Mr. Adams’s peculiar manners have, with the exception of too much panegyric, been well described in an article entitled “Glances at Congress,” inserted in the first number of the United States’ Magazine and Democratic Review, published at Washington. “Our attention,” says the reporter who furnished the article, “is now attracted to a ray of light that glitters on the apex of a bald and noble head, ‘located’ on the left of the House, in the neighbourhood of the Speaker’s chair. It proceeds from that wonderful man, who in his person combines the agitator, philosopher, poet, statesman, critic, and orator,—John Quincy Adams. Who that has seen him sitting beneath the cupola of the hall, with the rays of light gathering and glancing about his singularly polished head, but has likened him to one of the luminaries of the age, shining and glittering in the political firmament of the Union. There he sits hour after hour, day after day, with untiring patience; never absent from his seat, never voting for an adjournment, vigilant as the most jealous member of the House; his ear always on the alert, himself always prepared to go at once into the profoundest question of state, to the minutest point of order. What must be his thoughts as he ponders on the past, in which he has played a part so conspicuous! We look at him, and mark his cold and tearful eye, his stern and abstracted gaze, and conjure up phantoms of other scenes. We see him amid his festive and splendid halls ten years back, standing stiff and awkward, and shaking a tall, military-looking man by the hand, in whose honour the gala was given, to commemorate the most splendid of America’s victories. We see him again, years afterwards, the bitter foe of that same military chieftain, and the competitor with him for the highest gift of a free people. We look upon a more than king (!?), who has filled every department of honour in his native land, still at his post; he who was the President of millions, now the representative of forty odd thousand, quarrelling about trifles or advocating high principles. To-day growling and sneering at the House, with an abolition petition in his trembling hand; and anon lording it over the passions, and lashing the members into the wildest state of enthusiasm by his indignant and emphatic eloquence. Alone, unspoken to, unconsulted, never consulting with others, he sits apart, wrapped in his reveries; and, with his finger resting on his nose, he permits his mind to move like a gigantic pendulum, stirring up the hours of the past and disturbing those of the hidden future. Or probably he is writing,—his almost perpetual employment;—but what?—who can guess?—perhaps some poetry in a young girl’s album! He looks enfeebled, but yet he is never tired; worn out, but ever ready for combat; melancholy, but let a witty thing fall from any member, and that old man’s face is wreathed in smiles. He appears passive, but woe to the unfortunate member that hazards an arrow at him; the eagle is not swifter in his flight than Mr. Adams; with his agitated finger quivering in sarcastic gesticulation, he seizes upon his foe; and, amid the amusement of the House, rarely fails to take a signal vengeance.
“His mode of speaking is peculiar. He rises abruptly, his face reddens, and, in a moment throwing himself into the attitude of a veteran gladiator, he prepares for the attack. Then he becomes full of gesticulation, his body sways to and fro, self-command seems lost; his head is bent forward in his earnestness till it sometimes nearly touches the desk; his voice frequently breaks, but he pursues his object throughout its bearings. Nothing daunts him; the House may ring with the cries of ‘Order, order!’—unmoved, contemptuous, he stands amid the tempest, and, like an oak that knows his gnarled and knotted strength, stretches his arms forth, and defies the blast.”
Leaning against the wall, his hands folded on his back, a contemplative spectator of the busy scene before him, stood a gentleman with venerable white hair, and a pale placid countenance, which at once bespoke reserve and affability, firmness of purpose and urbanity, in an extraordinary degree. This, as my friend acquainted me, was Mr. Forsyth, formerly senator from Georgia, but now Secretary of State. He was one of the most strenuous defenders of General Jackson’s policy at a time when the latter had a large majority against him in the Senate, and was shortly after called into the cabinet. There he distinguished himself by his tact, moderation, and sound statesmanlike policy. The part he took in the recent difficulties with France is known, though it is believed he principally acted under General Jackson’s direction.
Mr. Forsyth is one of those few members of the cabinet who have escaped the ferocious attacks of the opposition. Though a strong partisan of democracy, neither his private nor his public life furnished a text for the abuses of party. Some ignorant and uncultivated persons have accused (!) him of too great a devotion to the ladies; but this reproach, so far from injuring him in the estimation of sensible persons, only goes to elevate his character as a man.
It is high time for the Americans to leave off the barbarous and ridiculous notion that a man, in order to be a statesman, a lawyer, an orator, or a man of business, must necessarily be a bore in society. I was once present when an American, who was in the habit of delivering gratuitous lectures on morality, was asked by a Frenchman what sort of impression the sight of a beautiful and lovely woman made upon him? “Precisely the same as that of a fine horse,” replied he, by way of showing the utter subjection in which he kept his passions.—“Dieu merci!” cried the Frenchman; “I vill not invite you to see my darters.” Nothing, certainly, marks the irredeemable vulgarity of a person more strongly than his indifference to beauty and accomplishment.
“There are yet three gentlemen,” continued my friend, “whom I would gladly show you, as amongst those who have the greatest influence on the destinies of our country; but unfortunately they are not here, and, with the exception of Mr. Van Buren, who is one of them, are seldom seen at parties. To-morrow, however, after our call on General Jackson, I shall introduce you to them personally. At present you must excuse me; I have to see some of my colleagues in order to prepare them for a question which I know will to-morrow come up in the Senate. The opposition want to steal a march upon us; but I am determined they shall find us prepared.”
Shortly after the senator disappeared, and with him a number of his colleagues. Scarcely one member remained after twelve, though the dance continued till half-past two. On this occasion I saw the first mazurka danced in the United States; four fashionable ladies consenting to be partners to three Russian gentlemen and a Polish count, who was something of a lion in Washington. The three Russians were none other than the amiable and witty Baron K—r, the Russian minister; the clever and kind-hearted Mr. K—r, the secretary of legation; and Mr. G—, the attaché. The partners could not have been better selected: and, though I could observe not a few sneers in the countenances of the elderly portion of the fair, the younger was evidently delighted; and, as I understood afterwards, practised the steps and the “turn-abouts” more than a week, to the exclusion of everything else. I remained until two; at which time I took another glass of apple-toddy, which enabled me to return home without stopping on the way at the “Epicure House.”