Walks about Washington

by Francis E. Leupp

A New York Representative went with some friends to dine with the Monroes. Arriving at half-past five, his party were “ushered, Indian file, into the drawing-room,” where they found “some twenty gentlemen seated in a row in solemn state, mute as fishes, having already undergone the ceremony of introduction.” And he goes on:

“Mrs. Monroe was seated at the further end of the room, with other ladies. On our approach, she rose and received us handsomely. After being myself presented, I introduced the other gentlemen. I now expected to be led to the President, but my pilot, the private secretary, had vanished. We beat a retreat, each to his respective chair. Observing the President sitting very demurely by the chimney-corner, I arose and advanced to him. He got up and shook me by the hand, as he did the other gentlemen. This second ceremony over, all again was silence, and each once more moved to his seat. It was a period of great solemnity. Not a whisper broke upon the ear to interrupt the silence of the place, and every one looked as if the next moment would be his last. After a while the President, in a grave manner, began conversation with some one that sat near him, and directly the secretary ushered in some more victims, who submitted to the same ordeal we had experienced. This continued for fully half an hour, when dinner was announced. It became more lively as the dishes rattled.” The party remained at table till about half-past eight.

The retirement of Monroe marked the end of “the Virginia dynasty.” It had always been a sore point with John Adams that the highest office of the Government should be passed from hand to hand in the Old Dominion, and he once threw out the splenetic comment that not “until the last Virginian was laid in the graveyard” would his son have a chance at the Presidency. The son had been trained with reference to such an inheritance, and, on becoming Monroe’s Secretary of State, regarded himself as in the line of succession. His appearance as a Presidential candidate, however, aroused no general enthusiasm, whereas General Andrew Jackson, having given the finishing stroke to the defeat of the British invaders by his victory over Pakenham, and acquired the nickname “Old Hickory,” had become the idol of the multitude. In spite of their approaching competition for the Presidency, Adams was obliged to recognize Jackson’s prestige at every turn; and on the eighth of January, 1824, Mrs. Adams gave a ball in the General’s honor which was so grand that it was still talked of in Washington fifty years afterward.

The Adams house stood on the site now occupied by the Adams office building in F Street near Fourteenth. On this occasion the floor of the ballroom was decorated with pictures in colored chalks. The central design, which portrayed an American eagle clutching a trophy of flags, bore the legend: “Welcome to the Hero of New Orleans!” The pillars were trimmed with laurel and other winter foliage, roses were scattered everywhere, and the illumination was furnished by variegated lamps, with a brilliant luster in the middle of the ceiling. There were eight pieces of music. Mrs. Adams was seated in the center of the hall, with Jackson standing at her side and a semicircle of distinguished guests behind them. President Monroe and Mr. Adams attended, but both were conspicuous for their sobriety of attire. It was this gathering which inspired a tribute in verse by a local journalist, beginning:

“Wend you with the world to-night?
Brown and fair, and wise and witty,
Eyes that float in seas of light,
Laughing mouths and dimples pretty,
Belles and matrons, maids and madams,
All are gone to Mrs. Adams!”

Nine months later, Jackson polled a far larger popular vote for the Presidency than Adams, and so distributed as to give him a lead in the electoral colleges also. But as there were four candidates, none of whom had a clear majority of the electoral vote, the decision was left to the House of Representatives, where Henry Clay, the candidate at the bottom of the list, threw his support to Adams, giving him the office. Adams recognized his debt to Clay by appointing him Secretary of State, and thus placing him in the line of promotion. Jackson never forgave Clay for his share in electing Adams, and from that day forth had nothing to do with him beyond the coolest exchange of civilities. In other respects the General accepted defeat philosophically, attending the inaugural ceremonies and promptly coming forward to congratulate the new President, an act of grace that brought tears to the eyes of Adams. The appearance of the two men together in public delighted the crowd, and there was vociferous hurrahing for Jackson. Judged solely by appearances, indeed, the day was a festival in honor of Jackson rather than of Adams. Many of the General’s friends had come a long distance, in an era when traveling was so slow that they had been obliged to leave home before learning the final outcome of the election, and supposed that they were to attend the inauguration of their favorite. They sought solace for their disappointment in turbulent demonstrations. For the whole afternoon the dramshops carried on a tremendous business, and all night the streets were full of tramping men roaring out Jackson campaign songs and silencing opposition with their fists. Pistol shots were heard at frequent intervals, and a rumor spread that Henry Clay had been killed.

Whatever Adams may have thought of these exhibitions, he bore them with a calm exterior. He was always indifferent to criticism, and became famous as the most shabbily clad man who had ever occupied the Presidential chair, being accused even of having worn the same hat for ten years. He braved public opinion by setting up a billiard table in the White House, which gave a North Carolina Representative a text for a speech denouncing the expenditure of fifty dollars for the table and six dollars for a set of balls as “alarming to the religious, the moral, and the reflecting portion of the community.” The anti-administration press, using the game of billiards as a theme, opened fire upon the President as a gambler. For a fact, he never made but one bet in his life. Clay had picked up at auction a picture which Adams tried to buy of him. One day, in jest, Clay offered it as a stake for a game of all-fours. To his astonishment, Adams, the supposed ascetic, took him up, and won the game and the picture.

It was a habit of Adams to take a plunge in the Potomac, at the foot of his garden, every morning “between daybreak and sunrise,” the weather permitting. Once he had all his clothing stolen, and had to catch a passing boy and send him home for enough raiment to cover him. But this was by no means his most embarrassing adventure. It was during his administration that the first woman newspaper correspondent turned up in Washington. She was resolved to procure an interview with the President, who did not care to gratify her. So she rose early one morning and repaired, notebook and pencil in hand, to the river bank, and planted herself beside his clothes till he started to come out. Standing almost neck-deep in the water, he tried first severity and then persuasion to induce her to go away, but she held her ground till he surrendered and answered her most important questions.

Tudor House, Georgetown