in chronic want, his good character the result of his efforts to claw his way out of it. Central to that story was the depiction of him as riding a horse laden with sacks of dried corn to a gristmill on the Pamunkey River and dutifully bringing back the meal to his mother. Hanover County neighbors were said to have taken to calling Henry "the Millboy of the Slashes," and it became a staple of credulous biographers to hang his youth on the hook of that nickname. But it was all an invention of later years, and the poverty it implies was simply never the case. Henry would have done chores, as expected of any boy on a farm, but hard toil on a plantation with twenty-five slaves, as well as long trips to a local gristmill, were not likely. Archaeological evidence indicates that there was a mill on the Clay-Watkins property in any case. Henry Clay was not an orphan, was not impoverished, and was not the Millboy of the Slashes.14 Rather, he lived in relative comfort with enough leisure time to learn the fiddle, spend languid afternoons fishing in nearby streams, and become an excellent horseman. He lived in an area with few towns, and what appeared to be villages were actually parts of plantations, their buildings in small clusters bordering cultivated fields. These self-sufficient establishments made towns unnecessary. Place names referred to trail crossings or churches or small county seats denoted as such by having Court House attached to their names, as in Hanover Court House. Roads were often only trails that crossed the region to speed travel and commerce between plantations that lay along rivers, the easiest avenues for trade, the real roads of empire. The county seat had a small store that doubled as a tavern. In Hanover Court House it was Tilghman's Ordinary, owned by Patrick Henry's father-in-law. There was also a courthouse with a little jail attached. The monthly court session or periodic militia muster transformed these somnolent places into centers of festivity and retail. At Tilghman's, men gathered to play cards, discuss politics and horseflesh, and drink. During elections, the courthouse green became the setting for political speeches, some of them memorably delivered by the county's renowned orators, Patrick Henry foremost among them. Novice speechmakers honed their skills by watching such masters and trying out material and techniques before the squinting faces of discerning crowds. Young Henry grew up observing these performances and how they played before audiences, marking what persuaded listeners and, more important, what did not. He was a quick study.15 Often the most learned man in the community was the local preacher, and a youngster's first semblance of formal education would be under his guidance. John Marshall took lessons from the Reverend Archibald Campbell in the generation before Clay's, and Nathaniel Hawthorne a generation afterward first learned from a country preacher as well.16 Clay probably received a few years of schooling at the Vestry House of St. Paul's Church near his home, but details are lacking. As he grew older, he was allowed to go in to Hanover Court House, where a transplanted Englishman named Peter Deacon ran a field school in a one-room log cabin. Clay spent three years at Deacon's school, where the basic elements of the fabled Three Rs (readin', ritin', and 'rithmetic) formed the essentials of a bare-bones curriculum designed to teach children under nearly impossible conditions. The product was a serviceable amount of learning, but nothing more. It was the only formal schooling of Clay's youth, and he always lamented the deficiencies that resulted and admonished children, both his own and those of friends, to mind their books. Clay probably received a few years of schooling at the Vestry House of St. Paul's Church near his home, but details are lacking. As he grew older, he was allowed to go in to Hanover Court House, where a transplanted Englishman named Peter Deacon ran a field school in a one-room log cabin. Clay spent three years at Deacon's school, where the basic elements of the fabled Three Rs (readin', ritin', and 'rithmetic) formed the essentials of a bare-bones curriculum designed to teach children under nearly impossible conditions. The product was a serviceable amount of learning, but nothing more. It was the only formal schooling of Clay's youth, and he always lamented the deficiencies that resulted and admonished children, both his own and those of friends, to mind their books.

In Deacon's school, students widely ranging in age and background were assembled at the same time in that one room, making for a disciplinary challenge even more daunting than the pedagogical one. Deacon had a past clouded by strong drink, and he often took the edge off the day with liberal doses of peach brandy. Mild inebriation made him an easy mark for mischievous boys, but it could also make him irascible. Deacon once struck Henry with "a magisterial blow" that left a mark for "a long time."17 Much of Clay's learning took place outside the classroom. In addition to studying the budding and established politicians of Hanover County, he soaked up the culture of the planter class that included a near obsession with horse racing and gambling of all kinds. He saw how men drank-Deacon was a cautionary example-how they joked, and how they argued. Boys sneaked out to drink and smoke; they tried to compromise girls, some willing but most disappointingly chaste. Mischief was usually harmless, if exasperating. And most boys were expected to go out on their own early, to become self-sufficient and ready to shoulder responsibility at an earlier age than in our time. The Revolution taught a generation that lesson with a vengeance, as youngsters had taken up arms to grow up fast with war a harsh tutor. The concept lauded by Thomas Paine in Common Sense Common Sense of America separating from the parentage of Britain had practical application in the changing relations of parents and children in this new, boundless country. of America separating from the parentage of Britain had practical application in the changing relations of parents and children in this new, boundless country.18 IN ONE SENSE, then, it was not unusual that Henry Clay would leave his family at an early age and strike out on his own. But in another sense, the circumstances that brought this about were peculiar. then, it was not unusual that Henry Clay would leave his family at an early age and strike out on his own. But in another sense, the circumstances that brought this about were peculiar.

It had to do with his mother and stepfather's move to Kentucky. In the mid-1780s, John and Mary Watkins moved to Kentucky's Woodford County. Soon they were sending back stories about the region's potential and their success in it, none of it an exaggeration. John was acquiring significant amounts of land and was well on his way to becoming a leader in the growing region. In 1792, he helped establish the town of Versailles (named after the French palace, a tribute actually to Lafayette, but with the Americanized pronunciation of "Versayles"). He would participate in the convention that drafted Kentucky's state constitution and would serve in the first state legislature. In a few short years, he became eminent in the new state's affairs while growing rich to boot, an example that beckoned Hal to follow.

The need to support his family was the deciding factor. He and Elizabeth had added a daughter and a son of their own to a growing brood strained by the diminishing chances available in Virginia. The best lands were taken, tobacco had depleted the soil of the rest, and even the fertile Shenandoah Valley was filling up with settlers coming south from Pennsylvania. Kentucky was a place of seemingly infinite opportunity and limited risks. The decision to go was simple.

Not so simple were the matters of disposing of their Virginia property and deciding who would make the journey. As for the property, it became a case study of how estates, children, and remarriage could complicate the simplest arrangements. The eldest Clay child, George, died in 1787 (possibly 1788) before coming of age. He therefore never took possession of Euphraim, the Henrico County plantation. Apparently forgetting the provision that only loaned Euphraim to Elizabeth until she remarried, Hal and Elizabeth sold the property along with Clay's Spring as they prepared to leave Virginia. Yet John Clay's will clearly instructed that if George were out of the picture, the proceeds from Euphraim were to go to the other Clay children. In short, John and Elizabeth kept the money from the sale of property that did not belong to them. That they meant no injury to the children was proven years later when the mistake was corrected by a friendly lawsuit to have the property restored to John, Henry, and Porter Clay. The suit was the work of Henry, by then a successful lawyer, a career that confirmed the decision John and Elizabeth made about his future as they left for Kentucky at the end of 1791.19 Hal Watkins was a good man who never sought to take John Clay's place for his children but instead worked hard to provide them with all their material needs while setting an example and acting as a friend. By all accounts, the Clay children responded affectionately to this amiable, even-tempered man who made their mother happy. Given that picture of a contented home, it has never been adequately explained why Hal and Elizabeth decided to leave Henry behind when they moved to Kentucky. The tradition of young men starting life early might answer except that John Clay, two years older than Henry, went to Kentucky with the other Clay siblings, Porter and Sarah. Henry could not have wanted to stay behind. He no doubt felt very much as Horace Greeley would years later when his family left Vermont after placing him in an apprenticeship. Emotionally devastated by the separation, Greeley would recall the long walk to his new place of work as the most wrenching moment in his life.20 Henry Clay was never so frank in his recollection of this pivotal event in his life. Possibly he better understood the reason for it. Just before leaving Kentucky, Hal Watkins took Henry to Richmond and placed him in the employ of Richard Denny, who ran a successful emporium. Hal told his stepson that this job would be temporary. Hal had taken the measure of Henry's magnetic personality, his quick mind and easy smile, and his ability to work hard without turning tasks into drudgery. Something about the gangly fourteen-year-old next to him in the carriage on the way to Richmond had convinced Hal that Henry should not go to Kentucky.

To that end, Hal pulled some strings and called in some favors. Colonel Thomas Tinsley, delegate to the state legislature from Hanover County and acquainted with Watkins through their militia service, had a brother named Peter who was the clerk of Virginia's High Court of Chancery in Richmond. Using these connections, Hal Watkins secured for Henry an assistant clerkship when one came available. Until then, he would work at Denny's store. Hal left Henry there, returned to Hanover County, and soon afterward set out westward with his family.

Although she went to Kentucky, Elizabeth Clay Watkins never really left Henry, even though they would not see each other again for six years. She loved him and seemed always confident that he would do well, that his natural talent would surmount all obstacles, that his happy manner would best all adversity. His career does not seem to have dazzled her, possibly because she had expected him to be successful. For his part, he loved her in a quiet but no less profound way. The day before he died, he would see her in his room at the National Hotel, even though she had been dead more than twenty-two years. "My mother, mother, mother," he would murmur, perhaps trying to find with his small hand the skirts he had gripped so many years before when "Bloody Ban" had come calling and she had been so brave; or possibly it was a greeting at the end to close the circle from the farewell, here at the beginning, on the day that he and Hal set out for Richmond, leaving his mother and his brothers and sisters at the little clapboard house in the Slashes.21 CLAY WORKED IN Denny's store for about a year, stocking shelves and running errands. When business was brisk, usually when the legislature was in session and the town filled with people, he helped behind the counter. Making deliveries gave him a chance to explore the city, which was at first big and imposing for a country boy. Richmond was divided into two sections. The lower town ran along the James River, the commercial center of the city, where wharves jutted into the river and played host to ships up from Norfolk, their holds full of luxurious items from all over the world as well as ordinary goods. Everything about the lower town seemed fresh, new, and substantial, because it was. A devastating fire had leveled almost the entire district in January 1787, the flames leaping from building to wooden building, consuming them as though they were matchboxes. In four short years, the lower town had risen from the ashes like a brick phoenix, masonry the now preferred, fire-resistant construction standard. Richard Denny's store sat on what was called "Brick Row" on Main Street and sold everything from bonnets to books as well as playing cards and liquor. Denny's store for about a year, stocking shelves and running errands. When business was brisk, usually when the legislature was in session and the town filled with people, he helped behind the counter. Making deliveries gave him a chance to explore the city, which was at first big and imposing for a country boy. Richmond was divided into two sections. The lower town ran along the James River, the commercial center of the city, where wharves jutted into the river and played host to ships up from Norfolk, their holds full of luxurious items from all over the world as well as ordinary goods. Everything about the lower town seemed fresh, new, and substantial, because it was. A devastating fire had leveled almost the entire district in January 1787, the flames leaping from building to wooden building, consuming them as though they were matchboxes. In four short years, the lower town had risen from the ashes like a brick phoenix, masonry the now preferred, fire-resistant construction standard. Richard Denny's store sat on what was called "Brick Row" on Main Street and sold everything from bonnets to books as well as playing cards and liquor.22 Henry's errands and deliveries also took him to Richmond's other section, which sat on a range of hills and was called the upper town. There fashionable ladies and gentlemen of the merchant and governing class lived in fine homes, and there Virginia's state government operated out of impressive buildings in varying stages of completion. Atop Shockoe Hill, the largest with the most commanding vista, the capitol was taking final shape after a design Thomas Jefferson had worked out while serving as minister to France. Jefferson based his plans on a Roman temple to which he had added Greek influences to create the "Temple of Liberty" that awed travelers. Citizens were proud of its immensity and elegance, and young Henry, who had never seen a man-made structure nearly so large, was surely impressed.23 In 1792, an assistant's place opened in the Chancery, and as promised, Clay was summoned to fill it. The job was important, at least for him. It was certainly a step up from the shop where he pushed a broom and ran errands. It was a step up in situation as well, taking him to the upper town. The post was modest, to be sure-assistant clerks were at the bottom of a long pecking order-and being the newest of the assistant clerks would place him lowest among the lowly boys who toiled at tedious chores that were as mindless as they were endless.

Henry's clothes were a measure of the importance he placed on the impression he hoped to make. His suit, according to some reports, had been made by his mother, her farewell present to help him make a good start in his new life as she embarked on hers. These were his best clothes, then, and though they were not as fine or as elegant as he would have wished, he made sure they were cleaned and pressed.

Thus armed with the optimism that comes with looking one's best, but also with the ambivalence and self-consciousness of a teenaged boy about to launch himself into a new and challenging job, young Clay entered the offices of the Chancery. The boys in the assistant clerk's office were not much older than he, if at all, but they were quite different, a fact evident at first glance. They were jaunty, exuding a worldliness that had them surveying him with a mixture of indifference and contempt. The gulf separating them was instantly apparent in his clothes. Henry's suit was a cotton and silk blend, salt-and-pepper "Figginy" (slang for Virginia homespun). It would never have seemed shabby in the Slashes, but the boys in the Chancery looked as if they expected it to shed hayseeds. Worst of all, Henry had tried to spruce up the coat by liberally infusing it with starch, and the unexpected result was that the coattails jutted out at absurd angles. On his gangly frame, the coat made him look like a tall bird with its tail feathers splayed. Henry's disheveled blond hair, so fair it looked white, topped off the effect. The boys were soon laughing at him.

He laughed too. When they teased him about his clothes, he agreed that they were absurd. When they mocked his use of quaint country phrases or his mispronunciation of a word, he joined the merriment. Gradually the smart jests at his expense didn't seem so amusing. In fact, the boys were soon disarmed by their new companion, particularly when they discovered he could take ribbing with the best of them. They were equally delighted to discover that he could dish it out just as well, summoning the hilariously appropriate ad lib effortlessly. It was clear that they had a first-class wit in their ranks, one a good deal quicker than many of them.24 Henry was lucky that two of these boys were from Hanover County. They eased him into the routines of the office, and everyone was soon showing him heretofore undiscovered pleasures of the city. An early biographer claimed that Henry's resolve to improve himself through constant study left him little time for frivolity, but that is simply a fabrication.25 About the most harmless of Richmond's amusements was the theater, where some good and many bad productions could be enjoyed fairly cheaply. Other diversions were riskier and more expensive, and could be corrosive. The most popular pastimes were drinking and gambling, the latter evidently irresistible for Virginians of all classes but particularly among gentlemen. Mid-eighteenth-century colonial governor Francis Fauquier was said-likely an exaggeration-to have single-handedly popularized Virginians' addiction to games of chance, especially dice. The somber burdens of the American Revolution had curbed the enthusiasm for gambling, but ensuing years had revived it with a vengeance. About the most harmless of Richmond's amusements was the theater, where some good and many bad productions could be enjoyed fairly cheaply. Other diversions were riskier and more expensive, and could be corrosive. The most popular pastimes were drinking and gambling, the latter evidently irresistible for Virginians of all classes but particularly among gentlemen. Mid-eighteenth-century colonial governor Francis Fauquier was said-likely an exaggeration-to have single-handedly popularized Virginians' addiction to games of chance, especially dice. The somber burdens of the American Revolution had curbed the enthusiasm for gambling, but ensuing years had revived it with a vengeance.26 In Clay's time, cards had replaced dice as the preferred way to part fools from their money, and he developed in these years a lifelong passion for card games. Gambling had become so rampant by the time Clay arrived in Richmond that the legislature, shocked by the spectacle of substantial citizens ruining themselves at gaming tables, enacted a law in 1792 prohibiting the loss of more than twenty dollars a day. It was no use, though. Even legislators who had passed the law and magistrates charged with enforcing it continued merrily to wager their way to ruin, earning the city the distinction of having more gambling "than any place the same size in the world." In Clay's time, cards had replaced dice as the preferred way to part fools from their money, and he developed in these years a lifelong passion for card games. Gambling had become so rampant by the time Clay arrived in Richmond that the legislature, shocked by the spectacle of substantial citizens ruining themselves at gaming tables, enacted a law in 1792 prohibiting the loss of more than twenty dollars a day. It was no use, though. Even legislators who had passed the law and magistrates charged with enforcing it continued merrily to wager their way to ruin, earning the city the distinction of having more gambling "than any place the same size in the world."27 Clay did not have a great deal of money, and prudence seems to have kept his gambling ventures from getting out of hand. Others were not so fortunate. A man could lose a week's earnings on the turn of a card. Worse, when such stakes were mixed with strong drink, wagers could lead to fisticuffs, even murder. These were sobering lessons indeed.28 The biographer who depicted Clay as always bent over a desk deep in study was exaggerating, but the young man did not completely neglect his improvement. Richmond made him aware of the many things he did not know, a valuable lesson in itself. In Clay's case, it spurred him to an intellectual program of his own devising. He would never match Jefferson's single-minded discipline in this regard: even given the time, Clay did not have the temperament for twelve-plus hours of daily reading or the systematic disposition to arrange his studies in clearly delineated categories. He did read, of course, but he preferred less solitary forms of refinement. He joined a rhetorical society formed by young men eager to practice public speaking and sharpen their debating skills. These were exhilarating times, as the administration of George Washington coped with the French Revolution and the European war it had spawned. Arguments about how best to repair the economy and fund a stable currency stimulated debates about the new constitutional government. The club accordingly discussed history, philosophy, and economics but usually filtered the topics through the exciting aspect of current affairs.

As a member of this club, Clay found himself in the company of talented men. Edwin Burrell, Littleton Waller Tazewell, Walter Jones, John C. Herbert, Bennett Taylor, Philip Norbone Nicholas, and Edmund Root were members, and it is notable that in such a gifted group he gained the reputation for being the most effective if not the most learned speaker. Dubbed by its members the "Democratic Club," they fancied themselves daring radicals as they applauded the success of the French Jacobins' supposedly democratic reforms. They endorsed, as though it mattered, the Democratic-Republicans, led by fellow Virginians Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and condemned, as though it mattered, the Federalists within Washington's administration for their ties to the British.29 Yet it was neither his reading nor his debating skills that helped Clay move from his lowly post as an assistant clerk up to the main Chancery office in only a year. It was his handwriting. Clay later credited Peter Tinsley with putting him through the penmanship drills that produced his clear, neat script, ever afterward the delight of correspondents as well as historians. The claim was possibly another invention to paint his youth as less privileged. A 1793 letter indicates that Clay's penmanship was actually quite good before he went to the Chancery. Written just weeks after he was purportedly under Tinsley's instruction, the letter shows young Henry's handwriting to be, if anything, more flamboyant, and his signature, adorned with scrolls and flourishes, more ornate than the clear, simple style he later adopted. Either he was a very quick study or, more likely, the "ritin'" rudiments of Peter Deacon's school had corrected his student's hen-scratched scrawls. It is also likely that Henry's mother influenced him in this regard, for her handwriting was also quite neat.30 In any case, attractive, readable handwriting came to the attention of the judge of the High Court of Chancery himself, none other than the great George Wythe, signer of the Declaration of Independence, possessor of a peerless legal mind, and a man suffering from a distracting tremble as well as gout in his right hand. He needed an amanuensis-the equivalent of a stenographer-and Clay's handwriting caught his eye. Wythe asked Tinsley if he could spare the boy, and Tinsley said of course. He likely would have said so even if Clay had become indispensable, for Tinsley suspected that this was an opportunity of incalculable value to young Henry. He was right. In any case, attractive, readable handwriting came to the attention of the judge of the High Court of Chancery himself, none other than the great George Wythe, signer of the Declaration of Independence, possessor of a peerless legal mind, and a man suffering from a distracting tremble as well as gout in his right hand. He needed an amanuensis-the equivalent of a stenographer-and Clay's handwriting caught his eye. Wythe asked Tinsley if he could spare the boy, and Tinsley said of course. He likely would have said so even if Clay had become indispensable, for Tinsley suspected that this was an opportunity of incalculable value to young Henry. He was right.

CHARLES DICKENS COULD just as well have drawn these characters and the circumstances that brought them together. George Wythe was a great man whose legal accomplishments were legendary and whose mentorship had shaped the characters of many who would figure prominently in both Virginia and the nation's affairs. He acquired an extraordinary classical education, learning at first with the help of his mother, but applying himself with diligence to mastering Greek and Latin. Thomas Jefferson, whom many regarded as the best classical scholar in Virginia, judged Wythe his superior. For years this smallish, courtly man had lived in Williamsburg, where he practiced and taught law. As with Clay in 1793, Wythe had noticed thirty years earlier the penmanship of a tall red-haired youth with a splash of freckles on his face. Good handwriting had made Tom Jefferson useful then in the same way that Clay later would be. Jefferson became Wythe's most famous student and was instrumental in having his teacher named professor of law at the College of William and Mary in 1779, the first such professorship in a country then lacking a systematic legal curriculum for aspiring attorneys. "Preach, my dear Sir, a crusade against ignorance," Jefferson had urged him. just as well have drawn these characters and the circumstances that brought them together. George Wythe was a great man whose legal accomplishments were legendary and whose mentorship had shaped the characters of many who would figure prominently in both Virginia and the nation's affairs. He acquired an extraordinary classical education, learning at first with the help of his mother, but applying himself with diligence to mastering Greek and Latin. Thomas Jefferson, whom many regarded as the best classical scholar in Virginia, judged Wythe his superior. For years this smallish, courtly man had lived in Williamsburg, where he practiced and taught law. As with Clay in 1793, Wythe had noticed thirty years earlier the penmanship of a tall red-haired youth with a splash of freckles on his face. Good handwriting had made Tom Jefferson useful then in the same way that Clay later would be. Jefferson became Wythe's most famous student and was instrumental in having his teacher named professor of law at the College of William and Mary in 1779, the first such professorship in a country then lacking a systematic legal curriculum for aspiring attorneys. "Preach, my dear Sir, a crusade against ignorance," Jefferson had urged him.31 Wythe did just that before becoming a judge on the state's High Court of Chancery in 1789 and soon afterward, as the only judge on that court, the state's chancellor. "Such philanthropy for mankind," it was said of him, "such simplicity of manners, and such inflexible rectitude and integrity of principle, as would have dignified a Roman senator, even in the most virtuous times of the Republic."32 From the start, Clay charmed the old man, and Wythe captivated Clay. As had happened to other young men over the years, Clay's initial awe steadily gave way to admiration and affection. Wythe had counseled the greatest men of his age, including two future presidents (Jefferson and James Monroe), a future U.S. attorney general (John Breckinridge), a future judge of the Virginia Supreme Court (Spencer Roane), and two governors of Virginia (Wilson Carter Nicholas and Littleton Waller Tazewell). Yet all of these relationships had become easy and enduring friendships, for Wythe was not only brilliant but kind, unpretentious, and, even at nearly seventy, when Clay met him, youthful.33 Clay spent four years in Wythe's employ and essentially became his private secretary. Clay's primary duty was to take Wythe's dictation of Chancery decisions and reports. After Wythe reviewed the copy, Clay made corrections and revisions and incorporated the literary references, usually in Greek, that Wythe often included in his decisions. This mild form of "pedantry," as one writer has described it, was a small vanity on Wythe's part but big trouble for Clay. He had absolutely no knowledge of Greek, and he had to copy with meticulous care the characters as though drawing hieroglyphics. The task added hours to his chores, but he never complained, and his work was always on time and neatly accomplished.34 Wythe noticed both the attitude and the industry. He opened his library to the boy and loaned him books as a way of suggesting what to read. He apparently avoided quizzing Clay about the subjects in order to prevent the acquaintance with books from becoming a chore rather than a pleasure. Instead, he encouraged free-ranging discussions that included everything from religion to politics, covering subjects from comportment to conscience, all framed by the meditations of great authors in great books. Thus while laboring at a copy desk Henry Clay received not just room, board, and a modest wage, but also a worldview broader than any vista he could have otherwise imagined, his guide not so much the chancellor of Virginia but a kind old man whose watery eyes saw promise in the gangly bumpkin with a ready smile and practiced pen. Clay always remembered that George Wythe had "the courtliest bow I have ever seen," one that the boy took to imitating for the same reason that he emulated the speaking techniques of effective orators. After four years with Wythe, Clay's deficiencies in formal schooling as well as in his manners were almost eliminated. When he left Wythe, Clay knew how to converse in intellectual company and how to act in the best circles of society.35 What exactly did Henry Clay learn from this remarkable teacher? Though he enjoyed listening to the old man read Greek, Henry never showed any facility for languages and never learned Greek or Latin, always to his regret. And despite Wythe's passion for learning as an end in itself, Clay never developed an intellectual curiosity beyond the goal of learning a thing for its practical benefits. Wythe's library was surely important in the formation of the adult Henry Clay, but the example of Wythe himself proved more central to Clay's education.

Wythe's role in the founding of the new nation and in securing Virginia's ratification of the Constitution were admirable endeavors, but his desire to have the very idea of America serve a broader purpose was nothing short of exhilarating. Liberty in America could become an opportunity for all humanity! That was a notion so compelling that it could merit a life's work. To preserve and to improve the Founders' gift to the world, thereby to promote the progress of people everywhere by preserving the liberty of men at home, made the struggling young republic a dazzling experiment.36 But it was a troubling one as well. In those four simple words-"the liberty of men"-an idea explained in Jefferson's majestic Declaration as an inalienable right direct from the hand of God-rested the most troubling contradiction in the American experiment, in which the grand quest for human freedom was soiled by human slavery. Wythe clearly noted the incongruity, as did many others of his time, but he was unique in the way he resolved it, at least as it touched his own life. He reconciled for himself the clash of freedom and slavery sooner rather than later, in fact immediately: he did not liberate his slaves in his will, as several Founders would do, but freed them outright with a stroke of a pen. More than that, he prepared them for freedom by having them taught trades to match their talents and inclinations. A few stayed with him, but only as employees earning fair wages, such as his elderly cook, Lydia Broadnax. A young mulatto named Michael Brown was another. Wythe taught Michael to read and write.

Henry Clay already technically owned slaves through his father's bequest, although one apparently went to Kentucky with the Watkinses, while the fate of the other is unknown. Yet what he saw in the Wythe household must have puzzled him. It was a bold challenge to the established order of things in the only world he had ever known, one that included slavery as a natural consequence of skin color and birth. Free blacks lived in Virginia, but laws restricted their freedom, prohibiting them, for instance, from bearing arms or voting. Clay mostly knew blacks only as slaves, an exotic people not just because of their color but because of their language, often a Creole pastiche of African tongues and Old World English that could make them difficult to understand. More than that made them difficult to understand, though. Clay's youth in Hanover County had etched strong impressions into him about blacks as people, whether slave or free, and those impressions would prove deep-seated and enduring. He would never surmount the prevailing opinions of his time that deemed blacks to be intellectually inferior and morally compromised. Yet Wythe's example proved as persuasive as it was puzzling. Like the old man, Clay came to view slavery as a blight, its proponents monstrous to the degree of their enthusiasm for it, its victims the prisoners of a foul travesty, everyone trapped by the cruel hoax it revealed in a land celebrating liberty.

Moreover, Clay knew that George Wythe had apprenticed his slaves to prepare them for freedom. He watched Michael Brown learn his letters. Clay would remember that.37 WHILE MANY OF the lessons Clay learned under the guidance of George Wythe concerned how to make a life, one of the most important had to do with how to make a living. Age had not dulled Wythe's legal expertise, and Clay watched the old man's mind work with growing admiration. the lessons Clay learned under the guidance of George Wythe concerned how to make a life, one of the most important had to do with how to make a living. Age had not dulled Wythe's legal expertise, and Clay watched the old man's mind work with growing admiration.

One case that came before the High Court of Chancery was especially instructive because it showed how the law was a constant bulwark even when challenged by popular sentiment. Several Virginians brought suit seeking relief from debts owed to English creditors, claiming that the British government's partial violation of the 1783 Treaty of Paris canceled those obligations. It was a clever dodge, disguising transparent self-interest by playing on anti-British prejudice, but Wythe was not convinced. He ruled against the debtors, insisting that the Crown's failures to honor other parts of the treaty had nothing to do with Americans' commitments to private English creditors. The debtors promptly appealed to the federal circuit court, and the case was heard by Chief Justice John Jay in his capacity as a circuit judge. The appellants brought in formidable legal talent. Patrick Henry and John Marshall argued their side before a packed courthouse. Henry Clay watched wide-eyed as these celebrated champions presented their arguments with compelling oratory. Patrick Henry was at the height of his spellbinding powers. When speaking to juries he had no equal in Virginia, and his very appearance, his dour expression, hawk nose, and broad, thin mouth emphasized by surprisingly large eyes, fascinated beyond the power of his inimitable voice, and that alone was powerful enough. He relied on his magnetic personality and way with words rather than study and application, for Patrick Henry was indolent to the point of laziness. Juries did not care. His ability to draw, as Edmund Randolph noted, not so much from the law as "from the recesses of the human heart" was irresistibly persuasive, at least for juries. John Jay, however, was not swayed by the approach. Wythe's decision was soundly based in the law, and Jay sustained it.38 Clay was mightily impressed, though, by all points of the law and its practitioners. Here was a profession that provided opportunities for grand public gestures yet was also anchored in the rituals of procedure and traditions of precedent. The law offered an avenue to prominence and achievement, and Clay resolved to travel it. He would certainly have wanted George Wythe to be his teacher in this new project, but the formality of the undertaking made it far more taxing than pointing out some books and chatting about them in idle moments. Wythe's duties as chancellor consumed too much time, and taking on a new student was out of the question.

Although efforts to systemize legal training into a standard mode of instruction were already emerging in certain parts of the country, they were random and rare. That Wythe himself was the first professor of law in the United States evidenced the newness of formal legal training, and most lawyers came to the craft by "reading" law under a practicing attorney. The system had many failings. Uneven instruction was an obvious one, and the possibility that lawyers would exploit students by turning them into glorified copyists was another.39 Ideally, the aspiring student performed clerical duties in return for access to law books and individual guidance, the idea being that such work exposed the mind to the forms and formulas of the law and fixed those elements by rote and repetition. After achieving an adequate level of proficiency, the apprentice was ready for examination before the bar by a panel of three judges from either the General Court or the High Court of Chancery, sometimes both. The questioning took place in open court and was usually more casual than rigorous, with queries probing a candidate's character as much as his knowledge. Successfully negotiating this bar examination was only a step to another stage of apprenticeship, the equivalent of moving to the status of journeyman in the legal guild. Newly licensed lawyers practiced in the lowest tier of courts. Only leading attorneys argued cases in the appellate courts, a slight concession to the irregular quality of lawyers the system produced.40 In late 1796, Wythe asked Robert Brooke to teach Clay the law and thus saw to it that Clay had an earnest, conscientious teacher with excellent credentials. Robert Brooke had just completed a term as governor in 1796 and had become the state attorney general. When Clay moved out of the back room of the Chancery, he was again physically moving up in the world. It was the custom for a law student to join the household of his teacher, and for the next few months, Clay would live in the home of the state's highest legal officer.41 Brooke found Henry a quick student. Building on the preliminary readings and stenographic work Clay had done for Wythe, he moved the boy rapidly along. In less than a year, Clay was ready for his examination. On November 6, 1797, Paul Carrington, William Fleming, and Spencer Roane, all judges of the Virginia Court of Appeals, found Henry Clay competent to practice law in the commonwealth of Virginia and granted him his "legal certificate."42 At twenty years of age, he was now Henry Clay, Esquire. Richmond was less than twenty miles from the Slashes, but it could not have been farther from the limits of that place had it been a mountain on the moon. The transformation from bumpkin in the swamps of Hanover County to attorney at the Virginia bar was only one facet of the change in Henry Clay during the pivotal six years he spent in Richmond. Physically he had not so much blossomed as grown like a weed, his stature accentuated by his spare build. Yet what had once been a gangly and ill-clothed boy had become, under careful observation and the tutelage of good men, an agile and tastefully dressed young man. Young Clay had come to Richmond with a winning way and an easy smile, but his mentors and companions taught him the etiquette of the drawing room as well as the rough pleasantries of the gaming table. He learned what to drink and, more important, how to be drink's master rather than its servant. He moved in circles that included the best minds of the passing, current, and coming generations, and integrated their sense of celebrity and purpose into his own persona. His white-blond hair, always a tad tousled, was never ponytailed in a queue but always worn short, in what was called "the French style," as befitted a true republican. He modeled his gestures and speaking style on the great orators he had seen on Richmond's stages and in its courtrooms, using his long-fingered hands and baritone voice to persuasive effect, in the manner of Patrick Henry. He pondered the moral dilemma of human bondage and came to regard it, as did his mentor George Wythe, as a repugnant evil, an opinion no less sincere because it was freighted with the prejudices of his time. And his gift for friendship had pulled elders and contemporaries alike into his embrace. Francis Taliaferro Brooke (Frank to his friends), his teacher's younger brother, and Tom Ritchie (the Brookes' brother-in-law), who would become an influential newspaper editor, were among them, as were the boys in the clerk's office at the Chancery, the men of his debating society, many destined for a measure of greatness themselves, and countless others who were part of an ever-widening circle of acquaintance and friendship.

And yet for all that, Clay knew even as he stood before his examiners that November day that his time in Richmond-in Virginia, in fact-was at an end. The city boasted an embarrassing abundance of lawyers, and a new one's ascent would certainly be slow. Even grand achievement brought rewards modest in the scale of things. John Marshall lived moderately well only because he had logged long days and built an enormous practice, the work of years, too long for a young man in a hurry. Virginia friendships could take one only so far as well, for they would always be trumped by family connections, often more essential for success than merit.

So Clay was packing even as he framed his new law license. His destination was never in doubt, for the appeal of his own family connections determined it from the start. To the west was Kentucky, where his mother and Hal had set up Watkins Tavern in Versailles and had made it one of the largest and most praised hostelries in the state. His brother John was a prosperous merchant in Lexington, the fastest-growing city in Kentucky. Just over those mountains, the ones dimly visible as a blue cloud just above the horizon, was the new place of Clay's family. It would be the place of his future.

In 1797 he started out, laden with his belongings, the accumulated experience of the previous six years, and the always ready smile that started at the side of his wide mouth before broadening into a fetching grin. A host of his mannerisms were adopted from admired men and close acquaintances, including the studied self-confidence with which he set out for Kentucky. At this early stage of his life, those mannerisms were really more affectations than self-realized qualities. Except for the smile. That was his own.43

CHAPTER TWO.

"My Hopes Were More than Realized"

WITHIN DAYS OF receiving his law license in Richmond, Clay packed his meager belongings, mounted his only horse, and set out for Kentucky. He traveled the Wilderness Road, the path taken by pioneers for more than two decades toward a place once called "the Dark and Bloody Ground" because Indians had so persistently fought over it. The road began west of Richmond, skirted south of the Shenandoah Valley through the Cumberland Gap along the Tennessee line, and then headed north into the heart of Kentucky. There it followed the route called Boone's Trace because Daniel Boone had carved it from the wilderness in the 1770s. The road split at Hazel Patch, Kentucky, its northwest fork stretching toward Louisville, its north fork toward Lexington. It was still a hard journey when Clay made it in 1797. Winter added to its hazards. receiving his law license in Richmond, Clay packed his meager belongings, mounted his only horse, and set out for Kentucky. He traveled the Wilderness Road, the path taken by pioneers for more than two decades toward a place once called "the Dark and Bloody Ground" because Indians had so persistently fought over it. The road began west of Richmond, skirted south of the Shenandoah Valley through the Cumberland Gap along the Tennessee line, and then headed north into the heart of Kentucky. There it followed the route called Boone's Trace because Daniel Boone had carved it from the wilderness in the 1770s. The road split at Hazel Patch, Kentucky, its northwest fork stretching toward Louisville, its north fork toward Lexington. It was still a hard journey when Clay made it in 1797. Winter added to its hazards.1 At least the road was never empty, for the lure of Kentucky hypnotically drew immigrants regardless of the season. Like Clay, some trekked to join family members, earlier migrants already attracted to fertile soil and a buzzing economy. They came by the thousands, enduring all manner of hardships, certain that their fortunes lay in this western Eden. One young traveler who had passed along the route a year earlier described his journey and the people along it as a peculiar mixture of hope and despair. A few inns along the way offered good food and comfortable beds, but for long stretches travelers suffered from appalling want and exposure. Often the only available lodging was wretched. At one stop, seventeen people, women and children included, crowded into "a small Hutt ... 12 feet square." The throngs of migrants touched his heart, for they too were often wretched. "Noticeing the many Distres.d familes," this traveler haltingly asked, "Can any thing be more distressing to a man of feeling than to see woman and Children in the Month of December. Travelling a Wilderness through Ice and Snow passing large rivers and Creeks with out Shoe or Stocking, and barely as maney raggs as covers their Nakedness, with out money or provisions[?]"

And yet they were seldom despairing. "Ask these Pilgrims what they expect when they git to Kentuckey," he remarked, "[and] the Answer is Land. Have you any. No, but I expect I can git it .... Here is hundreds Travelling hundreds of Miles, they Know not for what ... except its to Kentucky."2 In 1797, everything about Kentucky was new, exciting, and until recently a little dangerous, for white settlement had only lately taken root. When whites first wandered into the Dark and Bloody Ground, Indians had been hunting the region's bountiful lands for as long as humans could remember. That was in the years before the American Revolution. These first whites were hunters too, a unique type labeled "long hunters" for their extended rambles west of the Blue Ridge that tested their resourcefulness and stamina and made them irritating interlopers to the Indians. The most famous long hunter was North Carolina's Daniel Boone, who trekked with companions into Kentucky, lived off the land for months while collecting pelts, and returned east to sell the hides and tell stories about the lush, lovely land beyond the mountains. Soon men with money were eyeing distant Kentucky as an investment opportunity. Richard Henderson of North Carolina joined with other backers-merchant Thomas Hart was a typical investor-to purchase Kentucky from the Indians and sell it to settlers. The project took shape under the auspices of the Transylvania Company and so stubbornly ignored Virginia's claims to Kentucky that Virginia's courts would eventually intervene, but not before settlers had begun moving into the area to build block houses, clear fields, and clash in sharp skirmishes with Indians as unimpressed with the Transylvania Company's claims as Virginia was.3 The American Revolution slowed settlement, particularly when the British allied with Indians intent on eliminating white encroachment. The Revolution's end did not stop Indian conflicts, but it did prompt a new wave of white settlers. In 1792, the Virginia county of Kentucky established itself as a state of the Union, and three years later General "Mad" Anthony Wayne forced Indians north of the Ohio River to sign the Treaty of Greenville, which terminated Indian claims south of the Ohio and put Kentucky at peace. With statehood and relative tranquillity as encouragements, Kentucky's wave of settlement became an overwhelming flood, and Henry Clay floated in on it.4 AFTER ENTERING KENTUCKY, Clay turned north along the Wilderness Road toward the Bluegrass region of the state, an area in north central Kentucky where his mother and stepfather lived in the small town of Versailles. The country was breathtaking, as fertile as it was beautiful and home to the state's fastest-growing population. In the Bluegrass, people boasted with good reason about the hottest land speculations and the highest land prices. There was no brag if everything was fact: the place was at once lovely and affluent, affordable only for those with enough money to buy the best. It consequently became the center of a ready-made body of elite landowners and professionals, people who had fled Virginia's practice of primogeniture and low tobacco prices but had brought many of Old Virginia's social customs with them. Clay turned north along the Wilderness Road toward the Bluegrass region of the state, an area in north central Kentucky where his mother and stepfather lived in the small town of Versailles. The country was breathtaking, as fertile as it was beautiful and home to the state's fastest-growing population. In the Bluegrass, people boasted with good reason about the hottest land speculations and the highest land prices. There was no brag if everything was fact: the place was at once lovely and affluent, affordable only for those with enough money to buy the best. It consequently became the center of a ready-made body of elite landowners and professionals, people who had fled Virginia's practice of primogeniture and low tobacco prices but had brought many of Old Virginia's social customs with them.5 Clay arrived at his parents' tavern in Versailles for a joyous reunion. He had not seen anyone in his immediate family for six years, almost a third of his life, and much had changed. Some of it was sad. His older sister Sarah had died shortly after marrying their cousin John W. Watkins.6 Henry, however, found younger brother Porter eighteen years old and healthy, and he would soon see his older brother, John, a merchant in Lexington about thirteen miles away. His two oldest half siblings, Martha and John Hancock Watkins, were frozen in his memory as small children, but they of course had grown up, and he met two new half brothers, Francis Hudson and Nathaniel Watkins, who had been born in Kentucky. Henry, however, found younger brother Porter eighteen years old and healthy, and he would soon see his older brother, John, a merchant in Lexington about thirteen miles away. His two oldest half siblings, Martha and John Hancock Watkins, were frozen in his memory as small children, but they of course had grown up, and he met two new half brothers, Francis Hudson and Nathaniel Watkins, who had been born in Kentucky.7 Versailles was a pleasant town of shaded streets where Watkins Tavern served as Woodford County's social center. Future U.S. senator and Kentucky governor Thomas Metcalfe had built the impressive two-story stone building. Its second floor balcony and the frame wing off the back were its distinctive features. A popular hotel for travelers and a social and political gathering place for locals, the tavern made Hal Watkins prosperous and consequential. He was justice of the peace and owned a farm three miles outside of town, lots in Versailles, five horses, and eleven slaves. He now returned "Little Sam," bequeathed to Henry in John Clay's will, to his stepson.8 Founded in 1792, Versailles was certainly agreeable and even bustling in its own way, but the very success of Watkins Tavern proved that for most people the community was a place on the way to somewhere else. So it would be for Henry Clay. After visiting his family, he set out for Lexington, the seat of Fayette County, a dynamic town that described itself as "the Athens of the West" despite being less than twenty-five years old. If that claim was a bit overblown, the town did have reason to describe itself as the Rome of Kentucky, for every road in the north central part of the state passed through Lexington to connect it with villages throughout the Bluegrass. Founded during the American Revolution and named for its first battle, Lexington was also the largest town west of the Alleghenies, with one thousand citizens and counting. In fact, it would double in size during Clay's first five years there.

Lexington was also thoughtfully arranged, representing a great deal more urban planning than many eastern cities at the time. Wide, straight, tree-lined streets met at right angles. Crowds of people moved easily along these spacious avenues where dozens of shops carried the finest merchandise from the East and Europe. Taverns and inns served excellent food, fine wines, and the kind of liquor whose quality had already made the state famous. Vestiges of rusticity were rapidly disappearing as brick buildings and handsome homes replaced the few remaining log structures. Wealthy merchants and successful attorneys lived in fine two- and three-story brick houses that fronted lovely gardens or on country estates just outside of town. Those houses were always placed near the city because Lexington's business required regular attendance and its pleasures always beckoned.9 Virginia transplants were committed to making Lexington a vibrant cultural and educational center, giving substance to the Athenian boast. They established the Lexington Immigration Society to attract farmers and skilled artisans to the area and extolled the virtues of the region by placing advertisements in eastern newspapers. In 1795 John Breckinridge, John Bradford, Thomas Hart, and James Brown were among those former Virginians who set up a lending library on the second floor of Andrew McCalla's apothecary shop, conscientious citizens kicking in $500 of seed money to boost the project. By the time Clay arrived, they had committed to the even more ambitious venture of turning Transylvania Seminary into the first university west of the mountains, a feat sure to burnish Lexington's intellectual luster. Seminary students and local groups staged amateur theatricals and concerts that attracted people from miles around.10 John Bradford, one of the leaders who established the library, founded Kentucky's first newspaper, the Kentucky Gazette, Kentucky Gazette, in 1787 when town trustees voted him a lot on which to set up a printing press. Bradford typified the Virginian who became a brash Kentucky booster, and the pages of his twice-weekly paper often described the state with blissful rapture. More traditional fare filled out the rest of Bradford's paper, which regularly featured essays produced by local writers and borrowed from the works of celebrated authors, a standard journalistic practice of the day. There were advertisements, of course, and local and national news stories, particularly about politics. in 1787 when town trustees voted him a lot on which to set up a printing press. Bradford typified the Virginian who became a brash Kentucky booster, and the pages of his twice-weekly paper often described the state with blissful rapture. More traditional fare filled out the rest of Bradford's paper, which regularly featured essays produced by local writers and borrowed from the works of celebrated authors, a standard journalistic practice of the day. There were advertisements, of course, and local and national news stories, particularly about politics.11 Lexington men engaged in and debated political affairs with remarkable fervor, and Henry Clay soon plunged into the discussions with enthusiasm. Shortly after arriving in town, he joined the Lexington Rhetorical Society, a club previously called the Kentucky Society for Promoting Useful Knowledge, more informally simply the Junto. Primarily composed of young men, many of them freshly minted attorneys, the Junto met at local taverns like Satterwhite's Eagle or the Sign of the Indian King or the Free and Easy to debate whatever struck the group's fancy. Wide-ranging discussions touched on politics, religion, law, slavery, and literature. The society sometimes held mock trials to polish courtroom skills.12 As a new member, Clay just listened. One day the debate was about to end with a vote for the best argument when he muttered to himself that aspects of the topic remained unexplored. A member sitting nearby heard him and impulsively shouted to the assembly, "Mr. Clay will speak!" He hesitated as all eyes turned to him. He stood up, a towering six feet one, and began with the incongruous opening "Gentlemen of the jury," an obvious mistake. (In private, Clay had been rehearsing opening and closing arguments before an imaginary jury.) He paused; he even stammered; but he quickly gathered himself to repeat the phrase, "Gentlemen of the jury," as if it were an intentional rhetorical flourish. He then launched into an exhaustive speech whose lucid conclusion brought the club to its feet, cheers mingling with prolonged applause. A member of the Junto would always claim that this first effort was the best speech of Clay's life, but that judgment was likely caused by an impression common among listeners hearing Henry Clay for the first time. His voice sounded melodious baritone notes that were unexpectedly captivating in themselves, regardless of the words they formed. In fact, the words sometimes got in the way, which is why, we are told, that even those of Clay's speeches that do not read well were stunning when he spoke them. In person, listeners hung on his friendly, colloquial cadence that gave the peculiar impression that he was speaking directly to each of them, giving each person individual attention, no matter how large the audience or setting, making each one feel that for Henry Clay the most important thing in the world at that moment was to talk person to person, not as to a member of an audience, but individually. It was something no amount of observation could teach or practice achieve. It was the stuff of nearly irresistible persuasion, almost like magic, sometimes like lightning, often bringing men reflexively to their feet and women to tears. It happened for the first time that evening in Lexington.13 THE YOUTHFUL CHEERS of the Junto were pleasing, but they paid no bills. To earn a living, Clay had to impress the more mature members of Lexington's community. His Virginia law license gave him bona fides before most Kentucky courts and made the application for a Kentucky law license a formality, but Clay did not immediately enter the Kentucky bar. Instead, he offered his services to Lexington's established attorneys in order to acquaint himself with the state's legal system by preparing their paperwork. He chose his new mentors carefully, gravitating to former Virginians, especially proteges of George Wythe. Thus did George Nicholas, James Brown, and John Breckinridge become his guides and his friends. George Nicholas was even a Hanover County man, a resonant link for a fellow raised in the Slashes. George was also the brother of prominent Virginian Wilson Cary Nicholas, an intimate of Thomas Jefferson. James Brown attended the College of William and Mary before moving to Lexington in 1789, where he achieved eminence in the new state government and married Anne Hart, always "Nancy" to her friends, a circle that included just about everybody who ever laid eyes on her. She belonged to one of the town's wealthiest families, its patriarch the formidable Thomas Hart, yet people would have found sparkling Nancy irresistible had she been a pauper. Her husband was eleven years older than Henry Clay, but the young man's eagerness to learn the ropes struck James as exceptional. His initial respect for his protege blossomed into a deep and enduring friendship. of the Junto were pleasing, but they paid no bills. To earn a living, Clay had to impress the more mature members of Lexington's community. His Virginia law license gave him bona fides before most Kentucky courts and made the application for a Kentucky law license a formality, but Clay did not immediately enter the Kentucky bar. Instead, he offered his services to Lexington's established attorneys in order to acquaint himself with the state's legal system by preparing their paperwork. He chose his new mentors carefully, gravitating to former Virginians, especially proteges of George Wythe. Thus did George Nicholas, James Brown, and John Breckinridge become his guides and his friends. George Nicholas was even a Hanover County man, a resonant link for a fellow raised in the Slashes. George was also the brother of prominent Virginian Wilson Cary Nicholas, an intimate of Thomas Jefferson. James Brown attended the College of William and Mary before moving to Lexington in 1789, where he achieved eminence in the new state government and married Anne Hart, always "Nancy" to her friends, a circle that included just about everybody who ever laid eyes on her. She belonged to one of the town's wealthiest families, its patriarch the formidable Thomas Hart, yet people would have found sparkling Nancy irresistible had she been a pauper. Her husband was eleven years older than Henry Clay, but the young man's eagerness to learn the ropes struck James as exceptional. His initial respect for his protege blossomed into a deep and enduring friendship.14 After two months of diligent preparation, Clay presented his Virginia license to the Lexington Court of Quarter Sessions and received a Kentucky license on March 20, 1798. Clay had already begun taking on clients and later remembered his great relief upon receiving his first fee. He had worried about getting along, but he recalled that soon "my hopes were more than realized."15 With plenty of cases to go around, he was pleasantly surprised by how easily a determined lawyer could earn a handsome living, for circumstances made Kentuckians a litigious lot. Conflicting land claims sprouted like weeds because Virginia had never bothered to have its western expanse properly surveyed before selling portions of it. Overlapping claims abounded and usually wound up in court. Even otherwise unencumbered grants or purchases suffered from antique surveys in which trees, creeks, and boulders marked confused boundaries. Creditors and debtors were another abundant source of legal work, and out-of-state creditors were unusually good clients. Kentucky was a remote and difficult destination for such lenders, and they hired local attorneys to collect debts on commission-5 percent of the recovery was the standard fee-or to take delinquent borrowers to court, which could mean even larger fees. With plenty of cases to go around, he was pleasantly surprised by how easily a determined lawyer could earn a handsome living, for circumstances made Kentuckians a litigious lot. Conflicting land claims sprouted like weeds because Virginia had never bothered to have its western expanse properly surveyed before selling portions of it. Overlapping claims abounded and usually wound up in court. Even otherwise unencumbered grants or purchases suffered from antique surveys in which trees, creeks, and boulders marked confused boundaries. Creditors and debtors were another abundant source of legal work, and out-of-state creditors were unusually good clients. Kentucky was a remote and difficult destination for such lenders, and they hired local attorneys to collect debts on commission-5 percent of the recovery was the standard fee-or to take delinquent borrowers to court, which could mean even larger fees.16 Land cases were profitable in other ways because they too based fees on a percentage, sometimes in recovered acreage. Clay's work on one land case, for example, earned him a fee of 1,050 acres on the Licking River, a tract that he could keep for investment or sell for cash. Effective and methodical attorneys could swell their bank accounts and become squires in the bargain by specializing in debt collection and land disputes. Clay was especially methodical and effective.17 His unique talents, in fact, were most obvious in debt cases, in which diplomacy was frequently more important than legal expertise. One of his first cases required that he travel to a small town south of Lexington to collect a debt from a farmer. When he arrived, he learned that his man was at a political rally, a touchy situation that placed his quarry among friends not likely to be sympathetic to a stranger wanting money. Clay went to the meeting anyway and was not there long before someone asked what he thought of the candidates. They were all local men about whom Clay knew absolutely nothing. He did know, however, that one could never go wrong praising Daniel Boone to a Kentuckian. He commenced a stem-winder celebrating the name and exploits of Boone that soon had everyone shouting full-throated hurrahs and slapping him on the back. The farmer smiled as he handed Clay the cash.18 These occasionally dramatic instances were rare, for most debt cases were routine affairs that involved clerkship rather than confrontation. Clay also engaged in the profitable work of commercial law as he represented eastern businessmen in their relations with Lexington merchants. One wholesaler, Baltimore merchant William Taylor, paid Clay more than $7,000 in fees over a ten-year period, a sum amounting to more than $100,000 in today's money. It was dull work, but Clay attended to its complexities with such thoroughness that other attorneys often recommended him as indispensable in such transactions. His practice grew.19 Criminal law was not lucrative enough to support an attorney in a community happily short of serious criminals. Hog stealers, horse thieves, and drunken brawlers were the norm, and murders were so infrequent that the cases could not match the large fees produced by the drudgery of land conflicts, debt collection, and business deals. Yet Clay's magnetism was uniquely suited to the courtroom, and when a good criminal case came along, he couldn't resist it. Sensational cases drew large crowds to court, and newspapers painted colorful performances with broad strokes. Clay's fluency, his commanding baritone, and his uncanny ability to make each juror feel personally connected to him made him a spellbinder. When there was a jury, he seldom lost.

One murder case earned Clay early acclaim in Lexington legal circles. Doshey Phelps killed her husband's sister in front of witnesses who saw the entire horrible episode unfold. The two had been arguing over money. As the quarrel grew more heated, Doshey fetched a musket and wordlessly shot her sister-in-law in the chest. "Sister, you have killed me," were the victim's last words.20 Most would have hoped only to save Mrs. Phelps from the gallows, but Clay tried to keep her from serving life in the state penitentiary as well. He employed one of the first known instances of an insanity defense, arguing that his client had been in the throes of "temporary delirium." In a memorable closing argument, he told the jury that Doshey had been driven to uncontrollable, blinding rage and was unable to stop herself. Moreover, Doshey's husband had forgiven the poor woman for killing his sister, Clay said. Could the jury do less? The jury, as it happened, finally decided to do a bit more, but its guilty verdict was for the lesser crime of manslaughter, and Doshey's sentence was only five years in the Frankfort penitentiary.21 In Harrison County he defended a father and son, German immigrants, for murder. After persuading the jury to convict for manslaughter, Clay audaciously moved for an "arrest of judgment," meaning that his clients should be set free. That was too much for the prosecutor, and it took another full day of arguments for Clay to convince the jury that his clients should not go to prison.22 Audacious tactics became his trademark. In the Abner Willis murder trial, Clay sufficiently punctured the prosecution's case that the jury could not reach a verdict. As was customary, a hung jury sent Willis to a second trial, but at its start Clay argued that his client had already been tried for the offense and this second proceeding violated the U.S. Constitution's ban on double jeopardy. The judge promptly ruled that it did no such thing. The trial began its preliminaries, but Clay paid no attention. Instead he calmly gathered his papers and stalked out of the courtroom. Everyone-jurors, spectators, prosecutor, judge, even Abner Willis-sat in shocked silence. After pondering this novel development, the judge sent a messenger for Clay and then ruled that, on second thought, double jeopardy was indeed a factor. He released Willis from custody.23 It wasn't the only time that Clay used a seemingly greater understanding of legal procedure and technicalities to cow a judge. He once argued that his client's arrest was invalidated by an improperly drawn warrant. The judge studied the document, the clock ticked, and Clay and his client sat in silence. Finally, Clay turned to his client and shouted in exasperation, "Go home!" The man sat frozen. He stared at Clay in wide-eyed disbelief. Clay shouted even louder, "Go home!" The defendant scampered out of the room. The judge did nothing to stop him.24 THESE MEMORABLE COURTROOM appearances paid little, but they paid off. Ordinary folk gradually perceived Clay as the defender of the little man rather than a corporate lawyer earning hefty fees for debt collections and land cases. His following among Kentucky's less affluent citizens was the beginning of a political base that would endure for a half century. appearances paid little, but they paid off. Ordinary folk gradually perceived Clay as the defender of the little man rather than a corporate lawyer earning hefty fees for debt collections and land cases. His following among Kentucky's less affluent citizens was the beginning of a political base that would endure for a half century.

Clay had developed a heightened political awareness in Richmond as he moved quietly among Virginia's political elite, listening and watching, and he took an interest in Kentucky politics from the start. Before he arrived, Kentucky was debating whether to revise its 1792 constitution. Two favorable votes in as many years were required even to assemble a convention, but the 1797 referendum seemed to quash the matter at its outset. Despite a palpable desire among many to democratize state government, a majority of Kentuckians did not want to revise the constitution. Proponents of increased democracy remained unsatisfied, though, and they became more vocal in the face of this setback. More than that, by the time Henry Clay rode into Lexington, the movement had taken up the potentially explosive issue of slavery in Kentucky.25 This early emancipation movement was fueled as much by populism as altruism. Many Kentuckians wanted to abolish slavery in order to end the large slaveholders' monopoly on economic and political power. In short, small farmers stood to prosper if the institution of slavery went away. Clay came to this argument with views shaped by his mentor George Wythe-views that were tempered by practicality, particularly about the advantages of gradual over immediate emancipation. He approached the issue both as a humanitarian eager to resolve the conflict of slavery and freedom and as an advocate for Kentucky's poorer farmers. He also believed that sensible men would not be threatened by the prospect of gradual emancipation, even in Kentucky's most aristocratic, conservative county. He was wrong.

The state's economic and political elite (really one and the same) were not opposed to the idea idea of democracy. Most were good Jeffersonian Republicans, just like Clay, and founded groups like the Democratic Club to show solidarity with the French Revolution. They were exuberant members of the Republican choir that criticized Federalist centralizing schemes, extolled individual liberty, and imagined that the highest Federalist of all, Alexander Hamilton, privately whiled away the hours admiring himself wearing a crown. But having controlled Kentucky's government from the time of its formation, they bristled at the suggestion that their noblesse oblige was heavy on privilege and short on obligation. By allying himself with aggressive democratic activists, Clay was sure to upset these people and possibly even alienate new friends such as Breckinridge and Nicholas. And Clay's public stance for democratic reforms did trouble them, but that was only half of it. It was bad enough that he wanted to eliminate Kentucky's Electoral College that selected state senators and the governor (an elitist contrivance in the 1792 constitution), and replace it with direct election. When he started talking about doing away with slavery, he seemed to have lost his mind. of democracy. Most were good Jeffersonian Republicans, just like Clay, and founded groups like the Democratic Club to show solidarity with the French Revolution. They were exuberant members of the Republican choir that criticized Federalist centralizing schemes, extolled individual liberty, and imagined that the highest Federalist of all, Alexander Hamilton, privately whiled away the hours admiring himself wearing a crown. But having controlled Kentucky's government from the time of its formation, they bristled at the suggestion that their noblesse oblige was heavy on privilege and short on obligation. By allying himself with aggressive democratic activists, Clay was sure to upset these people and possibly even alienate new friends such as Breckinridge and Nicholas. And Clay's public stance for democratic reforms did trouble them, but that was only half of it. It was bad enough that he wanted to eliminate Kentucky's Electoral College that selected state senators and the governor (an elitist contrivance in the 1792 constitution), and replace it with direct election. When he started talking about doing away with slavery, he seemed to have lost his mind.26 Clay and Kentucky Gazette Kentucky Gazette editor John Bradford understandably believed, however, that the relatively small number of slaves in Kentucky made emancipation socially and economically feasible, offering a unique but vanishing opportunity to strike down the institution. After all, slave owners themselves admitted that the presence of slavery mocked high-flown talk of human liberty. Yet most Kentuckians joined elite planters to condemn even the most gradual emancipation as too radical. Clay had not reckoned on a fearsome obstacle to emancipation, which was the universal desire for lofty social rank. Slaves were badges of white affluence, and those who owned the most slaves wielded the most influence. People who had never owned a slave coveted that. editor John Bradford understandably believed, however, that the relatively small number of slaves in Kentucky made emancipation socially and economically feasible, offering a unique but vanishing opportunity to strike down the institution. After all, slave owners themselves admitted that the presence of slavery mocked high-flown talk of human liberty. Yet most Kentuckians joined elite planters to condemn even the most gradual emancipation as too radical. Clay had not reckoned on a fearsome obstacle to emancipation, which was the universal desire for lofty social rank. Slaves were badges of white affluence, and those who owned the most slaves wielded the most influence. People who had never owned a slave coveted that.27 Anyone who threatened to block that avenue to riches and power had simply lost his mind. Anyone who threatened to block that avenue to riches and power had simply lost his mind.

Clay persisted, though. Using the pen name "Scaevola"-a republican legalist of ancient Rome venerated for his bravery and patriotism-Clay published in Bradford's sympathetic Kentucky Gazette Kentucky Gazette the first of his essays supporting the gradual abolition of slavery in Kentucky. Clay talked about the injury that slavery would eventually inflict on Kentucky's democratic institutions, but most notably he denounced its cruelty. "Can any humane man be happy and contented," he asked, "when he sees near thirty thousand of his fellow beings around him, deprived of all the rights which make life desirable, transferred like cattle from the possession of one to another ... when he hears the piercing cries of husbands separated from wives and children from parents .... [?]" No, he answered, not "the people of Kentucky, enthusiasts as they are in the cause of liberty." the first of his essays supporting the gradual abolition of slavery in Kentucky. Clay talked about the injury that slavery would eventually inflict on Kentucky's democratic institutions, but most notably he denounced its cruelty. "Can any humane man be happy and contented," he asked, "when he sees near thirty thousand of his fellow beings around him, deprived of all the rights which make life desirable, transferred like cattle from the possession of one to another ... when he hears the piercing cries of husbands separated from wives and children from parents .... [?]" No, he answered, not "the people of Kentucky, enthusiasts as they are in the cause of liberty."28 But he tempered his condemnation with practicality, for Clay disagreed with radicals calling for immediate abolition. Gradualism was not only more realistic (it would be less economically disruptive for slaveholders) but more desirable because slaves could be educated and trained in skills essential for making a living. Slaves had to be prepared for the very state of being free. But he tempered his condemnation with practicality, for Clay disagreed with radicals calling for immediate abolition. Gradualism was not only more realistic (it would be less economically disruptive for slaveholders) but more desirable because slaves could be educated and trained in skills essential for making a living. Slaves had to be prepared for the very state of being free.29 The practicality of gradual emancipation left old heads unimpressed, and they criticized Clay as an impractical dreamer, one of a pack of "beardless boys," according to George Nicholas, a charge that must have stung a lad just past his twenty-first birthday. John Breckinridge, a member of Kentucky's lower house and a future United States senator and attorney general, answered Clay and other radicals by linking their calls for abolition to redistributionist land schemes. But Clay was not unsettled by the establishment's disapproval. Instead, the "beardless boy" spit on his palms. In February 1799, Scaevola (everyone knew it was Clay by then) fired back at Breckinridge's criticism. Nobody wanted to redistribute anyone's land, Clay insisted, and gradual emancipation was the best way to do away with an evil that would soon be too entrenched to eliminate.30 In the first round of this bout, Clay and his reform cohort won on points when the legislature grudgingly ignored the prior year's negative referendum and called for the election of delegates to a constitutional convention. It was scheduled for that summer, and Clay joined reformers in zestfully campaigning for the election of delegates sympathetic to their cause. Many in the ruling class had to admit that the boy had pluck, and one paid him the highest compliment a Kentuckian could receive by calling him "the best three-year-old [sic] he had ever seen on turf."31 But Fayette County's elite planters were determined to dominate the upcoming convention, and they handed Clay and his friends their beardless heads in the election. Voters soundly thrashed gradual emancipationists John Bradford and James Hughes to send James McDowell, Buckner Thruston, John Breckinridge, and John Bell to the convention in Frankfort. All opposed the abolition of slavery, gradual or otherwise. Fayette County's decision was mirrored in other counties that sent comparably disposed delegations, and the result was foreordained: slavery was untouched by the new constitution. But Fayette County's elite planters were determined to dominate the upcoming convention, and they handed Clay and his friends their beardless heads in the election. Voters soundly thrashed gradual emancipationists John Bradford and James Hughes to send James McDowell, Buckner Thruston, John Breckinridge, and John Bell to the convention in Frankfort. All opposed the abolition of slavery, gradual or otherwise. Fayette County's decision was mirrored in other counties that sent comparably disposed delegations, and the result was foreordained: slavery was untouched by the new constitution.

Delegates did, however, establish direct elections for state senators and the governor. They had at least heard the voice of the people, such as it was, on that procedural point of enhanced democracy for ordinary folk. To the "piercing cries of husbands separated from wives and children from parents," they were deaf. They remained chronically so in years to come. The impairment would cost their beloved Bluegrass State dearly one day, when families would divide and brothers would stride off in different directions to settle the matter with daggers rather than debates. Henry Clay's sons and grandchildren would be among them.32 ALTHOUGH THEY SQUABBLED over the future of their state, Kentucky's Democratic-Republicans found common cause in opposing the direction of the nation's foreign and domestic affairs. In fact, such issues firmly united them, and even Clay's drift toward the radicals on constitutional reform and gradual emancipation did not completely estrange him from the political elite. He regularly rubbed legal elbows with Breckinridge and Nicholas, and he eagerly joined other Lexington Jeffersonians who were furious with the Federalist Congress and the John Adams administration. over the future of their state, Kentucky's Democratic-Republicans found common cause in opposing the direction of the nation's foreign and domestic affairs. In fact, such issues firmly united them, and even Clay's drift toward the radicals on constitutional reform and gradual emancipation did not completely estrange him from the political elite. He regularly rubbed legal elbows with Breckinridge and Nicholas, and he eagerly joined other Lexington Jeffersonians who were furious with the Federalist Congress and the John Adams administration.

The European war that grew out of the French Revolution in the early 1790s always threatened to involve the United States. The two principal antagonists, Great Britain and France, were uniquely positioned to cause America trouble: Britain understandably provoked reflexive American anger, and France early invoked American military obligations under the Franco-American alliance of 1778. But George Washington steered the country to neutrality, a move that irritated Francophiles like Thomas Jefferson and his faction, who believed that Washington's prudence ill served the cause of liberty, not just in France but for all the world. More, they believed that Alexander Hamilton-whom they accused with some justification of being an Anglophile-was pushing America into the British camp in defiance of a legitimate treaty, not to mention in disobedience to America's commitment to freedom.

This dispute grew more rancorous at home and gradually caused political factions to harden into political parties, but it also grew more hazardous abroad. By 1798, French petulance over America's lack of help turned to belligerence. The ensuing French naval war against American merchant shipping was undeclared (it would eventually be called the Quasi War), but it was destructive to American commerce and thereby altered the course and purpose of domestic policy. The Democratic-Republican fear that Federalists would harass pro-French Jeffersonians was realized with a vengeance in late summer of 1798 when Congress passed the Alien and Sedition Acts. John Adams signed into law this incredible legislation, which included provisions to prosecute and imprison critics of the government. Adams gave his approval reluctantly, but reluctance made the terms no less odious. Americans, including veterans of the Revolution whose wounds still ached on cold nights, were being told by their government to shut up, or else.

When news of the Alien and Sedition Acts arrived in Lexington, it spread like wildfire and led to a spontaneous gathering at Maxwell's Spring south of town. A smattering of Federalists came out in support of the measures, but angry Democratic-Republicans were an overwhelming majority. Lexington's most outspoken Jeffersonian, George Nicholas, stood on a wagon bed serving as a makeshift platform and sneered at the unconstitutionality of making it a criminal offense to publish anything deemed "false, scandalous, and malicious" about the government. Nicholas proudly reminded his listeners that he had been a member of the Virginia ratification convention in 1788 and consequently knew full well what the Constitution really meant. The assembly cheered, but Nicholas was lucky to be preaching to the choir, because neither his manner nor his meaning was necessarily persuasive. People hardly needed reminding about his role in ratifying the U.S. Constitution, and his recollection about protecting unfettered political speech was chronologically off: the First Amendment did not exist in 1788.33 It didn't matter. The crowd cheered as its outrage intensified. Out of the din, someone shouted for young Henry Clay to speak. Men lifted him up onto the wagon, where he began an impromptu address that lasted an hour and put the already emotional crowd through the wringer, making it applaud and reflect by turns, making it laugh at the absurd attempt to quash a fundamental liberty, making it tremble at the implications of losing that fundamental liberty. It was a medley in baritone, condemning Federalists' efforts to make unnecessary war on France and predicting that they would use, if they could, the military for domestic repression. By the time he was done, Clay had won the crowd's deafening approval, and it was in no mood to listen to rival suitors. A couple of Federalists tried to crawl into the wagon, but men rushed them with hard looks and clenched fists. Clay and Nicholas leaped up to restore calm and finally persuaded everyone that pummeling a Federalist violated the very principle they had all turned out to support. That seemed fair enough on reflection, but nobody wanted to spoil this rendezvous with an unexpectedly dashing champion by listening to Federalist rot, so the gathering adjourned in celebration. Clay and Nicholas were borne aloft on shoulders that carried them to a waiting carriage. Cheers accompanied their impromptu parade through Lexington. It was Clay's first public address. By any measure, it had been a success.34 Lexington's Democratic-Republicans were not alone in their alarm at Federalist actions. Rallies throughout the state protested the Sedition Act and the move toward war with France. Men wore the French tricolor cockade on their hats as they marched and cheered orations condemning the Federalists. Clay continued to speak out on the subject. And the legislature passed what became known as the Kentucky Resolutions, a formal protest secretly drafted by Thomas Jefferson. The first set of resolutions that passed in the fall of 1798 (even stronger ones followed in December 1799) were less intense than protests adopted in Virginia, but they all essentially asserted the rights of a state to judge the constitutionality of federal laws. Kentucky even declared that a state had the right to interpose its authority to prevent federal enforcement of unconstitutional legislation.35 Clay supported Kentucky's stance, but he played a minor role in these events. He was not shy about speaking his mind, whether in support of Jeffersonian Republican protests against Federalist excess or of gradual emancipation in Kentucky, but he was young, newly arrived, and without significant family connections to the ruling elite. He threw himself into his work, hoping that success and resulting affluence would give him entree to influential circles.

Yet he didn't work all the time. During the winter of 179899, Clay began visiting the home of Thomas Hart, one of Lexington's wealthiest citizens. Hart had also been one of Richard Henderson's original partners in the Transylvania Company. He did not move to Kentucky until 1794, but his family had been an important factor in Kentucky's development from the start. Hart's brother Nathaniel blazed trails for settlers to come to Kentucky before he died fighting Indians at Boonesborough in 1782. The Harts hailed from Virginia-Hanover County, in fact, which gave him and young Clay something to talk about.36 After marrying Susannah Gray, Thomas moved first to North Carolina and then to Hagerstown, Maryland. Along the way his family grew to seven children and his merchant business grew a tidy fortune. Nancy Hart Brown, wife of Clay's mentor James, was one of his older girls, and the youngest daughter was Lucretia, born in Hagerstown in 1781. Hart affectionately dubbed her his "Little Marylander." After marrying Susannah Gray, Thomas moved first to North Carolina and then to Hagerstown, Maryland. Along the way his family grew to seven children and his merchant business grew a tidy fortune. Nancy Hart Brown, wife of Clay's mentor James, was one of his older girls, and the youngest daughter was Lucretia, born in Hagerstown in 1781. Hart affectionately dubbed her his "Little Marylander."37 After settling in Lexington, Hart established himself as a leading wholesaler and retailer and soon made so much additional money that he diversified into manufacturing by opening a ropewalk and nail factory. The Harts' imposing brick house at the corner of Mill and Second streets was opulent, furnished with the finest fixtures and carpets money could buy, brought either across the Atlantic from Europe or simply across the Blue Ridge from the most skilled craftsmen in the eastern United States. The home also radiated cultural refinement, with an extraordinary library and paintings by the nation's best artists. The Harts owned the first piano in town. Lucretia loved to play.38 Henry Clay became a regular visitor, but he had in mind something other than reminiscing about his and Hart's boyhood home. It was obvious from the start that Clay had taken an interest in the Little Marylander.

The ritual dances of this irresistible impulse are universal for any generation, many unchanged from when apples hung in Eden. But courtship for the middle and upper classes at the turn of the nineteenth century had taken on freer forms than those of previous decades. Parents, particularly fathers, still had the ultimate say regarding whom their daughters could see in the first place and marry in the end, but the girls of Clay's generation enjoyed more liberty than had their mothers about suitable beaux and serious intentions. Parents set general rules and daughters exercised judgment within them, making the hovering chaperone an increasingly quaint figure and priggish vigilance a disappearing custom. Courting couples could speak privately at properly supervised tea parties and dances, and they could even walk alone in the garden on brief promenades that were closely but not too obviously timed by monitors. A young man who proved himself trustworthy and relatively serious about a girl could eventually expect to see her alone for short interludes in her parents' parlor, where pocket doors were kept just slightly ajar and conversation was supposed to be fairly constant. One day, after everybody knew what her answer would be, he would have a talk with her father.

As winter moved toward spring in Lexington that year, Henry Clay and Lucretia Hart moved through the required steps of this timeless dance, the frequency of his calls making apparent his purpose, and the awkward early silences that always mark boy-meets-girl episodes gradually giving way to the easy but exhilarating familiarity of young people who have plainly arrived at an understanding. In the parlor of the big brick house on Mill and Second, they sat alone and talked. He arranged to meet with Mr. Hart.39 Nobody ever described Lucretia Hart as a beauty. She was an angular girl in face and body. The sharp edges of her high cheeks and brow were unfashionable for her day, and her thin figure was too slight, even bony, to people of a time that put a premium on plumpness. Likely she would be more agreeable to modern times, when motion pictures value chiseled, photogenic faces, and the measure of good looks is that described by the Duchess of Windsor, who famously remarked that a woman can never be too rich or too thin-two qualities that Lucretia Hart had in abundance. Contemporaries speculated that it was her family's money and status that attracted Henry Clay, landing a climber and a wallflower in a passionless marriage that pathetically rescued her from spinsterhood only because it would abruptly elevate him to a privileged circle. After all, her own father described her as "a fine sprightly, active girl ... well accomplished in her education."40 The less artful formulation is that a girl has a good personality, shorthand understood by boys everywhere, and at any time, to mean homely. The less artful formulation is that a girl has a good personality, shorthand understood by boys everywhere, and at any time, to mean homely.

In cold point of fact, Henry Clay probably would not have wooed this slight, quiet girl had she not lived in a lavish house or hailed from a wealthy family. Clay's rising star in Lexington was not an accident, and all of his actions bear the mark of calculation: his humble entry into legal circles, his associations with important men, his displays of oratorical prowess, his diligent toil in dull but lucrative casework, his flamboyant courtroom performances, even his challenging the elite on democratic reform and gradual emancipation, all indicate a young man scaling a ladder one social, economic, and political rung at a time. From that perspective, a wife from the wealthiest circle, the daughter of a community leader, would simply be another step up. It is more than likely that such a consideration is precisely what brought Henry Clay calling at the house on Mill and Second.

Yet it is unfair from that hard reality to freeze the girl who sat quietly in that parlor into the shape of a plain, humorless biddy. She was a spare girl, to be sure, and even repeated pregnancies and age would not make her stout, but Clay does not seem to have minded and in fact might have preferred it. Years later he warned the young daughter of a friend not to allow her affections to be too easily "engaged" because youth tempted the "susceptible" heart. Above all he admonished her to look beyond appearances.41 There was something about Lucretia Hart that people who took the trouble to know her-or more accurately, whom she took the trouble to know-found endearing, even captivating. Those who saw Henry Clay at all stages of his life reported that he too was physically unattractive, until he spoke or smiled, until something animated his features in a way that no portrait could really capture. For her part, Lucretia's mass of auburn hair, her soft eyes, small hands, and girlish feet, were fetching in their own way. She was clever, educated like most girls of her social class, and especially fond of playing the piano for family and guests. As the years rolled by, she would be something of an enigma to the outside world, but never to her family and friends, for Lucretia was kind, caring, and occasionally droll. But she was also an intensely private woman married to an intensely public man. That contradiction in temperament made her and Henry Clay different but not distant. He had undoubtedly first come calling that winter looking for money and status. In the end, he found Lucretia. There was something about Lucretia Hart that people who took the trouble to know her-or more accurately, whom she took the trouble to know-found endearing, even captivating. Those who saw Henry Clay at all stages of his life reported that he too was physically unattractive, until he spoke or smiled, until something animated his features in a way that no portrait could really capture. For her part, Lucretia's mass of auburn hair, her soft eyes, small hands, and girlish feet, were fetching in their own way. She was clever, educated like most girls of her social class, and especially fond of playing the piano for family and guests. As the years rolled by, she would be something of an enigma to the outside world, but never to her family and friends, for Lucretia was kind, caring, and occasionally droll. But she was also an intensely private woman married to an intensely public man. That contradiction in temperament made her and Henry Clay different but not distant. He had undoubtedly first come calling that winter looking for money and status. In the end, he found Lucretia.

On April 11, 1799, one day before Clay turned twenty-two and shortly after Lucretia's eighteenth birthday, the two married in the parlor of the Hart home. They moved into a small brick house next door and just a stone's throw from Nancy and James Brown.42 It was a normal arrangement that placed the Clays in the midst of a traditional system of family, a culture in which kinship through blood or marriage meant automatic acceptance in a community. Yet marriage was also in transition during these early years of the new republic. In middle- and upper-class unions, the "companionate ideal" held that couples should be friends as well as lovers, each respectful of the other's distinctive but equally important part in creating a stable family. A husband was the head of the family and its breadwinner, but a wife's role as manager of the home and molder of the children's character made her contributions to a stable society prestigious and indispensable. Child-rearing methods were also changing. Enlightenment philosophy informed educated people in their belief that everyone was inherently good and ultimately perfectible. Rather than treating exuberant children like rambunctious colts in need of breaking, mothers sought to guide them toward their potential. Thus were produced responsible members of a community, dependable citizens of the country. The companionate ideal, with its emphasis on properly raising children and its goal of a stable society, made the nuclear family the growing norm in the early American Republic. It was a normal arrangement that placed the Clays in the midst of a traditional system of family, a culture in which kinship through blood or marriage meant automatic acceptance in a community. Yet marriage was also in transition during these early years of the new republic. In middle- and upper-class unions, the "companionate ideal" held that couples should be friends as well as lovers, each respectful of the other's distinctive but equally important part in creating a stable family. A husband was the head of the family and its breadwinner, but a wife's role as manager of the home and molder of the children's character made her contributions to a stable society prestigious and indispensable. Child-rearing methods were also changing. Enlightenment philosophy informed educated people in their belief that everyone was inherently good and ultimately perfectible. Rather than treating exuberant children like rambunctious colts in need of breaking, mothers sought to guide them toward their potential. Thus were produced responsible members of a community, dependable citizens of the country. The companionate ideal, with its emphasis on properly raising children and its goal of a stable society, made the nuclear family the growing norm in the early American Republic.43 Henry and Lucretia Clay's growing brood epitomized the ideal nuclear family, but they also functioned within the traditions of kinship, for they both came from large, affectionate families whose ties of devotion were unaffected by time or distance. They began one of their own right away.

Clay had been busy with his legal practice before marriage, but his new father-in-law was soon steering cases his way and recommending him to other prominent Kentuckians. Thomas Hart's large land holdings and extensive business affairs gave Clay plenty of work that further enhanced his reputation among his peers. When prominent attorney John Breckinridge entered the United States Senate in 1801, he turned over a large part of his practice to Clay, a boost in his client list that was unabated over the next ten years. Clay invested in land and business ventures himself and became a man of standing and property. He soon adopted the simple signature of "H. Clay" rather than the more elaborate one of his younger days. Status could afford simplicity.44 His taxable income in these years is a clear indication of his growing wealth and importance. When he married Lucretia in 1799, Clay owned a house, three slaves, and two horses. The 1802 tax rolls still list him with two horses, but he had increased the number of slaves he owned to five; he also owned two wheeled vehicles (perhaps a carriage and a wagon) as well as two lots in town. In 1803, his land holdings jumped to four town lots and 6,525 acres of land in several counties throughout the state. Also in that year, he owned six slaves and five horses. Two years later, he began building a brick home on one of his town lots because his family-now numbering three children-had outgrown the small house next to the Harts. By then Clay owned eight slaves, more than 6,500 acres of land, and eight horses. Reflecting a growing passion for horse racing, he would more than quadruple the number of horses in his stables over the next three years.45 Family ties extended Clay's connections to other states. He had cousins in Virginia who became future business associates and political allies, and the Louisiana Purchase in 1803 lured many Kentucky friends and relatives south to new opportunities. His older brother, John Clay, moved to New Orleans in the hope that the fresh start would help him recover from his stalled business projects in Lexington, and Porter eventually, though only temporarily, followed him. By then, John had married Julie Duralde, the daughter of prominent Creole businessman Martin Milony Duralde, establishing another important family connection for Henry Clay in the Louisiana Territory.46 Any practical benefits from these departures by friends and family were in the future. At the time, they were emotionally taxing for the young couple who remained in Lexington and watched their circle diminish. The most wrenching farewell for Henry and Lucretia was when James Brown was appointed secretary of the Louisiana Territory, meaning that he and vivacious Nancy would also be moving to New Orleans. Lucretia was close to her brothers, John, Thomas, and Nathaniel, and another sister, a widow, Susannah Price, affectionately called Suky. (Another older sister, Eliza, had married Dr. Richard Pindell in Maryland and died in 1798.) But Lucretia was especially close to Nancy.

Everybody hated to see the Browns leave. There would be visits, of course, but distance and bad roads made trips novelties rather than routines. And good health was always a delicate uncertainty in a time when even a minor illness could suddenly become something serious and lethal. Leave-taking in such a setting meant more than the prospect of missing loved ones; it could mean truly losing them. Henry Clay inherited much of James's legal practice and was appointed to his vacated position as professor of law at Transylvania University, but he would rather have had his friend stay in Lexington.47 Clay's appointment to Transylvania's law professorship in 1805 continued a line of George Wythe proteges in that post that included George Nicholas and James Brown. By then the former Transylvania Seminary had been a university for six years and was a constant philanthropic project for boosters aware of its civic benefits. Clay was the school's attorney and promoted its need for a strong faculty, which he now joined. In addition to conducting his classes, he became acquainted with all students-the school's enrollment was small enough to make that possible-but he worked particularly closely with the little cadre of young men studying law, taking many of them into his small brick office on Mill Street after graduation to train them in the profession. Among those students who studied with Clay were future U.S. senator and Kentucky chief justice George Robertson, future U.S. congressman and Kentucky governor Robert P. Letcher, and Robert Smith Todd, whose daughter would marry Abraham Lincoln. Clay's increasing legal and political responsibilities caused him to resign his professorship in 1807, but his strong attachment to the university kept him affiliated as a member of its board of trustees, and he often mentored its graduates in his practice.48 Meanwhile, the Clays were doing their part to boost Lexington's population. Fourteen months after their vows, Lucretia gave birth to a little girl they named Henrietta, but she died just short of her first birthday, one of seven children they would lose over the course of their lives, heart-wrenching events that left painful emotional scars. A little over a year after Henrietta's death, on July 3, 1802, Lucretia gave birth to the first of their five sons, Theodore Wythe Clay, named in part for Clay's beloved mentor George Wythe. The following year, Thomas Hart Clay was named for his grandfather, and eighteen months afterward, his sister Susan Hart Clay was named for her Aunt Suky. The two-year delay before their next child was apparently the result of Clay's absence for several months in Washington as a United States senator, but soon enough there was another daughter, Anne Brown Clay, named for her aunt Nancy who had moved to Louisiana. Finally the parents had namesakes in Lucretia Hart Clay, born in February 1809, and Henry Clay, Jr., born in April 1811. Eliza Hart Clay arrived in July 1813 and was named after Lucretia's dead sister.

Eliza was to be the last for a while, but only because Henry was away in Europe on important diplomatic missions. After he returned in late summer of 1815, Laura Clay arrived like clockwork in October 1816, but they lost her in only a few months. One year later, James Brown Clay was born, and then in February 1821 John Morrison Clay marked the end of Lucretia's childbearing. After all, she was forty years old by then. Nevertheless, the Clays were remarkable for their time, when many upper- and middle-class couples had begun to practice some form of birth control, such as abstinence, to limit the size of families, in part for convenience. In what has been described as their marriage of "convenience," Henry and Lucretia Clay obviously, and repeatedly, had something else in mind.49 THE LEGAL PRACTICE and income grew along with the family. In addition to work for his father-in-law, Clay occasionally took a criminal case, his performances always drawing crowds to the courthouse. Clay also rode a legal circuit with other attorneys to county seats throughout the state to attend monthly court days, and he was often in the state capital at Frankfort representing clients before the state court of appeals and the United States District Court. When Fayette County was between regular prosecutors, he temporarily stepped into that post. His most famous case involved a slave on trial for murdering his overseer. Numerous witnesses established the defendant's guilt beyond question; Clay easily won a conviction, and the slave was hanged. Yet Clay always regretted the episode. The overseer had been infamously brutal, and it was hard to see how justice was served by killing his killer. and income grew along with the family. In addition to work for his father-in-law, Clay occasionally took a criminal case, his performances always drawing crowds to the courthouse. Clay also rode a legal circuit with other attorneys to county seats throughout the state to attend monthly court days, and he was often in the state capital at Frankfort representing clients before the state court of appeals and the United States District Court. When Fayette County was between regular prosecutors, he temporarily stepped into that post. His most famous case involved a slave on trial for murdering his overseer. Numerous witnesses established the defendant's guilt beyond question; Clay easily won a conviction, and the slave was hanged. Yet Clay always regretted the episode. The overseer had been infamously brutal, and it was hard to see how justice was served by killing his killer.50 Clay's travels throughout the state and to Frankfort gave him the chance to indulge a raucous streak, and he soon gained a reputation for heavy drinking and reckless gambling. In Richmond, young Clay had been quite the man about town, a convivial chum and boon companion, and he continued his revelries in Lexington. Out on the Kentucky circuit, he was always ready for a drink or a dance, and he could produce his fiddle in the blink of an eye or apply his rich baritone to popular songs. His gambling was legendary, and his antics with his fellow attorneys were celebrated in gossip, much of it true, if occasionally a bit embellished. On the circuit, the temptations for fun were many, and the drive to combat boredom was constant. Lawyers spent their days in stuffy courtrooms, and at night they ate flavorless food in fetid country inns and slept in crowded rooms, two and three to a bed. When the inn was pleasant and the food tasty, these lawyers could make an evening memorable, and Henry Clay was often at the center of the story. Once in Frankfort, a wild night of drink and cards stretched past dawn. Clay was due in court that morning. One of his law students was horrified to find him just leaving the card table, disheveled and bleary-eyed. He calmed his student: nothing to fret about, he said; an hour's rest and a splash of water on his face would make him good as new. Clay appeared that morning in court and won his case.

But the most notable exploit occurred in the Frankfort tavern Sign of the Golden Eagle after a convivial supper and considerable whiskey. Everyone was preparing to rise from the sixty-foot banquet table when Clay leaped from his chair, vaulted onto the table, and began a whirling dance down its length. His fellow diners ducked and dodged as crockery and glasses and flatware went flying, dissolving into hilarity as Clay executed a graceful "pas seul from head to foot of the dining table." The following morning the owner presented Clay with a bill for the breakage. He promptly paid the $120. It had been worth every penny. from head to foot of the dining table." The following morning the owner presented Clay with a bill for the breakage. He promptly paid the $120. It had been worth every penny.51 Such exploits soon had associates calling Clay "Prince Hal," a reference to the wild ways of young Henry V when he had frolicked with Falstaff. His daily recreation consisted of card games such as brag in which players bet on each of three cards, a quick pastime that rewarded bluff as much as chance. He also liked poker and whist and was quite accomplished at all three.52 Lucretia once responded with a sly smile to a meddlesome matron who asked how she could abide Clay's gambling. She did not mind it at all, she said, because "he 'most always wins." Lucretia once responded with a sly smile to a meddlesome matron who asked how she could abide Clay's gambling. She did not mind it at all, she said, because "he 'most always wins."53 When not riding the circuit, Clay spent from four to six evenings a month at local taverns treating himself to drink, games, and song. While the stakes in some of his gambling exploits could grow astonishingly high, wagers between friends were not really as alarming as the figures suggest. One night at a local tavern, for instance, he won $40,000 in IOUs from newspaper editor John Bradford. The two happened on each other the next day, and Bradford awkwardly told Clay that everything he owned would not pay half the debt. Clay instructed Bradford to give him a "note for $500" and the rest would be forgotten. A few days later, when Bradford bested Clay for $60,000 in IOUs, he took back his $500 note and called it even.54 Prudence born of maturity would gradually diminish Clay's affinity for this sort of thing, but even in the early days he never let gambling or drink become his master, and he drew a stark distinction between the high jinks of trading thousands by way of IOUs with an old friend and the activities of professional sharps who were as likely to mark cards as count them. When a local judge in 1804 fined a professional gambler $25, Clay agreed. He even wrote to the newspapers to defend such penalties as necessary for "preserving the morals of society and suppressing [the] pernicious practice" of gambling.55 There were those, however, who did not like Clay and understandably regarded the contradiction between his pious pronouncement and profligate behavior as hypocritical. There were those, however, who did not like Clay and understandably regarded the contradiction between his pious pronouncement and profligate behavior as hypocritical.

KENTUCKY'S FUTURE SEEMED boundless in these years, but that very potential signaled looming changes. The Bluegrass region's economic power had always made it politically dominant, but commercial progress and population increases in other parts of the state challenged that supremacy in the early 1800s. Henry Clay's oratorical talent made him a natural choice to counter that challenge, and his Lexington friends put him forward in August 1803 as a candidate for the state legislature. Clay later claimed that he was away resting in the mountains when these friends initiated his first bid for public office and that they had therefore done so without his knowledge, but that is unlikely. He did seem, however, to approach the matter quite casually. Balloting took place in Lexington over three days in August, and Clay was nowhere to be found for the first two. He, Lucretia, and the Harts usually spent the hottest part of the summer at Olympian Springs, a resort that Thomas Hart had built forty-seven miles east of Lexington, and nervous friends wondered why he had inexplicably gone there at this crucial moment. Clay's supporters had counted on his appeal to ordinary as well as elite voters, but all the charm in the world was meaningless if absent. boundless in these years, but that very potential signaled looming changes. The Bluegrass region's economic power had always made it politically dominant, but commercial progress and population increases in other parts of the state challenged that supremacy in the early 1800s. Henry Clay's oratorical talent made him a natural choice to counter that challenge, and his Lexington friends put him forward in August 1803 as a candidate for the state legislature. Clay later claimed that he was away resting in the mountains when these friends initiated his first bid for public office and that they had therefore done so without his knowledge, but that is unlikely. He did seem, however, to approach the matter quite casually. Balloting took place in Lexington over three days in August, and Clay was nowhere to be found for the first two. He, Lucretia, and the Harts usually spent the hottest part of the summer at Olympian Springs, a resort that Thomas Hart had built forty-seven miles east of Lexington, and nervous friends wondered why he had inexplicably gone there at this crucial moment. Clay's supporters had counted on his appeal to ordinary as well as elite voters, but all the charm in the world was meaningless if absent.56 They anxiously watched his opponents work the crowds, buying drinks and making promises. Finally, at the end of the second day of balloting, Clay appeared and mingled with voters clustered around the courthouse. He made an impromptu speech that had townspeople and rural farmers alike laughing at its folksy good humor. They anxiously watched his opponents work the crowds, buying drinks and making promises. Finally, at the end of the second day of balloting, Clay appeared and mingled with voters clustered around the courthouse. He made an impromptu speech that had townspeople and rural farmers alike laughing at its folksy good humor.57 It was yet another example of how "the depth and sweetness of his voice ... has no compeers; and in the gracefulness of his enunciation and manner, few equals." It was yet another example of how "the depth and sweetness of his voice ... has no compeers; and in the gracefulness of his enunciation and manner, few equals."58 He spent the next day making such speeches, but crowds were not always pliant. At one appearance a frontiersman clad in buckskins shouted, "Young man, you want to go to the legislature, I see." Clay said indeed he did.

"Are you a good shot?" asked the man.

"The best in the country!" Clay answered.

"Then you shall go to the legislature," said the man, "but first you must give us a specimen of your skill. We must see you shoot."

All eyes settled on Clay and squinted suspiciously when he insisted that he could shoot well only with his own rifle. The frontiersman strode forward with a Kentucky rifle and handed it to Clay. "If you can shoot any gun," he bellowed, "you can shoot Old Bess.'"

Clay paused but finally shouted, "Well, put up your mark!"

Men hurried to place a target about eighty yards in the distance, more curious now to see this boy from the city shoot than they were to hear him speak. Clay raised Old Bess to his shoulder and fired. The target was pierced almost at dead center. The crowd erupted in cheers, but one skeptic insisted that it was just a lucky shot. Clay should have to do it again. He certainly would, Clay told the man, if he could match the feat himself. The doubter skulked away. It was great theater, and it is likely that the accuracy of Clay's aim was a piece of singular luck. Later Clay could not resist embellishing the story by chuckling over how that was the first and last time he had ever fired a rifle. It was a peculiar claim for a boy who had grown up hunting in the Slashes.59 Speeches backed by such pluck won Clay election to the Kentucky House in his first bid for public office, and in November 1803, he took the seat he would hold for the next six years. In his first session, the legislature gathered on the second floor of the stone capitol in Frankfort abuzz with rumors of looming war with Spain.60 The purchase of Louisiana from Napoleonic France had set off celebrations only months before, but soon disturbing reports began circulating that the deal was hardly certain. Spain was insistent that it had ceded Louisiana to Napoleon only on the condition that France not sell it to the United States. Cash-strapped Napoleon, however, sold the province to Thomas Jefferson's administration so quickly that Spain was still in possession of it. Now Spain threatened to block its transfer to the United States. The entire West rose up in arms. Clay arrived in Frankfort that November as Kentucky militiamen were assembling with fight in their eyes, and he was quickly caught up in the war fever. He certainly knew that political laurels would likely result from participating in a campaign against the Spaniards, and he immediately signed on as an aide to the militia's commanding general, Samuel Hopkins. The militia's preparations had hardly begun, however, before word reached Kentucky that Spain would turn over Louisiana after all. The excitement died down as quickly as it started, disappointing more than a few boys who were spoiling for a fight, especially against Spaniards. Nobody liked Spaniards.61 The distraction of a possible war removed, the legislature began its work in earnest. Most of the session's business was routine. Divorce petitions took up a fair amount of time, because a marriage could be dissolved in Kentucky only after an act of the legislature allowed the suit to be brought in the courts.62 Voting aid to veterans of the Revolution and Indian wars was a high priority, while placing bounties on wolf pelts answered farmers' complaints about losing livestock to predators. But there was also residual rancor over old disputes with Federalists. The Democratic-Republican majority eagerly embraced any scheme to reduce Federalist clout, and Clay took a leading role in the project even though he was a new member. In fact, Clay's first important legislative initiative was a proposal to gerrymander Kentucky Federalists out of presidential politics. Four of Kentucky's six electoral districts would be eliminated to swallow up Federalist enclaves and prevent even a single Federalist elector from being chosen in the 1804 presidential election. Voting aid to veterans of the Revolution and Indian wars was a high priority, while placing bounties on wolf pelts answered farmers' complaints about losing livestock to predators. But there was also residual rancor over old disputes with Federalists. The Democratic-Republican majority eagerly embraced any scheme to reduce Federalist clout, and Clay took a leading role in the project even though he was a new member. In fact, Clay's first important legislative initiative was a proposal to gerrymander Kentucky Federalists out of presidential politics. Four of Kentucky's six electoral districts would be eliminated to swallow up Federalist enclaves and prevent even a single Federalist elector from being chosen in the 1804 presidential election.63 Thomas Jefferson had handily won Kentucky in 1800 and was predicted to win the state again in 1804, but Federalist gains in the state concerned his supporters. Joseph Hamilton Daveiss was a rising star in this Federalist revival and became an irritating opponent for Republicans. Friends called Daveiss "Jo." Clay was not among them. In fact, earlier in the year Clay had again appeared in the public prints as "Scaevola" to dispute Daveiss's claim that he was running for Congress on Jeffersonian principles. Clay's redistricting bill sought to make sure that such upstart Federalists could never wield influence in the state.64 More than party maneuvering roiled Kentucky politics. Frustration with Bluegrass dominance of state affairs made the region south of the Kentucky River especially restive. It was called the Southside and had able spokesmen, especially a young firebrand named Felix Grundy, whose thunderous voice and natural fluency made him a formidable opponent in debate. Clay did not encounter this fearsome adversary during his first legislative session because Grundy had recently changed districts and was not eligible to sit in the 1803 legislature. That would change the following November. In 1804, Grundy not only returned to Frankfort but also carried his part of the state's collective chip on his shoulder.

Grundy was not just popular. His image as an ordinary man who looked out for ordinary Kentuckians earned him extraordinary regard among grateful constituents. In legislative sessions before Clay's election, Grundy had helped to ram through measures touted as reforms, though sometimes they were nothing more than sops pandering to class resentment. For example, he played on the universal disdain of lawyers and their supposed double-talk to accuse Kentucky's judges of being in league with elite attorneys. This demagogic indictment of the state's legal system resulted in a "reform" that required the state circuit courts to seat two lay judges who, without a smidgen of legal training, had veto power over decisions rendered by the real judge. Common sense instead of lawyerly tricks would now decide cases, crowed Grundy's supporters.65 Felix Grundy had an even bigger target in his sights when he reentered the state legislature in November 1804. Three years earlier, the legislature had chartered the Kentucky Insurance Company to underwrite cargo vessels on the Ohio River. Its charter, however, also allowed the firm to issue notes that could circulate as currency, a privilege that essentially made the company Kentucky's first state bank. The scarcity of banknotes and government specie (the term for coins, i.e., minted precious metals), often made it next to impossible to do business in Kentucky. The Kentucky Insurance Company's stable currency seemed a sensible way to eliminate primitive bartering and encourage investment. Others saw something more sinister. They perceived the company's banking function as an attempt to concentrate all economic power in the Bluegrass region and keep down the state's poorer sections.66 Riding such resentment, Grundy and his supporters planned to revoke the Kentucky Insurance Company's banking privileges by arguing that many legislators had voted for the charter unaware that it contained such objectionable provisions. They never would have voted for something so contrary to republican institutions, Grundy said, and he commenced the well-rehearsed complaint that a bank concentrated power in the hands of an elite few who then imposed their will on the defenseless people.67 Clay rushed to the company's defense. Part of his motive was regional loyalty (the company was based in Lexington), part was family allegiance (his father-in-law was on the board of directors), and part was self-interest (Clay owned stock in the company), but those factors were hardly the stuff of compelling arguments. Instead, Clay praised the company's role in stimulating Kentucky's economy and argued that canceling any part of its charter before it expired in 1818 would violate the constitutional prohibition on impairing contracts, an argument that anticipated a U.S. Supreme Court decision by fifteen years. Clay rushed to the company's defense. Part of his motive was regional loyalty (the company was based in Lexington), part was family allegiance (his father-in-law was on the board of directors), and part was self-interest (Clay owned stock in the company), but those factors were hardly the stuff of compelling arguments. Instead, Clay praised the company's role in stimulating Kentucky's economy and argued that canceling any part of its charter before it expired in 1818 would violate the constitutional prohibition on impairing contracts, an argument that anticipated a U.S. Supreme Court decision by fifteen years.68 Clay won this first round when Grundy's proposal was defeated by one vote. James Brown congratulated his brother-in-law from New Orleans, saying that he was "happy that the Bank has had the means of resisting the attacks of that unprincipled demagogue Grundy."69 But the one-vote margin was a troubling indication that the Bluegrass bank was hardly safe. Grundy was sure to spend the coming year organizing for the second round in the next legislative session. In the meantime, he had another plan to reduce Bluegrass power. But the one-vote margin was a troubling indication that the Bluegrass bank was hardly safe. Grundy was sure to spend the coming year organizing for the second round in the next legislative session. In the meantime, he had another plan to reduce Bluegrass power.70 Under the U.S. Constitution at that time, state legislatures chose U.S. senators, and in that matter, as in virtually all others, Kentucky's senators were men of the Bluegrass. Senators John Brown and John Breckinridge were currently in office, and Brown was set for reelection. His mere existence irked Southsiders who rankled over Brown's aristocratic ways (he purchased an elegant coach and four during a visit to his New York in-laws), his elegant home called Liberty Hall, and his presumption of privileged leadership. Following Grundy's lead, they were determined to replace Brown with one of their own, nominating John Adair of Mercer County. Efforts to hold on to Brown's Senate seat were complicated by doubts among his own supporters about his political viability. Those dissatisfied with Brown nominated Buckner Thruston, dividing Bluegrass votes and giving Grundy and his supporters a good chance to elect Adair. Clay was loosely related to Brown by marriage (John was James Brown's brother), but he realized the danger, shifted his support to Thruston, and applied "artful management" to persuade enough legislators to give Thruston the seat. In the rough-and-tumble world of intrastate politics, Clay balanced the protection of family against the protection of regional interests. Regional interests won out on this occasion.71 Yet saving the Senate seat was a Pyrrhic victory, at least as far as the fortunes of the Kentucky Insurance Company were concerned. Thruston and Breckinridge not only represented the Bluegrass, they were both from Lexington, a fact that stoked Southside resentment and gave Grundy reason to renew his attack on Bluegrass dominance in the next legislative session. At the urging of Clay and its other supporters, the Kentucky Insurance Company tried to enhance support for its banking function by offering generous loans. Even though Kentuckians were struggling to pay new federal taxes on lands and eagerly took advantage of these liberal lending policies, resentment against the Bluegrass and anything associated with it was unabated. When Grundy returned to the legislature in the fall of 1805, he came with a crowd.72 It was clearly to be Clay versus Grundy, however, and when the House considered the disposition of the Kentucky Insurance Company's charter, the capital hummed over the prospect of the bout. On the day the two were to address the House, the state Senate adjourned to allow its members to watch the fireworks, and as it turned out, the debate became quite a show. Grundy and Clay circled and jabbed at each other for two days, repeating earlier arguments in a display that would have become tedious had it not been so fascinating. Behind all the drama, however, lay the inescapable fact that Grundy now had the votes to strip the company of its banking function, and no amount of debate, even from the dazzling Mr. Clay, could change that. When all was said and done, Grundy's measure passed the House, sailed through the Senate, and was dropped on the governor's desk for his signature, a result that everyone, counting the bill's legislative majorities, marked as certain. Much to everyone's surprise, however, Governor Christopher Greenup vetoed the bill, citing Clay's argument about the sanctity of contracts as the deciding factor. Grundy and his supporters railed at this executive effrontery and promptly overrode the governor's veto in the House. The Senate, however, considered an override with more deliberation, and the pause gave Henry Clay his chance. He had one more trick up his sleeve.

As the Senate deliberated, Clay introduced a measure in the House demanding immediate payment from speculators who had bought state lands along the Green River on credit. The debt to the state was an old one, but the speculators had managed to avoid paying it because of back-scratching bargains in the legislature. The arrangement had a smell to it, and the speculators had earned the label "Green River Band" because of their shady practices that smacked of influence peddling and cronyism. The Green River Band was accordingly an easy target, but it was also an inviting one because many of its members were often in Grundy's camp, rattling for his reforms and applauding his attacks on the privileged elite. Clay turned the tables to accuse them of acting more privileged than any Lexington tycoon, what with their sweetheart legislative deals and unpaid debts to the people of Kentucky. Clay's initiative so alarmed the Green River speculators that they pressured the Senate to let the governor's veto stand. The banking function of the Kentucky Insurance Company survived, and Clay quietly dropped his demand for immediate payment of the Green River debt.73 Without losing a thing, Clay had won. His deft political maneuver had old political hands tugging at their chins and reassessing the tall young man with the impressive voice. Clearly there was more to him than words. "Henry is like a lion's whelp; who shall rouse him up?" asked one, mingling Old and New Testament verses. "The sound of his voice is terrible; yea, it is like the voice of many waters." Without losing a thing, Clay had won. His deft political maneuver had old political hands tugging at their chins and reassessing the tall young man with the impressive voice. Clearly there was more to him than words. "Henry is like a lion's whelp; who shall rouse him up?" asked one, mingling Old and New Testament verses. "The sound of his voice is terrible; yea, it is like the voice of many waters."74 Clay saved the Kentucky Insurance Company with last-minute heroics, but many legislators had already concluded that banks were actually quite useful. They soon created the Bank of Kentucky, an institution explicitly sanctioned by the state to act as a bank. Nevertheless, Clay's defense of banks worried some. He sometimes sounded like a Federalist, and the charge would be repeated in the years to come. Meanwhile, "that unprincipled upstart Grundy,"75 as James Brown now called him, received an appointment to the Kentucky Court of Appeals and within months became the state's chief justice. But he soon decided to move to Nashville, Tennessee. Felix Grundy wryly explained that "Kentucky was too small for both him and Henry Clay." as James Brown now called him, received an appointment to the Kentucky Court of Appeals and within months became the state's chief justice. But he soon decided to move to Nashville, Tennessee. Felix Grundy wryly explained that "Kentucky was too small for both him and Henry Clay."76 CLAY WOULD ALWAYS be associated with the Bluegrass and its interests, but his promotion of certain other measures gradually gained him a following throughout Kentucky. To help litigants appealing to U.S. circuit courts, he pushed a resolution through the House and Senate calling for the creation of a United States circuit west of the Blue Ridge. Clay urged that Kentucky finance internal improvements to boost commerce in all parts of the state, foreshadowing his life's work on the national scene. be associated with the Bluegrass and its interests, but his promotion of certain other measures gradually gained him a following throughout Kentucky. To help litigants appealing to U.S. circuit courts, he pushed a resolution through the House and Senate calling for the creation of a United States circuit west of the Blue Ridge. Clay urged that Kentucky finance internal improvements to boost commerce in all parts of the state, foreshadowing his life's work on the national scene.77 He demonstrated an ability to bring together seemingly irreconcilable factions through compromise, and he became wedded to the idea that the key to political success was to promote the possible and avoid the unattainable ideal. Often that was accomplished through sleight of hand, sometimes with the simplest solutions. When he chaired a select committee on raising revenue, for example, a bill was proposed to tax billiard tables at $200 each. It was likely that such a measure would not generate much revenue but would instead make owning a billiard table beyond the means of taverns. Clay had the amount reduced to $50 but with an amendment naming the bill "an act more effectually to suppress the practice of gaming." Critics groused that he was more interested in saving billiards than promoting morality, but the tables survived, and the treasury profited. He demonstrated an ability to bring together seemingly irreconcilable factions through compromise, and he became wedded to the idea that the key to political success was to promote the possible and avoid the unattainable ideal. Often that was accomplished through sleight of hand, sometimes with the simplest solutions. When he chaired a select committee on raising revenue, for example, a bill was proposed to tax billiard tables at $200 each. It was likely that such a measure would not generate much revenue but would instead make owning a billiard table beyond the means of taverns. Clay had the amount reduced to $50 but with an amendment naming the bill "an act more effectually to suppress the practice of gaming." Critics groused that he was more interested in saving billiards than promoting morality, but the tables survived, and the treasury profited.78 There were a few missteps. He offended Frankfort's citizens by repeatedly trying to have the state capital moved to Lexington. Frankfort was too small, he said; it lacked the radiating road system for which Lexington served as a hub. All of this was true, but it was impolitic to say so. Clay was never able to muster the two-thirds vote necessary to move the capital, but it was not for want of trying.

It was only one way in which he tried to boost Lexington's fortunes, only one facet of the project of civic improvement that he would pursue for the rest of his life. Clay was unabashedly proud of Lexington. He watched with satisfaction as the town grew in sophistication, population, and prosperity. By the early 1800s, it had become the center of education, commerce, and culture for the entire state. Lexington had three boarding schools for young ladies, several day schools for boys, and Transylvania University. Numerous taverns catered to every imaginable taste, offering freshly brewed beer, aged wines, whiskeys, and cordials. Gentlemen of the town had even established a coffeehouse, a euphemism for a tavern, that served the upper class, where a yearly rate of $6 could buy subscriptions to forty-two newspapers and periodicals from all over the United States. Henry Terrass ran this upscale tavern and also operated a public garden behind his house. Called Vauxhall, the garden was canopied by "a most luxuriant grape arbour." On Wednesday evenings, he hired musicians for dances.79 By 1805, Lexington had about five hundred houses, and the smell of freshly cut lumber, the sound of saws and pounding hammers, and the bustle of new houses and businesses springing up gave evidence of a prosperous place on the move while remaining a delight for the eyes. "The country around Lexington, for many miles in every direction," said a keen-eyed observer, "is equal in beauty and fertility to anything the imagination can paint."80 Another traveler described the streets as "wide and airy." Moreover, the town was "as handsome" as Philadelphia but with a prettier countryside surrounding it. People in Lexington had "a glow of health, and an animation to their faces." Something about the air, something about the water, something about the place made its girls pretty and its boys strong. Another traveler described the streets as "wide and airy." Moreover, the town was "as handsome" as Philadelphia but with a prettier countryside surrounding it. People in Lexington had "a glow of health, and an animation to their faces." Something about the air, something about the water, something about the place made its girls pretty and its boys strong.81 Henry Clay would never be able to bring himself to call any other place home. James and Nancy Brown beckoned him to move his family to New Orleans with alluring descriptions of waiting fortunes and balmy winters, but the Clays would not leave Lexington. Clay's economic and political future looked bright, and the town's destiny seemed a metaphor for his own. He was among the top attorneys in the state and could charge fees that even Virginia lawyers would have considered steep. In 1804, he began purchasing land outside of town to build a country home even as construction continued on a larger house in Lexington for his growing family. The twin projects strained the family's finances, but that was the price of living as a gentleman in the Bluegrass.82 The acreage outside of town and the house on it would be his "Ashland," a name he took from the large forest of ash trees that shaded the property. He situated the house on a gentle rise of land from which he could see the cupola of Lexington's courthouse and the steeple of Christ Church, home of the town's Episcopal congregation that Clay had helped to establish but would not join himself until forty years later. In 1805, on that gently sloped hill, a graceful house arose in the Federal style that Clay would remodel and add to in coming years, most notably by attaching two flanking wings to its center. He would also put up numerous outbuildings, for Ashland was to be a working farm. It was to be even more: Clay intended for it eventually to be a refuge, serene with shaded lawns, pleasing with native and imported plants. Its barns and pastures would be home to fine livestock, its stables full of fast horses, its fields lush with rows of hemp, wheat, and corn, and its pastures covered in the thick-bladed, hearty bluegrass that made cows fat and soil rich.83 Eventually all of that would happen just as he imagined it. For now, he watched the house and the first of his ideas grow from the ground. Because of Ashland, he would later count himself more fortunate than Moses. "He died in sight of and without reaching the Promised Land," Clay would say. "I occupy as good a farm as any he would have found had he reached it."84

CHAPTER THREE.

"Puppyism"

IN THE SPRING of 1805, Aaron Burr came to Kentucky. His generous advocacy for western interests in the 1790s had always made him popular beyond the Blue Ridge, but his messy public and private life did not play well in the East, and by 1805 his political career had come crashing to earth with a resounding thump. When he resigned the vice presidency a few days before his term expired on March 4, 1805, he was under indictment for murder in not just one but two states. of 1805, Aaron Burr came to Kentucky. His generous advocacy for western interests in the 1790s had always made him popular beyond the Blue Ridge, but his messy public and private life did not play well in the East, and by 1805 his political career had come crashing to earth with a resounding thump. When he resigned the vice presidency a few days before his term expired on March 4, 1805, he was under indictment for murder in not just one but two states.

Burr was an enigmatic man whose complexities have bedeviled modern attempts to understand him as much as they bewildered the people of his time. Charming and suave, he could enchant women and sway men with equal ease, often clouding their better judgment. His many friends defended him as a misunderstood patriot wronged by his many enemies. Those enemies just as vehemently described him as a sinister opportunist whose oily charm was only a mask for dark motives. People still argue over who was right about Aaron Burr. Possibly they all were, as Henry Clay would have occasion to discover.

Burr's problems began with the presidential election of 1800. The Electoral College gave both Thomas Jefferson and Burr, ostensibly the vice-presidential candidate, the same number of votes and threw the election into the House of Representatives. Because Burr refused to step aside, it took multiple ballots and some maneuvering to elect Jefferson, whose bitterness about Burr's behavior irreparably estranged them.1 President Jefferson effectively excluded Burr from any meaningful role in his administration, and the Democratic-Republicans dropped him from the ticket in 1804, a rebuke made all the more obvious by Burr's replacement, George Clinton, another New Yorker. Burr tried to recover his career by running for governor of New York, but political rival Alexander Hamilton helped to defeat him. The two engaged in a mounting quarrel that ended on July 11, 1804, at Weehawken, New Jersey, as they faced off with cocked pistols. The most famous duel in American history killed Hamilton. In terms of his career, it killed Burr too. President Jefferson effectively excluded Burr from any meaningful role in his administration, and the Democratic-Republicans dropped him from the ticket in 1804, a rebuke made all the more obvious by Burr's replacement, George Clinton, another New Yorker. Burr tried to recover his career by running for governor of New York, but political rival Alexander Hamilton helped to defeat him. The two engaged in a mounting quarrel that ended on July 11, 1804, at Weehawken, New Jersey, as they faced off with cocked pistols. The most famous duel in American history killed Hamilton. In terms of his career, it killed Burr too.

New Jersey and New York indicted him for murder. Burr fled, eventually returning to Washington where he presided over the Senate, an odd figure of defiant innocence and putative guilt, shielded from arrest and punishment by the fact that murder was not a federal crime and extradition was unlikely, partly fortified by the fact that Hamilton had been pointing a pistol too, and by the fact that many, after all, hated Hamilton. But it was not enough to clean the stain of putative guilt, so Burr said good-bye to the Senate and headed west to Pittsburgh. He floated down the Ohio River on a large, well-appointed flatboat, stopping along the way to warm greetings and friendly faces. The farther west one went, the more Hamilton was hated by those who also remembered Burr as their region's champion. The farther west Burr went, the friendlier were the faces.