The Administration circle in Washington was deeply depressed by the result, and society looked forward to the reign of the barbarians with mingled feelings of mirth and abhorrence. Although not unprepared for the defeat, the bitter Adams, meditating on his political blunders, recorded that “some think I have suffered for not turning my enemies out of office, particularly the Postmaster-General.”[117] That John McLean, the official referred to, had been disloyal to his chief was common knowledge. The first reaction to defeat from the followers of the Adams Administration was toward laughter, levity, extravagant manifestation of cynical gayety, with an all too noticeable thawing of the frigidity of White House ceremonies. The dying régime put on its best bib and tucker in a hectic and hysterical demonstration of social hilarity. But this first reaction was short-lived. Very soon thereafter callers at Clay’s home were “shocked at the alteration of his looks,” and found him “much thinner, very pale, his eyes sunk in his head and his countenance sad and melancholy.”[118] Mr. Rush (Secretary of the Treasury) was soon “alarmingly ill”--the “first symptoms of disease was altogether in the head.” Mr. Southard (Secretary of the Navy) was confined to his room for three weeks. William Wirt (Attorney-General) suffered two attacks of vertigo, “followed by a loss of the sense of motion.” General Porter (Secretary of War) “was almost blind from inflammation of the eyes and went to his office with two blisters, one behind each ear.” Even the cold-blooded Adams, who appeared “in fine spirits,” was soon “so feeble as to be obliged to relinquish his long walks and to substitute rides on horseback.”[119] A social intimate of the leaders swept from power by the rising of the masses mournfully recorded that they would retire to private life “with blasted hopes, injured health, impaired or ruined fortunes, imbittered tempers, and probably a total inability to enjoy the remnant of their lives.”[120] On none did the blow fall with such crushing force as on the proud-spirited Clay. As the repudiated régime was approaching the end, the presiding genius of one of the favorite Administration drawing-rooms met him at a reception. “What ails your heart?” he asked. “Can it be otherwise than sad when I think what a good friend I am about to lose?” For a moment he held her hand without speaking, his eyes “filled with tears.” “We must not think of this or talk of such things now,” he said. And with that he relinquished her hand, “drew out his handkerchief, turned away his head and wiped his eyes, then pushed into the crowd and talked and smiled as if his heart were light and easy.”[121] On February 25th this lady made another poignant note: “Mr. Clay’s furniture is to be sold this week.” Thus the old régime died hard, and in bitterness. III