TEN

As Happy as a Lord

“I am twenty years younger than I was yesterday,” John wrote jubilantly, when he learned of Abigail’s safe arrival in London at eight o’clock on the midsummer evening of Wednesday, July 21, 1784. Her news made him “the happiest man upon earth”; his only regret was his delay at The Hague. But he was sending her Johnny, a son who was, “without partiality,” as promising and manly a youth as there was in the whole world—as well as the greatest traveler of his age—who would help his mother prepare for a visit to The Hague before the family’s departure for France. Johnny was to buy a coach of four places, as strong and decent a one as could be had for 150 guineas. This would bring the family to him “conveniently,” with the exception, perhaps, of an hour or two of seasickness between Harwich and Hellevoetsluis. The two children and the maid, Esther, would ride with Abigail; her manservant, John Briesler, was to follow on horseback or in the stagecoach. Though every hour they were parted would seem a day’s length, she was not to hurry or tire herself. John could not advise her about what clothes to bring, except that she was to buy whatever was needed: “I beg you to do what is proper, let the expense be what it may.”1

John Adams was in brilliant spirits. With Abigail by his side, it would be the first time he looked forward to traveling in Europe. He thought himself “lucky” that in this fine season they would explore the sights of Utrecht, Breda, Antwerp, and Brussels together, before settling in Paris, where he felt she would be happier than in Holland, and would enjoy seeing the city, learning its language. “For my own part, I think myself made for this world,” he rhapsodized to his wife.2

Word of Jefferson’s unexpectedly prompt arrival in Europe, following Abigail’s by six days, influenced John to change his mind about meeting his family in The Hague. Jefferson had moved swiftly and courteously, once he had received his assignment. He had journeyed to Boston to tell Abigail of his desire of “lessening some of the difficulties to which she may be exposed,” and to inform her of reservations made for both their parties to sail together from New York. As he had arrived in Boston on June 19, too late for Abigail to change her plans to sail the next day, Jefferson could only help by writing John Adams to assure him that his wife “goes on a good ship.” With Jefferson in Paris now, John conclusively canceled plans for Abigail’s interim visit. “Stay where you are until you see me,” he wrote on August first.3

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It was quiet at Osborne’s new family hotel, as quiet as any place in Boston. It wasn’t difficult to obey John’s wishes; in truth, she was relieved not to expend the time, money, and energy needed to make the trip to The Hague, but to enjoy her present quarters instead. From the terrace she could see the Westminster Bridge in one direction, the Blackfriars in another, with St. Paul’s Cathedral asserting itself in the distance. The interior was equally agreeable; she admired the handsome, “genteely furnished” drawing room, of pale green accented with gold and crimson. Considering her staff of cook, chambermaid, and waiter, and despite the expense of three guineas weekly, she easily conceded that “nothing but the dust is wanting to have everything heart can wish.”4

Traveling from Deal to London—she had wakened at five—Abigail’s party encountered a passing chaise whose lone passenger was the victim of a robbery. Soon, the coach in front of hers stopped and there were cries of “Robbery, robbery!” Everyone was alarmed, everyone hid their money. The robber was pursued and captured. He looked about twenty and in despair as he attempted to lift his hat. Abigail thought him pitiful, and his being told that he had but a short time and “then, my lad, you swing” upset her. Though every robber might deserve death, to exult over the wretched was what “our country is not accustomed to,” Abigail reported to Mary Cranch.5

Otherwise, Abigail’s journey along the smooth, sinuous road to London was a triumph. Leading in the first of the four post-chaises hired by her and her fellow passengers, she never stopped gazing at the thatched roofs, the cows and sheep that looked larger than any she had ever known, the oxen that seemed smaller, and the absence of fences, except for occasional ones of clipped hedges. From Dover to Canterbury to Rochester, and on to Chatham, past forests and fields of oats, wheat, and beans, the party wound its way over the hilly terrain. When horses and carriages were switched, footmen had eased the way; at dinnertime, when powdered waiters brought eight different dishes besides vegetables, Abigail was positive it was the post-chaises that entitled their party to such respect.6

At dusk, the green land tenderly cultivated to the road’s edge, as though it were a private garden—or so it seemed to Abigail—gave way at last to stone walks, houses, and squares of park. The city of London surprised her. She thought it both “magnificent and beautiful,” the streets much wider, the buildings more symmetrical than she had imagined. With those obliging young men, Charles Storer, a recent graduate of Harvard, and her cousin William Smith to greet her on her one-night stay at Low’s Hotel in Covent Garden, and to help her move the next morning to her lodgings at Osborne’s, she was content, no mere American but feeling very much the esteemed visitor. Within days, Abigail’s acquaintances from Virginia, Maryland, and Connecticut left cards and old Tory friends came to call, John Trumbull was heard from repeatedly, and Dr. John Clark presented himself not only for tea but for breakfast as well. “I can not find myself in a strange land,” she said. “I hardly know how to think myself out of my own country. I see so many Americans about me.”7

As any traveler would, Abigail was bound to make comparisons. She had only to read the London Chronicle to refresh her memories (as though she could forget them) of the bitter differences between America and Great Britain. Even Canada, viewing America’s growing importance with a “longing eye,” was talking about being oppressed by the weight of British “tyrannic jurisprudence,” of seriously contemplating a revolt from their present “usurped” master, of determination to add another star to the American constellation. But there was proof, too, in this British newspaper, that certain areas of interest remained fixed: “Teeth, Scurvy in the Gums and Tooth Ach” were mutual enemies on both sides of the Atlantic.8

If, however, Abigail had to name one single instance of indelible proof of shared ancestry, common roots, it was John Singleton Copley’s exhibit, to which Storer and Smith took her on Saturday, July 14. At Copley’s studio she saw the august, full-length portrait of her husband with a map of Europe in his hand, standing before a globe of the world. She pronounced it “a most beautiful painting,” before continuing on to a public viewing of a painting of the death of William Pitt, surrounded by his three grieving sons. Almost reluctantly, random thoughts of the past days locked into place for Abigail:

I saw in this picture, what I have every day noticed since I came here, a strong likeness of some American or other; and I can scarcely persuade myself that I have not seen this person, that, and the other, before, their countenance appear so familiar to me, and so strongly mark our own descent.9

Judging London against Boston, weighing people and buildings and food of one city against another, rather impartially, was a preoccupation of Abigail’s. She kept repeating, as she went about dining, sightseeing, and dressing for numerous appointments, that she was far better pleased than she had expected to be in London; the sun shone brighter, the fashions were simpler, and the food was less elaborate than she would have believed. “Our country, alas, our country!” she sighed, when she thought of how extravagant some Americans were, compared to the British.10

Abigail was in love, she said, with the “London stile” of entertaining. Though one was invited two days beforehand, meals were apt to be simple, having no more than two meat courses. At the home of her old friends, the Atkinsons, she dined on turbot, soup, a roast leg of lamb, and cherry pie, and felt more gratified by the social, friendly style in which she was treated than if a sumptuous feast had been set before her. Another dinner she considered more in the Boston style was composed of salt fish, pea soup, boiled fowl and tongue, roast and fried lamb with pudding, and fruit for dessert. If pressed, Abigail did admit that veal, peas, and cauliflower were her favorite foods.11

Abigail’s opinion of fashion was somewhat divided; she was to be neither left out nor taken in completely. She was “not a little surprised” to see that dress, except for public occasions, was not very important. The gentlemen looked plain and so did the ladies, though it was true that one still had to wear a hoopskirt and have one’s hair dressed, despite the acceptance of a common straw cap with a ribbon, even in company. Muslin was in style, silk was out, except for lute-string with its glossy finish. Determined to adjust her wardrobe to prevailing customs, she shortly found herself captive of the stay maker, mantua maker, hoop maker, the shoemaker, milliner, and hairdresser, all of these being necessary, she ruefully admitted, to transform one into a fashionable lady. But Abigail was amused and aspiring only to a point: She scorned the makeup that half of London used, and she thought the British at their most elegant when they achieved the neatness “which you see in our ladies.” On the average, in her opinion, British women tended to be less feminine, less “soft,” to have the manners of Amazonians, and to affect masculine attire.12

Another affectation that Abigail’s candid nature found difficult to tolerate was the calculated way the British paid and received social calls. They left their calling cards without any intention or desire to meet their recipients; to ask if a party was “at home” was automatically to anticipate a negative answer. The party pursued might be flourishing in the next room, obviously at home, but not prepared to receive any company. Because her servant, the utterly provincial Esther, was new to this charade, her answer to another servant’s inquiries for Abigail on behalf of her mistress, waiting below in her carriage, was positive: Mrs. Adams was indeed at home. Unfortunately, Abigail knew better and, besides, was exhausted from her morning’s outing. To solve the dilemma posed by the well-meaning Esther, Nabby volunteered to finish dressing and hurry out into the corridor to present herself as Mrs. Adams, with neither servant nor mistress the wiser. “You must know,” Abigail wrote her sister Elizabeth, “having brought a conscience from America with me, I could not reconcile this to it.…”13

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On Friday, July 30, Abigail, tired out by her visits to the Foundling Hospital and the Magdalen Hospital, and by her long walks in green squares, was determined to stay at home. She had a headache, and Nabby, too, was down with what everyone called the London cold; besides, there had been hints that either her husband or son might arrive. Abigail was writing at her desk, as she did daily to her nieces, her Uncle Tufts, or her sisters. Suddenly a servant rushed into her room, puffing with the wonderful news: “Young Mr. Adams is come.” “Where, where is he?” Abigail asked. “In the other house, Madam; he stopped to get his hair dressed,” was the reply. Abigail waited. When she saw her son, she was afraid to speak for fear that he might be one of the many strangers she had met in the past months. Then he took the initiative: “O, my mama and my dear sister!” was all that he needed to say to remove all doubt.14

Later, Abigail wrote to Mary of her reunion with her son, whom she had only seen in a brief, three-month interval during the past six years and five months. He was now seventeen years old, and, according to Abigail:

Nothing but the eyes, at first sight, appeared what he once was. His appearance is that of a man, and in his countenance the most perfect good humor; his conversation by no means denies his stature. I think you do not approve the word feelings, but I know not what to substitute in lieu, or even to describe mine. His sister, he says, he should have known in any part of the world. You must supply words where you find them wanting, and imagine what I have left unfinished.

John had gallantly told his wife that the prospect of seeing his family made him feel twenty years younger. Abigail’s reaction was the opposite. She felt “exceedingly” matronly with a grown son on one arm, and a daughter on the other. But she was as exuberant as John: “Were I not their Mother, I would say a likelier pair you will seldom see in a Summers day.”15

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One week and a day later, another reunion took place. Nabby returned to her family’s apartment at noon to find things mysteriously changed; there were also the additions of an unfamiliar hat, a sword, a cane, and two books. Her own room was rearranged as though someone had been sorting its contents. Almost in one breath, Nabby pummeled Esther with questions about whether her mother had received a letter, and why things were being moved, and who was the owner of the hat, the sword, and cane. Esther’s answer was direct: “No, ma’m,” she told Nabby, “she has received no letter, but goes tomorrow morning.” Suddenly, Nabby understood. Her father had arrived. She did not hesitate for another moment, but flew upstairs, knocked softly at his door, and was received, she would remember, “with all the tenderness of an affectionate parent after so long an absence. Sure I am, I never felt more agitation of spirits in my life; it will not do to describe.”16

Her father, too, wrote of the dramatic reunion with his family after what he counted to be ten years, except for a few visits:

On Saturday noon, I had the satisfaction of meeting my friends in perfect health at the Adelphic Buildings in London. I never set my Foot in any other house, till next morning at ten when we all embarked on board a coach which John [Johnny] had in readiness.17

Abigail considered her reunion with her family a prayer answered. The metal of her marriage was shining gold; her husband was “as happy as a lord!” Abigail wrote that “poets and painters wisely draw a veil over those Scenes which surpass the pen of the one and the pencil of the other; we were indeed a very very happy family once more met together after a Separation of four years.”18