Recently I mentioned Louis Kossuth, and described his visit to this city. From New York Kossuth went to Washington, and one of the very first visits he paid was to the great statesman, the most popular statesman perhaps that America ever had, Henry Clay, who was then sick at his rooms. Clay was nearly worn out with disease, old age and work combined, but he received Kossuth with his usual grace of manner, and spoke warmly in favor of the independence of Hungary. But at the same time he put his foot down against the United States interferin’ with the domestic concerns of any foreign power, and protested against the very thing that Kossuth wanted–”intervention.”
This interview with Kossuth was the last public act of Henry Clay’s life. Shortly afterwards he breathed his last in Washington.
The news of his death was telegraphed to New York early in the mornin’ and it affected the whole city like a personal misfortune, just as the news of Prince Albert’s death did in England. It wasn’t mere respect that the people seemed to feel for the dead man, nor mere public affliction in the loss of a great man. It was downright sorrow for the loss of a personal favorite.
Henry Clay had always been the idol of the Whigs, and a great Whig Centre of New York was the Broadway House. This stood at the corner of Broadway and Grand street, on the east side of Broadway, and was more of a barroom than a hotel, and more of a political headquarters than either, though the regular meetin’ place for the Whigs, for political orations, was at National Hall in Canal street, east of Broadway.
All the leadin’ politicians of the time who were Whigs, or who wanted to be on good terms with the Whigs, used to put in an appearance at the Broadway House. Aaron Clark was a big politician then. He was at one time Mayor, and carried on a big lottery and policy business. He kept a regular lottery and policy shop at the corner of Broadway and Park Place, and people never said a word against him although now-a-days, I suppose, they would class him among the lottery “skins.”
Some of the leadin’ elders and deacons of the churches used to invest in lottery tickets at Aaron Clark’s, though they tried to keep the matter a secret from their women folks, unless they drew a prize. People did draw prizes occasionally then. In that case, the women folks settled the matter with their conscience somehow, never made a fuss, and bought a new dress with some of the prize money.
Philip Hone, Cornelius W. Lawrence, Frederick A. Tallmadge, Moses A. Grinnell and William Paulding used to be among the old Broadway House set. So was old Barnes, whose daughter was afterwards married to Oakey Hall. Prosper M. Wetmore used to expatiate here on great occasions, and sporting men like Bill Harrington used to drop in pretty often.
Bill or Boss Harrington was the leader of the Bowery b’hoys, and after he disappeared the Bowery b’hoy disappeared also. He was the most uncompromisin’ Whig in New York city; would have died for Harry Clay any day, and thought nothin’ of it.
The old Broadway House was in its glory durin’ the Clay and Frelinghuysen campaign. Durin’ election day it was was full of enthusiastic Whigs, singing, between drinks,
“Hurrah, hurrah, the country’s risin’,
For Henry Clay and Frelinghuysen”
The day after the election the Whigs felt more certain than ever that Clay was chosen President, and the returns, which came in very slowly in those days, seemed to carry out this idea. All of this end of New York state was indicative of Whig success. Brooklyn had gone for Clay, and Polk had less than two thousand majority in this city. At this time most of the other States held their Presidential election on the first Monday in November–a day earlier than in New York–and so fine had the politicians got the thing figured down that it was admitted the decision of the contest remained with the Empire State.
Captain Isaiah Rynders was then an active politician, and of course a staunch Democrat, or “Loco-foco,” as Democrats were then called, and a supporter of Mr. Clay’s opponent, James K. Polk. Rynders had always maintained that Western New York beyond Cayuga Bridge was then a sort of dividin’ line, would go against Clay, and at the suggestion of some of his sportin’ friends he had arranged a plan of signals with some of his chums who were to come down with the returns from Albany, by which he could tell some distance off what the news of the election up in Central and Western New York really was. The election took place on Tuesday, and by Thursday it seemed to be generally agreed that New York had gone Whig, and that Clay was elected. In fact, up to nine o’clock that night it was regarded as a sure thing that Clay was elected, so the boys couldn’t wait any longer. They liquored all round and then started from the Broadway House up town to where Frelinghuysen was then stayin’. They got up a kind of procession and had a band of music. Frelinghuysen was called out and made a speech, and then the boys returned to the Broadway House, took Henry Clay drinks, and began to discuss what places would best suit ‘em in the Custom House.
The Democrats in the meantime felt pretty blue, but they wouldn’t “give up the ship.” Definite returns were expected from beyond Albany by the boat (for there was no Hudson River Railroad or telegraph wires at that time), on Friday evenin’, and the biggest kind of a fuss was evident around the newspaper offices on that occasion. Tammany Hall, which was located where the Sun buildin’ now is, on the corner of Frankfort and Nassau, was dark and gloomy, while the Tribune office (then a comparatively little building on the corner of Spruce street), was, if not illuminated, very brightly lighted up. The jolly Whigs thronged the office, and were offering big odds that Clay was elected, prompted by Greeley’s figures and estimates. In the meantime, Rynders and his cronies placed ‘emselves at the end of one of the North River piers, from which they could get the best view of the river. Somethin’ detained the boat and the crowd waitin’ her arrival at her regular landin’ got impatient, and the delay seemed to bring the Whigs more joy and the Democrats more gloom. It was nearly nine o’clock when Captain Rynders, eagerly scannin’ the upper Hudson through a pair of marine glasses, discovered three red lights hangin’ from the top of the staff of the then distant but approachin’ Albany boat. This was enough. He and his friends speedily made their way up to the Tribune office, where the crowds of enthusiastic bettin’ Whigs were gathered, and before “spreading the glad tidin’s” which they possessed, scooped in all the odds the bettin’ men would offer on Clay’s election; and then makin’ their way into Tammany Hall, Captain Rynders ordered those in charge to light up the old Wigwam while he sent one of his companions to the headquarters of the Empire Club to tell the boys to come down with music to Tammany Hall and “hear good news.” It was fully half past nine before the steamboat arrived at her wharf, and when she did the news was brought that the State had gone against Harry Clay. And by the time the returns reached the Tribune office, every window in Tammany Hall was ablaze with light, and ere long the approachin’ band of the Empire Club was heard, and then the discomforted Whigs began to realize how badly they had been sold–how they had counted their chickens before they hatched. The Whigs felt sick, very sick, very sick indeed, very particularly foolish, for the news came in that Frelinghuysen wasn’t Vice President and Henry Clay wasn’t President, and all their spreein’ and hurrahin’, and bettin’, and bellowin’ had been premature. There was mightily little drinkin’ done that night at the old Broadway House, and it never recovered from the effects of that defeat. The old Broadway House went out of existence with the old Whig party.
People in Philadelphia got sold even worse than in New York, as it took still longer for the New York returns to get there. One merchant named Reed promised his wife a new silk dress if Henry Clay, who was a personal friend of his, was elected, and on Friday he gave his wife the dress with pleasure, but on Saturday his pleasure was turned to chagrin, for Clay and Frelinghuysen were no more. But the silk dress was held on to, you bet. That was not returned on account of the returns. No mortal woman ever lived or will live who will return a silk dress.
Political feelin’ ran very high thirty years ago, but when Henry Clay died all parties united in doin’ honor to his memory. It wasn’t done either as a matter of decency or duty, but because people felt like doin’ it, just like a man or a woman would mourn for a brother. The Henry Clay obsequies were as “hearty” as the Garfield obsequies, although there was no sudden takin’ off in Clay’s case. The end had been for some time expected, and the veteran died peacefully and painlessly.
There were two demonstrations in honor of Henry Clay in New York. The first was when his body was received here on its way from Washington to Kentucky.
When the body reached Jersey City everybody in the streets stood bareheaded, and women wept aloud. Minute guns were fired and all the church bells were tolled.
On its arrival at New York the coffin was placed in a splendid hearse, drawn by eight gray horses. The crowd was dense, but was all hatless. Even some women in the crowd removed their bonnets. The coffin was placed in the Governor’s room at the City Hall, and then the people of New York, Brooklyn, Hoboken, Jersey City, etc., filed in to pay their last tribute to the beloved dead. Not even Lincoln’s funeral was more honored than Henry Clay’s.
The next day was the Fourth of July, and bein’ Sunday was a double holiday. Although New York then wasn’t what New York is now in the way of population, it is calculated that over one hundred thousand people visited the remains.
It was thought to be a rather singular coincidence that Henry Clay had died at seventy-six years of age, and that he lay dead in the Governor’s room on the seventy-sixth anniversary of the National Independence. As an orator remarked, “He was exactly as old as his country.”
Talkin’ about oratory it may be interestin’ to record and recall the fact here that one of the best speeches made on the death of Harry Clay in New York was made by William M. Tweed, then an alderman. Tweed never pretended to be a great public speaker, but he had a way of sayin’ what he wanted to say, and of makin’ other people feel what he said.
Tweed made a really fine feelin’ speech, secondin’ some motion of Alderman Cornell in relation to the Clay obsequies. In the course of his speech Tweed alluded beautifully to Calhoun, Jackson, Clay and Webster, doin’ each and all of them justice, givin’ each man what was his due for his strong points. Tweed quoted Shakespeare, too, and quoted him well–brought in the Bible, too, and a piece of poetry, each in the right place, and just enough of it. It was a model speech.
Mayor Kingsland’s message, too, was a model of its kind, and there was a good deal of brains and very little buncome shown about the whole proceedin’.
On Sunday night, or rather early Monday morning, about two o’clock, the remains of Henry Clay left New York forever–carried from the Governor’s room to the steamboat Santa Claus, which had been chartered to carry the remains to Albany, lyin’ at the foot of Murray street.
It was a glorious night, and the moon was at its full. The scene was very impressive. Nothing could be more so. The band played a dead march, the muffled drums beat. The crowd trod on slowly but heavily; every heart and head was bowed with grief.
And then a beautiful incident occurred. Just as the remains were passin’ from the dock to the boat, just as the Clay Association and the guard of honor were drawin’ up in line on either side of the hearse, just as the moon emerged from behind a cloud, the band struck up “Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot,” a favorite air with Henry Clay. There wasn’t a dry eye to be seen.
A few days after this funeral “reception” and farewell, as it might be called, New York had a funeral pageant in honor of Clay, which was the most imposin’ affair of the kind that ever had taken place in the metropolis.
The funeral car was a gem of its kind. It was a very fine car indeed, and everythin’ about it was in exquisite taste, all but the poetry attached to it, which was doggerel. Funeral poetry has to be first-class or it becomes ridiculous, like most of the obituary poetry in the newspapers, which, to my notice, is generally a good deal more and mournful in itself than the sad event it celebrates.
One of the chief features of the procession was the turnout of the Dinkel Hussars, commanded by Dinkel, the Prussian ridin’ master, who had been an officer in the Prussian service. These hussars were a kind of Seventh Regiment on horseback, all the members bein’ well-to-do merchants and clerks. They made a fine appearance and were quite the rage among the ladies, of course, with their black uniforms slashed with silver.
Well, the memory of Henry Clay still lives, but the Dinkel Hussers have passed away forever.
[Editor’s notes: I can’t find any references to the “Dinkel Hussars.” The Clay funeral procession in New York did include the Third Cavalry Regiment, aka the “German Hussars,” which had been formed 2-3 years earlier. This unit was led into action in the Civil War by George W. Sauer.]
