Free Almost President by Scott Farris Page B

did more than outline a new conception of the purpose of government; he expanded the definition of freedom in America. From Revolutionary times, liberty had been defined simply as freedom from an oppressive government; Clay, who coined the phrase “the self-made man,” expanded the definition to include freedom of opportunity. Clay argued that the federal government had a duty to supply what was necessary for the “safety, convenience and prosperity” of the American people. This was a sharp break with Jeffersonian orthodoxy, yet it captures one of the most appealing aspects of America, which is the opportunity to make a better life than you or your parents enjoyed before—often with the help of the government.
    It is easy to imagine Clay championing such twentieth-century innovations as the GI Bill, student loans, or the creation of the Internet. Clay, for example, proposed government regulation of the telegraph so information could not be monopolized. For Clay, the American experiment was about more than just political equality, it was also the equality of opportunity to do well and prosper. It was Clay’s great intellectual achievement, said renowned historian Richard Hofstadter, to broaden the appeal of what was essentially a Hamiltonian economic program by infusing it with a “Jeffersonian spirit.”
    Clay’s extraordinary influence was due in large part to his immensely appealing personality. He was a witty conversationalist who loved parties, brandy, and cards. Once, he reportedly lost and won eight thousand dollars in a single night, and many who knew him said the most important thing to understand about Clay was that he was by nature a gambler—a trait that did not always serve him well in politics. Hearing contemporaries describe Clay brings to mind President Bill Clinton, another brilliant politician capable of forging imaginative political compromises. Like Clinton, Clay was known to be able to win over enemies with his charm if given a chance. When a new congressman from Georgia, General Thomas Glascock, was offered the opportunity to meet Clay, he refused, saying, “No, sir! I am his adversary, and choose not to subject myself to his fascination.”
    Also like Clinton, Clay was repeatedly accused of having lax morals. When Clay and John Quincy Adams were in Europe to negotiate the treaty to end the War of 1812, the dour and proper Adams would complain that Clay was usually just going to bed when Adams was rising. While cards and brandy were the main staples of his amusements, Clay also liked to flirt and make playful and, for the time, risqué remarks. During a speaking tour in New England, for example, he shocked some in the audience by insisting on calling Virginia “the dominion of the virgin queen.”
    Perhaps it was this reputation for being a bit of a bad boy that made Clay especially attractive to women. Even in his old age female admirers mobbed him, sometimes snipping a lock of his hair as a souvenir. Clay joyfully returned their affection with kisses, joking that kissing was like the presidency, “it was not to be sought and not to be declined.” Despite such behavior, there is no evidence that he was ever unfaithful to his wife, Lucretia, a plain, kindly woman who abhorred Washington society and preferred to remain in Kentucky to manage Ashland, the family estate near Lexington.
    Clay was tall, at six feet in height, and bony, with long arms and legs. He had a narrow face with a high forehead, small blue eyes, and a mouth so wide and so thin it was said he could not whistle and had trouble spitting tobacco. No portrait ever did him justice, those who knew him said, because he was at his most attractive when in motion. “There was not a look of his eye, not a movement of his long, graceful right arm, not a swaying of his body, that was not full of grace and effect,” one admirer gushed.
    And then there was his voice, a