GWB & JQA: One presidential son deserves another - George W. Bush and John Q. Adams

National Review, Jan 22, 2001 by Richard Brookhiser

George W. Bush and John Q. Adams are the only sons of presidents to become president, but they seem to have little else in common.

Look at their faces: Bush's wry/dry Texas smirk (Donchu fool me, brother), vs. Adams's pulpit glare (You do not fool me, and you are not my brother). Look at their minds. Bush's supporters argue-correctly, I believe, but against plausible evidence-that he is not stupid. Adams made Thomas Jefferson look stupid. He was a Harvard professor; when he read the Bible, which he did daily, he had a choice of English, French, German, and Greek versions. His translation of Horace's ode beginning "Integer vitae scelerisque purus" is still in print (Horace in English, Penguin Classics). When he was secretary of state, he prepared-by himself-a report on the history of weights and measures; he also invented the Monroe Doctrine.

Look, finally, at their temperaments. Bush has a mean streak. But in the charity sweepstakes, Adams is the clear loser. Here is Adams on three presidents he knew. "There are many features in the character of Mr. Van Buren strongly resembling that of Mr. Madison. . . . But Madison had none of his obsequiousness, his sycophancy, his profound dissimulation and duplicity. In the last of these he much more resembles Jefferson, though with very little of his genius. The most disgusting part of his character, his fawning servility, belonged neither to Jefferson nor to Madison." Nice to know you, sir.

W. & Q. are different men, living in different times, which drive them still further apart. But they do share a great bond, beyond being sons of presidents: Both their elections were problematic. The election of 2000 has already joined the election of 1824 on the short list of acrid electoral botches. If Bush studies Adams's example, he can avoid a third resemblance. Adams served one miserable term, partly because of the circumstances of his victory, and Bush's enemies will work to make sure he suffers the same fate. But if he learns from Adams's experience, he can have a better term, and perhaps even a second one.

The election of 1824, which put Q. in the White House, was the original permanent campaign. It began in 1817, immediately after the first inauguration of James Monroe. Monroe was the last president of the founding generation. Beneath him was a tier of younger men, all consumed with the desire to succeed him. Adams, secretary of state; William Crawford, secretary of the treasury; John C. Calhoun, secretary of war; and Henry Clay, Speaker of the House, masterminded their efforts from Washington. Andrew Jackson, the hero of New Orleans, and soon to be conqueror of Florida, hovered hopefully outside the government. These five ambitious men spent four years making unstable alliances and stabbing each other in the back. When Monroe ran (unopposed) for a second term, they redoubled their intrigues.

Tensions rose as Monroe's retirement drew near. Visiting the White House to discuss a list of appointments to the treasury department, Crawford lost his temper, flourished his cane over his head, and called the president a "damned, infernal old scoundrel." Monroe grabbed the fire tongs to defend himself. The quarreling men were separated, but they never spoke again.

Calhoun decided to run for vice president, leaving the field to his four peers. Some states chose electors by popular vote, while others left the choice to their legislatures. The oft-repeated statement that Jackson won the popular vote is thus incomplete: He only won a majority in those states that held a popular vote. The tally in the Electoral College was Jackson, 99; Adams, 84; Crawford, 41; and Clay, 37.

In accordance with the Twelfth Amendment, the House, voting by states, picked the winner from the top three candidates. Martin Van Buren's memoirs claimed, sarcastically, that God decided the choice of New York. Stephen Van Rensselaer was the marginal, uncommitted New York congressman. He prayed for divine guidance with closed eyes; opened them to see an Adams ballot on the floor; then cast it. It is a great story; but Adams had been in touch with Van Rensselaer and other fence- sitters, giving them political assurances.

The most important assurance he gave was to Henry Clay, who had fallen from contention because of his fourth-place finish, but was still a power in the House. Clay was an orator, a gambler, and a ladies' man; he and Adams could hardly have been more different. But they had served together as diplomats, and Adams actually disliked him somewhat less than he disliked most people. The two made a deal. When the House voted, Adams won a bare majority of 13 states, including four controlled by Clay; Clay became Adams's secretary of state.

There were no dimpled chads, no lawsuits, no unopened absentee ballots. All had proceeded according to the Constitution. But Jackson's reaction, like Gore's today, was apoplectic. His partisans accused Adams and Clay of making a corrupt bargain. Congressman John Randolph denounced Clay so vehemently that a duel between the men resulted (neither was hurt). The legislature of Jackson's home state, Tennessee, nominated him for a second presidential run more than three years in advance of the next election. When Adams and Jackson met in the rematch of 1828, Jackson won, with 178 electoral votes to 83.