In the grand narrative of American political history, we can discern significant parallels between the mid-19th-century conflict between Andrew Jackson and Henry Clay and the 21st-century clash between Donald Trump and Gavin Newsom. In both eras, a charismatic populist President was met with organized resistance from established figures who raised concerns about autocracy. In the 1830s, Clay spearheaded an anti-Jackson coalition known as the Whig Party, named after British opponents of royal power, with the explicit goal of countering what Jackson’s enemies mockingly termed “King Andrew” and his overbearing executive style. Today, many Democrats and civic groups are rallying under a “No King” or “No Empire” movement to push back against Trump’s strongman rhetoric, framing the struggle as one of republican values versus authoritarianism. These parallels go beyond mere symbolism: Clay’s opponents used explicitly anti-royalist imagery and language, and Newsom and his allies are similarly cautioning that American democracy itself is under threat under Trump. A comparative analysis of these two historical moments reveals that Clay’s elitist appeals and fragmented coalition ultimately failed to halt Jackson, just as modern Democrats must heed the Whigs’ missteps if they aim to curb Trumpism.
The rhetoric of popular rule defined Jackson’s presidency, so Clay and the Whigs fought back with equally stark invocations of liberty and tyranny. Whig newspapers routinely portrayed Jackson as a monarch on the throne, dubbing him “King Andrew I” to denounce his vetoes, patronage, and decisive executive actions. Clay himself and his Whig colleagues emphasized the need for congressional checks, warning that unchecked executive power threatened the Constitution. In the same spirit, Governor Newsom has cast Trump’s actions in apocalyptic terms. In a primetime address, Newsom warned Californians that “democracy is under assault right before our eyes,” accusing the Trump administration of evolving into an “authoritarian regime.” In his 2024 State of the State speech, Newsom went even further, declaring that California’s pluralistic “way of life is the antidote to the poisonous populism of the right.” The analogy to Whig rhetoric is striking: just as Clay’s allies saw themselves as defending the republic against King Andrew’s excesses, Newsom and the so-called No King activists frame themselves as guardians of democratic norms. Even Newsom’s taunt “come and get me, tough guy,” in response to Trump threats, has become a rallying cry among Democrats, a modern echo of the confrontational spirit of Jacksonian opposition. In both eras, then, the opposition framed its struggle as a moral battle for democracy, using vivid imagery to cast the populist President as a would-be tyrant.
These rhetorical conflicts were not just about opposing policy visions but also about shaping public opinion. In Clay’s era, the linchpin was his “American System” of federal activism: high tariffs, a national bank, and infrastructure spending to modernize the economy. Jackson and his supporters decried this agenda as corrupt elitism, arguing it enriched Eastern financiers at the expense of farmers and laborers. The Bank of the United States became a flashpoint: Clay got Congress to pass a renewal of its charter in 1832, but Jackson vetoed it, declaring that concentrated banking power was “a monster” threatening liberty.
In that showdown, Clay’s opposition coalesced with states’ rights Senators like Calhoun to pass a compromise tariff that appeased the South in 1833, but the Bank issue was lost. In contrast, Newsom’s policy battles are carried out mainly through state actions. He has championed aggressive climate and health measures at home and used California’s legal authority to block federal overreach. For example, when Trump moved to withdraw from the Paris climate accord and roll back clean‐energy rules, Newsom rebuked the President: “If you don’t believe in science, believe your own damn eyes,” he said. Likewise, Newsom has leveraged litigation as Clay leveraged legislation: he is suing to block Trump’s deployment of National Guard troops against Los Angeles protesters, just as Clay used congressional bills (the Force Bill and the Tariff Compromise) to restrain Jackson’s military threats. In both cases, the opposition deployed formal tools, Clay through compromises and the legislative process, Newsom through lawsuits and executive directives to protect local policies and citizens from the President’s populist agenda. Yet neither Clay nor Newsom could easily pass sweeping new laws at the federal level in their eras; their influence has depended on the clever use of existing institutions and public opinion to shape outcomes.
Coalition-building and leadership within their parties also reveal instructive similarities and differences. Clay was the most prominent leader of the nascent Whigs, but his party was by nature a reluctant alliance of factions. Seldom united by a coherent governing ideology, the party was frequently fractured along regional lines, held together primarily by their mutual opposition to Andrew Jackson. In 1836, this incoherence showed when the Whigs ran multiple regional candidates (Harrison, White, Webster) in hopes of throwing the election to the House; Clay himself did not even run that year. By contrast, Newsom operates within the well-established Democratic Party (and California’s party machine). Though he faced criticism from the left for earlier triangulations, he was never pushed out of power the way Clay was overridden by Whig dissent. Indeed, recent events have elevated Newsom’s role within his party. Instead of factional opponents, Newsom now finds himself backed by a broad cross-section of Democrats. The party’s national leaders, other governors, and even some former critics quickly rallied to his cause. As one southern lawmaker put it, Newsom is “fighting for democracy itself” on behalf of all Americans. In California, he has unified his coalition. However, a vocal recall movement and debates over issues like transgender sports continue to stir internal critiques.
Unlike Clay, who found that even his Whig colleagues like John Tyler or William Henry Harrison sometimes acted out of personal ambition and later defected (Tyler famously vetoed Clay’s banking legislation), Newsom’s contemporaries have, by and large, closed ranks. California’s Democratic governors and officials applauded his stance against Trump, and national Democrats have echoed his warnings. It is telling that a national survey of governors or commentators now often cites Newsom as the face of resistance, a role Clay never fully achieved among Democrats, who continued to shun him after 1824. Newsom’s prominence may yet prove ephemeral, but for the moment, he stands as a unifying figure in the anti-Trump coalition in a way that Clay never was among the anti-Jackson Whigs.
Yet Clay’s ultimate failure to check Jackson provides sobering lessons for today’s Democratic strategists. In practice, Jackson repeatedly won the public’s approval, even on issues where Clay led the counterattack. For example, in the 1832 election, Jackson again won New York, Pennsylvania, the South, and most of the country, defeating Clay 219 to 49 in the Electoral College (55% to 45% of the vote). Jackson himself saw this as a widespread endorsement of his veto of the Bank bill. Clay’s allies admitted it was due in large part to Jackson’s “untouchable personal popularity.” Jackson had carefully cultivated an image as the “Old Hickory” war hero and “leader of plain frontier folk,” portraying himself as the defender of ordinary Americans against. His message resonated even as opponents accused him of corruption or tyranny; critics once accused him of being a budding Caesar or Napoleon, but such slanders “could not touch Jackson’s invincible popularity.” In contrast, Clay was widely seen as the prototypical insider: intellectually brilliant but tied to eastern elites, and eventually hounded by controversies like the Compromise of 1850 bundling unpopular measures. Newsom’s challenge is similar: opposition to Trump can seem abstract unless it connects to voters’ daily concerns. Clay’s fate suggests that elite politicians, even with principled policies, may falter if they fail to inspire the broader public. Democrats should note that Clay’s American System was repeatedly portrayed as benefiting special interests, enabling Jackson to claim he was carrying out the will of “the people.” To avoid that trap, Newsom and allies must articulate a compelling positive vision, for example, on economic security or rights, not just attack Trump’s excesses.
Another lesson is that Clay’s anti-Jackson coalition was essentially negative in purpose, and it fractured whenever central tension faded. Without a unifying ideology beyond anti-Jacksonism, the Whigs fell apart over other issues, such as slavery and internal improvements. By contrast, Newsom’s contemporaries already share many common goals (social liberalism, environmentalism, labor rights) that could hold a party together beyond the Trump fight. He should emphasize those shared policy aims rather than just personal opposition, lest his coalition dissolve after Trump leaves office. In the nullification crisis, for instance, Clay even allied with his old rival, John C. Calhoun, to craft a compromise tariff that preserved the Union; this skill at coalition-building and compromise is a strength Clay possessed, and Newsom has similarly called for a bipartisan defense of democracy. But just as Clay had to balance regional interests, Newsom must balance the left and center of his party, ensuring that progressives and moderates feel represented.
Finally, history shows that broad institutional support can only go so far if the opposition lacks popular momentum. Clay and the Whigs eventually shattered despite momentary victories (William Henry Harrison’s election in 1840 was reversed by his death and Tyler’s rebellions). The Whig movement then faded by the 1850s as sectional crises within the United States led to the party's decline. Newsom can take heart that his current prominence resembles Clay’s zenith as a party leader, but he should also recognize that partisan currents can shift rapidly. If Democrats complacently rely on legislative checks alone, as Clay did with nullification and banking measures, Trump-inspired populism might outlast his term (as Jacksonism long outlasted 1836). Instead, Newsom and fellow Democrats need to sustain grassroots energy and align their rhetoric on democracy with concrete benefits for voters, learning from Clay that mere appeals to compromise without widespread buy-in can fail.
In sum, the Clay–Jackson and Newsom–Thump confrontations offer a mirror of each other. Both Clay and Newsom position themselves as defenders of constitutional order against populist power grabs. Both have pushed ambitious policy programs (the American System then, California’s progressive agenda now) and have used formal powers (legislation and lawsuits) to resist executive overreach. But Clay’s inability to match Jackson’s broad appeal or to forge a lasting coalition warns Newsom and today’s Democrats to combine principled opposition with a clear, people-centered message. The “No Kings” activists would do well to remember that simply denouncing tyranny is not enough; Clay’s Whigs never articulated a vision as vividly appealing as Jackson’s. Suppose Newsom and his colleagues can learn that lesson by speaking to voters’ hopes as well as their fears and by uniting their diverse supporters around positive goals. In that case, they may avoid the Whigs’ fate and more effectively counter the Trump era’s populist currents.
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