Clay was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to be at least among the three eligible by the House of Representatives. He had counted upon a majority of the electoral vote of Illinois; he had not despaired of Virginia, his native state. It was said that the five votes of Louisiana had been taken from Clay by a trick in the legislature, and that if he had received them, which would have put him ahead of Crawford, his personal popularity in the House would have given him the presidency. What “might have been” only sharpened the sting of the disappointment he suffered. In his letters he spoke philosophically enough: “As it is, I shall yield a cheerful acquiescence in the public decision. We must not despair of the Republic. Our institutions, if they have the value which we believe them to possess and are worth preserving, will sustain themselves, and will yet do well.” But Martin Van Buren wrote on December 31, 1824, to a friend: “He (Clay) appears to me not to sustain his defeat with as much composure and fortitude as I should have expected, and evinces a degree of despondency not called for by the actual state of things.” This is not improbable, for a man of Clay's sanguine, impulsive temperament feels misfortune as keenly as he enjoys success.
His greatest trial, however, was still to come. But before it came, he had as Speaker of the House a ceremonial act to perform, which at the same time was an act of friendship, and which, by the emotions it awakened, may for a moment have
