galleries broke out in groans and hisses; and, after a furious denunciation of the “bank ruffians” by Benton, the Senate adjourned. Thus “the deed was done,” as the current saying was at the time. General Jackson did not act the hero depicted by Clay, who would “despise all sycophancy and self-abasement,” and “reject with scorn, as unworthy of his fame, the black scratches.” On the contrary, as Benton recorded, “the gratification of General Jackson was extreme,” and “he gave a grand dinner to the expungers and their wives.” Nothing could have imparted greater sweetness to his triumph than the reflection that the man whose work had been stamped by the act of the Senate with such unprecedented ignominy was Henry Clay, whom he hated more fiercely than any other human being. Indeed, that triumph could scarcely have been more complete. Incessantly attacked by Clay at the head of the most brilliant array of talent ever marshaled by any parliamentary leader in American history, Jackson had carried every one of his favorite measures, and been sustained by a most emphatic popular majority in a presidential election. Clay had only been able in two instances — in the nullification trouble and the French difficulty — to put Jackson's violent impulses under some restraint. But of his own favorite objects he had lost everything, — the bank, internal improvements, the protective tariff, the land bill; and finally, when so wanton a measure as the expunging resolution was forced through, Jackson celebrated his
