his correspondence, “often addressed” on the subject of the presidency; but he thought it was “too soon to agitate the question.” He had suffered disappointments enough to make him cautious, and for that caution there was now peculiar reason. The number of Whigs who, while still loving and admiring him, had grown tired of being defeated with him, had increased rapidly since 1844. Among them were, no doubt, many who looked for their own preferment, who to that end desired party success at any price, and who were impatient with the old chief for standing in the way of their interests. But there were also others who, remaining his faithful friends, would not expose him, and at the same time their party, to more disasters. John J. Crittenden, a most honorable man, and Clay's lifelong brother-in-arms in all his struggles, was one of these. “I prefer Mr. Clay to all men for the presidency,” he wrote to a friend; “but my conviction, my involuntary conviction, is that he cannot be elected.” He was undoubtedly right. No man in public life was more idolized by his admirers, but no one had more unrelenting and active enemies, to whom his long career presented an abundance of vulnerable points. Moreover, he had grown stale as a presidential candidate. All the ingenuity of defense, and all the ardor of panegyric, had time and again been exhausted for him, and always in vain. There were no fresh resources to draw upon for a new campaign. The spokesmen of the party were naturally reluctant to
