University of Virginia Library

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

(In reply to our respected private correspondent, and the
editor with his puddle against every man, and every man's
inkstand against him.)

When is a statesman beyond accusation? Not while
he is still armed in the arena! — NOT while he has
neither dismounted from the car of ambition, nor,
even once, made sign to the world, that he would fain
stop and turn his face to his Maker!

We are understood as referring to Mr. Adams.
We consider this present active member of congress
as, beyond competition, the most potent spirit in
America. “Venerable” he is — and “his hand trembles”
— but his venerableness is a cavern of power, and
his uplifted forefinger

We know there is a level on the mountain of life,
where the air is pure and cold — a height at which impurity
can scarce come, more, between the climber
and his God — but, it is above where the lightning comes
from — it is above the dark cloud where sleeps the
thunder, collected from below, and charged with inseparable
good and harm. This incorrupt level is, at
least, one step above the cloud in which Mr. Adams
has pertinaciously lingered; and if his friends insist
that he has been long enough lost to common scrutiny
to have reached the upper side of the cloud of dangerous
power, we must be excused for pointing our conductor
till he is done stirring in the thunder.

Persuade us that Mr. Adams is so “venerable” as
to have outlived all liability to the license described
by the poet: —

Persuade us that a vindictive man may be safely bowed
before, for an angel, with his hand, for the first time,
fetterlessly clutched on this world's thunderbolts!
Persuade us that Mr. Adams could not stoop his
statesmanship to resent, and that he is not one of those
dreaders of political extinction, who feel that “not to
be at all is worse than to be in the miserablest condition
of something.” Persuade us, in short, that no
provocation in argument, no lull of responsibility, no
oracular unanswerableness, no appetite for the exercise
of power, no
could tempt Mr. Adams, with his present undiminished
mental vigor, to swerve a hair line from good — by
weight thrown upon public measure, or by influence
wrongfully exercised over the fair fame of the dead
and the private feelings of the living — persuade us
of all this, and we will allow that he is beyond —
“venerably” beyond — the remindings of human censure!

But now — having arms-lengthed it, in reply to a
very formal letter we received last evening condemning
the admission into our columns of a communication
accusatory of Mr. Adams — let us come closer to the
reader with a little of our accustomed familiarity.

We were called upon a day or two since, by one
of the first scholars and most intelligent of businessmen
among us — this communication in his hand.
He left us to read it at our leisure. We, at first,
were unpleasantly affected by it, and slipped it upon
our refusal hook — sorry that so great a man as Mr.
Adams should have an unbeliever (and so weighty an
unbeliever), in greatness so ready for its closing seal.
We should have stopped at this regret, probably, and
only thought of the subject again when returning the
manuscript, but that we had been previously impressed
with our friend's courage in historical justice — on a
wholly different subject. This brought about the
sober second thought, and we turned it over somewhat
as follows: —

Of the allowed Upper Triumvirate of this country
— Clay, Jackson, and Adams — the peaceful good
name of the first is, just now, closed for history, by
his willing relinquishment of public action. The
world owes him the glorified repose for which he has
signified his desire. The second has also retired;
and, though he sometimes has sent his invincible
banner to wave again in the political field, it would
be a harsh pen that would transmute, and make readable
by judicious eyes, the silly abuses syringed at
the venerable old chieftain by the Bedouin squirt of
the “Express.”

The third — Mr. Adams — we could not but feel, at
once, was off the pedestal where the world had willingly
placed him, and had come down, once more

(We shall be pardoned, by the way, for quoting what
is recalled by this chance-sprung quotation — a comparison
which seems to us singularly to picture Mr.
Clay and Mr. Adams as to loftiness of public life and
motive.) Dante says: —

We felt, at once, that this latter character — this
aliquis in omnibus, mihil in singulis — was, as displayed
in Mr. Adams's career, rather the mettle of invincible
obstinacy and unrest acting upon strong talent, than
the ring of the clear metal of human greatness. There
was nothing in Mr. Adams's life of toil that had not
fed his innate passion for antagonism. He was a born
ascetic, in whose nostrils the fiery perils of other men
were but offensive smoke — who had no temptation to
softer pleasure than a pasquinade against a political
rival — who had made the most of the morality which
came natural to him, and which, in this land, covers
more sins than charity. He was not, like Clay and
Jackson, great in spite of the impassioned nature for
which we (so inconsistently), love the man and disclaim
his greatness. He has been the terror of his
time for wounds worse than murder — yet gave no
stab that could be “stopped with parsley.” He
needed no shirt of penance to make him remember
that

He has profited by men's not remembering that (in
the zoology of the pleasures), the sin of the sloth
were a merit in the armadillo — one hating to move,
and the other hating to be still, and both tested by
their activity of motion. In short, Mr. Adams —
though he has unquestionably walked to the topmost
stone of the temple of statesmanship, and is now the
third greatest man in the country that shakes under
him — has exclusively pampered his own desires, topmost
and undermost, by the practice of the virtues
that have shielded him. The toils that have advanced
him were begun in the pastime of an aristocratic
youth; and position, up to quite the end of that
“second heat” of his ambition-race, was an inheritance
perseveringly thrust on him. Can such a man, while
our destiny is still hourly hanging on his lips, be
“venerable” beyond the possibility of censure?

With this unwilling mental review of the “boiled
peas” of Mr. Adams's pilgrimage to greatness — unwillingly,
as it was irresistibly and truthfully disparaging
— we reverted to our first picture of his present
position. We had been truly, and even tearfully, affected,
on seeing the old man, at the late festival of
the Historical Society — doubtless very near his grave,
but fighting his way determinately backward through
the gate of death — and we expressed ourself in terms
of high respect and honor, when we wrote of it the
morning after. It is a recompensing ordinance of
Nature, that the glory and virtues of a great man accompany
his person and his sins lie where they first
fall — in the furrow of history. It is hard to look upon
any man's face, and remember ill of him; and there
is many a great man, who has a halo where he comes,
and none where he is heard of.

We remembered nothing disparaging to Mr. Adams
that evening. But in our office, with a shade drawn
over our eyes, to compel a disagreeable decision of
duty, we saw that the age and decrepitude, which
apparently exacted submission to his will, had left no
joint open in his harness, loosened no finger upon his
weapons of attack. He can defend himself — he has
hundreds to defend him, should he be silent. His
much talked-of “diary” lacks no evidence that truth
can furnish; and if the charges against him are “mere
cobwebs in a church bell,” the best of prayers is, that
he may burst them with one stroke of living triumph,
and not leave even that slight violence to be done by
the knell of his departure.

The last thought that came to us, and the only one
we thought necessary for a preface to the communication,
was, that now would probably be the time chosen
by Mr. Adams himself for denying (and they MUST
BE DENIED!) these indictments against his greatness.
The five years' silence that will follow his death, had
better harden over no ulcer — to be re-opened and
cleansed, to the world's offence, hereafter. We took
some credit to ourself, for simply saying this, without
recording what we have been compelled to record now
— the reasons of our thinking gravely of the communication.
We would have taken the other side
and entered into the defence quite as willingly — but
the writer, as well as Mr. Adams, is a man not to be
denied a hearing. We may perhaps be permitted to
close this article — written in a most unwonted vein,
for us — with a little editorial comfort from Shakspere:
—

“Money Article” on the Opera. — We were delighted
to hear it whispered about at the opera, last
night, that there is a movement among the people of
taste and influence to “set up,” by a liberal subscription,
the present excellent, but impoverished and
struggling operatic company. The first thought that
occurs to any one hearing of this, would, probably, be
a surprise that, with such full houses as have graced
the opera, they have not been thriving to the fullest
extent of reasonable expectation. We understand,
however, that it is quite the contrary. When the
present company commenced their engagement, there
was an arrearage of gas expenses to be paid up, the
license was to be renewed, at $500; and the house,
even when full, gives but a slender dividend over the
expenses of the orchestra, scenery, lights, stage properties,
and dresses. At the only “division of the
spoils” that has yet been made, Madame Pico received
but sixty dollars — so insufficient a sum being
all that this admirable singer has received for several
months' waiting, and one month's playing and singing!
Her dresses alone cost her twice the sum! Borghese
received twice this amount, but the other performers,
of course, much less even than Pico.

In the history of the first introduction of Italian
music into England, in 1692, it is stated that the singers
(an “Italian lady,” a basso, and a soprano) were
taken up by two spirited women of fashion, wives of
noblemen, who arranged benefit concerts at their own
houses, for the “charming foreigners,” and inviting
their friends as if to a ball — demanding five guineas
for each invitation! The rage for these expensive
concerts is recorded as a curious event of the time,
and it was a grievous mark of unfashionableness not
to be honored with a ticket.

The American public is a hard master to these
children of the sun. They take no comfort among
us, if they lay up no money. Our climate is both
dangerous and disagreeable! Our usages, and prejudices,
and manner of life, all at variance with theirs!
Their hearts are bleak here, and their pockets at
least should have a warm lining! And (by the way)
see what a difference there is, even between our country
and chilly England, in the way society treats
them! We chance to possess an autograph letter of
Julia Grisi's, given us by the lady to whom it was
addressed — a daughter of Lucien Bonaparte married
to an English nobleman. Look at the position this
little chance record reveals of a prima donna in England:
—

We chance to have another dramatic autograph, a
note of Leontine Fay's, given us by the same noble
lady (and we may say here, apropos, that we should
be very happy to show these, and others, to persons
curious in autographs) — showing the same necessary
reliance on special patronage: —

This is dated from the French theatre in London,
but we treasured up the autograph with no little avarice,
for Leontine Fay was in the height of her glory,
in Paris, when we first went abroad, and, to us, she
seemed a new revelation of things adorable. She
was made for the stage by nature — as scenery is
adapted by coarse lines for distant perspective. Her
eyes were dark, luminous, and of a size that gave
room for the whole audience to “repose on velvet” in
them. — But we wander! We resume our subject,
after saying that we never envied prince or king, till
we heard, at that time, that Leontine Fay passionately
loved the prince royal — the young duke of Orleans.
He is dead, she is grown ugly, and we are left
to admire Pico. “Much after this fashion,” etc., etc.

Grave people (though by no means all grave people)
are inclined to bid the opera “stand aside” as a
thing unholy. We think this is a mistake. We believe

music to be medicinal to body and soul. With
entire reverence, we take leave to remind the religious
objector of the cure of Saul, and to quote the passage:
—

The medicinal value attached to music by the ancients
is also shown in the education of Moses at the
court of Pharaoh. Clemens Alexandrinus has recorded
that “Moses was instructed by the Egyptians
in arithmetic, geometry, rhythm, harmony, but, above
all, in medicine and music.” Miriam sang and danced
in costume, and David “in his linen ephod,” and the
only reproach made by Laban to Jacob, for carrying
off his two daughters, was, that he did not give him
the opportunity to send him away “with mirth and with
songs, with tabret and with harp.” We refer to these
historic proofs, to remind the objecting portion of the
community that scenic musical representation was a
vent for domestic and religious feeling among the ancients,
and that, in an opera — particularly one unaccompanied
by modern ballet — there is no offence to
moral feeling, but, on the contrary, authorized good.

To revert to our purpose, in this article — (chronologically,
somewhat spready!) — We do not know
what shape the aroused liberality of the wealthy classes
of New York will take, but we should think that
Madame Pico — (as she has given us the most pleasure,
at the greatest expense to herself, and is an unprotected
and exemplary woman, alone among us) —
should have a special benefit by subscription concert,
or some other means as exclusive to herself. We
suggest it — but we presume we are not the first it has
occurred to. Will the wealthy gentlemen who are
nightly seen in the dress-circles, delighted with her
exquisite music, turn the subject over at their luxurious
firesides?

To and about our Correspondents. — We wish
to “define our position” with regard to our correspondents
and their opinions.

Were an editor to profess an agreement of opinion
with every writer for his paper, he would either claim
a superhuman power of decision on all possible subjects,
at first sight, or he would exclude communications
on all subjects, except his own mental hobbies
and matters of personal study and acquaintance. To
avoid both horns of this fool's dilemma, he opens a
correspondence column, in which anything (short of an
invasion of a cardinal virtue, or violation of a palpable
truth) may very properly and irresponsibly appear.
The only questions the editor asks himself are, whether
it will interest his readers, and whether it is worth its
space in the paper.

But there are people for whom it is necessary that
we should go back to the very catechism of political
economy, and show upon what principle is founded
the expediency of a FREE PRESS — a press untrammelled
by a king in a kingdom, and by the sovereign republicans
in a republic.

Opinions have been well likened to steam — powerless
when diffused abroad, resistless when shut in and
denied expansion. The unconscious apostleship of
Mr. Adams — procuring an explosion in favor of abolition,
by his obstinacy in provoking an undue suppression
of the subject — is a striking illustration of this.
Nothing makes less impression on the mind than ab
stract principles to which there is no opposition —
nothing is dearer to the heart than opinions for which
we have been called on to contend and suffer. A
free press, therefore, keeping open gate for all subjects
not prohibited by law and morals, is far safer
than a press over-guarded in its admissions to the
public eye.

Having thus repeated, as it were, a page of the
very spelling-book of freedom, let us bespeak, of our
subscribers, a let-off, as far as we personally are concerned,
for any decent opinions expressed under the
head of “correspondence.” We throw open that part
of our paper. It is interesting to know what people
think who do not agree with us. We court variety.
We would not (in anything but love) be called a bigot.
New opinions, even the truest, are reluctantly
received, and, we think, very often culpably distrusted.
As far, therefore, as the yea or nay may go, on any
proper subject, we care not a fig which side writes
first to us, and we hereby disclaim responsibility for
all articles under “our correspondence,” except on the
score of morals and readableness.

The Opera. — The Puritani is one of those operas
with which musical criticism has little or nothing
to do. If only tolerably sung, the feeling of the audience
goes on before — making no stay with fault-finding.
The applause last night, after a most limping
and ill-paced duett between Tomasi and Valtellina,
was tempestuous; and Antognini, in one passage, ran
off his voice, and was gone for several notes in some
unknown region, and yet, on spreading out his hands
immediately after, there was great approbation by the
audience! Great effort was made by the audience to
encore “Suoni la tromba,” but the two bases thought
more basely of their bases than the audience, and did
not repeat it. Is there no way to implore Valtellina
to abate a little of his overreaching of voice, in that
superb invocation? He overdoes it terribly.

We are not writing in very good humor, we are
afraid — but the enthusiasm of a crammed house needs
no propping. We would not find fault if they needed
our praise. Borghese did well — but will do better at
the next representation. She would sing with fuller
tone for a little egg beat up with brandy. We longed
to unreef her voice — in some way crowd a little more
abandon into it. She acted as she always does — to a
charm.

Pico was in one of the proscenium boxes, looking
very charming, and evidently enjoying the whole opera
with un-envious enthusiasm. She went with a
bouquet for Borghese — so said a bird in our ear.