S
SISTERS, Washington is splendid just now. In New York the winter seems to have frozen up all the sap in the trees; not a bud on the limbs, not a tinge of green even on the willows, which are the trees of all others that give out their greenness first in the spring, and keep it latest in the fall. The trees that grow in the Park were brown and naked when we left the city.
Here the buds are a-swelling. The willow-trees are feathered over with leaves as soft and pale as the down on a gosling's breast. The beech-trees are covered over with soft, downy buds, that float on the air like full-grown caterpillars. Even the ragged old button-balls are shooting out leaves like sixty, and the young trees at the Smithsonian Institution, and the old ones below the Capitol of the nation, are bursting into greenness, while the grass seems to spring up fresh in your path as you walk along.
I declare it is a satisfaction to breathe the air which is kissing so many buds and flowers open; and I feel sort of guilty in doing it, when I know that the hollows around Sprucehill are choked up with dead leaves, if not with drifted snow, and it will be weeks yet before the maple-sap will take to running.
Nature is an institution that I hope I shall always be fondof and appreciate; but men and women are, after all, the noblest work of a beneficent Creator, and, from the delicate greenness and the soft airs of spring, I turn to them.
At two o'clock, yesterday, Mrs. President Grant had a grand reception at the White House. There hasn't been the ghost of one while Lent kept people down to a fish diet and morning meetings; but now, when the flowers of Easter-Sunday have all withered up, people begin to visit one another again, and this grand reception at the White House sort of opens the way and sets the fashions a-going once more.
Well, when the time came, Cousin E. E. and I were on hand. My pink silk dress was a little rumpled; but I shook it out and smoothed it down.
Cousin E. E. came out like a princess, in pale lilac-colored silk, with a whole snow-storm of lace crinkling over it. I declare, sisters, she looked fresh and sweet as the first lilac that blows! I was really proud to introduce her as my relation.
Cousin Dempster, having a claim, had to go to the Capitol; so E. E. and I went together—no gentlemen being absolutely necessary to a daytime reception, you know.
Well, we got out of the carriage as light and chipper as two birds. The driver held out his arm to keep our dresses from touching the wheel, as they streamed out after us; and I must say Vermont didn't suffer much as to ladies when we walked, with the slow dignity befitting persons with the eye of a State upon them, into the blue room, where Mrs. President Grant recepted. Well, I reckon the ladies were two to one against the men in that blue room, and it just looked lovely!
In the centre of the room stood the round, blue silk sofa, I have told you about, cut up into seats, and rising to a point in the middle, as if a silk funnel had been turned bottom-side up there. On the nozzle end of this point a great white flower-pot stood, a-running over with pink and white flowers, rising in great clusters one above another, till they brightened the whole room with a glow like early morning.
In front of this ring sofa the Mrs. President stood, looking just as smiling and sweet as a bank of roses. She had on a pink dress—no, not exactly what we call pink—but the color was soft and rosy as a cloud; snowflaky lace floated around her arms, and shaded her neck, which was plump, and white, and pretty as any girl's. She hadn't a sign of a flower, or anything on her head; but the soft, crinkly hair curled down to her forehead sweetly, and she seemed almost like a young girl. Everybody there said that they never had seen her look so handsome.
Well, there she stood, with a nice little lady on one side, helping her recept; and she did it sweetly, which was likely, she being the wife of Senator Morton, of Indiana, one of General Grant's biggest sort of guns. You have heard of Senator Morton, of course. He was a first-rate fellow during the war, when he just buckled to and raised a half a million of dollars on his own account for the Government, which was grand in itself, and accounts for the way the people in Indiana almost worship him.
Well, this lady was his wife. She looked young, and was dressed nicely—not just like a girl, but as if she had her husband's dignity to take care of, as well as her own good looks.
When we got to the door of this room, a gentleman came up, and, after making a bow, wanted us to tell our names. Cousin E. E. answered:
"Mrs. Dempster, of New York, and Miss Phœmie Frost, of Vermont."
He didn't seem to hear distinctly, but bent his head; and says he:
"Miss, did you say?"
I flushed rosy-red, and my eyelids drooped, for I was thinking of the Grand Duke.
"At present," says I.
Then the gentleman called out so loud that everybody could hear him:
"Mrs. Dempster—Miss Phœmie Frost."
I say, sisters, did you ever see a cage full of canary-birds flutter when a cat was looking through the wires? If you have, that can give you some idea of the buzz, hum, and rustle that was going on when we came up to the front of that round sofa, and gave Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Morton one of those sliding curtsies that set off a long-trailed dress so well.
Mrs. President Grant smiled sweetly, and held our her hand. I took that hand, I pressed it kindly—for I like that woman, whom poverty could not daunt, and sudden prosperity could not spoil. She's a good, motherly, nice woman, and my heart warmed to her as I took her hand in mine.
"Miss Frost, I am delighted to see you back in Washington," says she; "especially as the weather promises to be so pleasant."
"In some places we are apt to forget the weather, finding everything bright and pleasant without regard to it," says I.
When I spoke, the ladies around crowded up to listen, and looked at each other, smiling. One or two gentlemen came up, too, and when I bowed my head and walked on, giving common people a chance, one of them came up to me, and says he:
"Miss Frost, I think I have the pleasure of claiming you as a constituent," says he.
"A what?" says I.
"A constituent," says he, a-smiling softly.
"No," says I; "I don't remember being connected with any family of that name."
"But you are from Vermont?"
"I am proud to say 'Yes,'" says I, a-bowing my best, in honor of the old State.
"Then I have some claim on your acquaintance," says he. "My name is ----."
I reached out my hand. The fire flashed into my eyes. "Our United States Senator?" says I.
"I believe the people have given me that honor," says he.
"And honored themselves in the doing of it," says I.
I declare the man blushed, showing that high parts and extraordinary knowledge haven't made him conceited. But I hadn't said a word more than the truth. Vermont, of all the States of the Union, I do think, has done herself credit in her choice of Senators. There isn't in all the Senate a man that either of 'em cannot hold his own with, and I don't believe a rough or ungentlemanly word or action has ever been on record against either of them."
Before he could answer, a gentleman came and spoke low to him. Then he said, with a pleased look:
"This is Mr. ——, our other Senator, Miss Frost, who is, I am sure, as glad to welcome you here as I am."
I turned, and saw a tall, spare man, with the kindest, mildest, and most speaking face I ever set eyes on. His voice, too, when he spoke, was just benign. I gave him my hand. If I looked half as glad as I felt, he must have seen the warmest sort of a welcome in my eyes. I felt honored by an introduction to these men. Not because they happened to be my own Senators, but because they are men of heart and brains, capable of understanding what the people want, and both honest and strong enough to maintain what they understand. I write this without hesitation, knowing that there isn't a society or household in Vermont that will not agree with my way of thinking about them.
I don't think much of beauty in a man, but there's no dreadful harm in being good-looking, and in that respect our Senators pull about an even yoke with each other, and can't be overmatched by many States in the Union.
Well, we walked about the room, and had a good deal to say concerning the Old Mountain State, while the crowd went in and out down the east room, through the parlors, and into a great, long greenhouse, blazing out with flowers that grew so thick and smelled so sweet that I longed to stay there forever. But by the time I was ready to leave, the company had thinned off, and Cousin E. E. was waiting for me, a little out of sorts, for somehow I had lost her in the crowd; but she soon came to,and when I told her our Senators were going to call on us at the hotel, she chirked up. After all, Cousin E. E.isa good-hearted creature as ever lived.
D
DEAR SISTERS:—My ambitious longings are satisfied. I have stood before the Mrs. President of these United States, and in that august situation sustained the honor and dignity of our Society in a manner that I hope will meet with your united and individual sanction. Mrs. Grant has had a great many ladies of one kind and another standing by her side as honored guests of the nation, but I do think the literary strata of the Union has never been fully represented before. I do not say this vaingloriously—far be it from me to claim anything on my own merits—but when the reputation of our Society is concerned, I am ready to stand up among the best, and hold my own even in the national White House.
That I have done according to the best of my abilities, and, I trust, to the satisfaction of the Society, but I claim no credit for it. Any of us young girls can bow and smile, and give out words that melt into a vain man's heart like lumps of maple-sugar, and that is about all that is expected from the female women who perform Society in Washington, and real pretty, smart women most of them are; but after all, they are only accidental females, and get there just because their husbands happen to be elected to a place, and wouldn't even be heard of if some smart man hadn't given them his name—more than as like as not—before he knew himself how much it was worth.
Now you will understand, sisters, that no man, though he should happen to be smart as a steel trap, and pleasant as awillow whistle, can give extra brains or sweet manners to a wife who hasn't got 'em in her own right. So there is a chance that some short comings in the female line are not very uncommon.
The senators and judges and cabinet people are, as a general thing, the picked men of the nation, but they choose their own wives, and some of them haven't half so much taste in the fine arts, to which many of this generation of women belong, as they have knowledge about politics. Still, these ladies are what they call representative women, and, nationally considered, are the cream on cream of American society. That is a fact, too, as far as they represent their own husbands. By marrying great men, or those who are merely fortunate, they are only lifted more clearly into the public view, where their virtues and their faults are held up for general examination. Still, it is wonderful how popular some of them get to be, and how soon they learn the duties of their places.
Sometimes a first-rate woman happens to marry a first-rate man, and takes her place by his side naturally. A good many such women have earned a place for themselves in society quite equal to any their husbands have been chosen to hold by the people.
Mrs. Madison, Mrs. Polk and Miss Lane were among these, and, as a perfect lady, well known for years and years in Washington, Mrs. Crittendon, the widow of Senator Crittendon—formerly Mrs. Ashley—is always mentioned side by side with her husband, and stood quite as high among women as he did among men. In my opinion, there is a senator's wife from Minnesota that can hold her own with the handsomest and highest of those that have gone before; but as she is extra modest too, I give no names.
Then there is another, I will say it, who has done honor to her position and credit to her husband, and that is Mrs. Ulysses Grant. She is just a good, honest, motherly woman, pleasant to look at and pleasant to speak to. She acts out what she pretends to, and pretends to be just what she is. If this womanhasn't pulled an even yoke with her husband, both in the war and after the war, no female of my acquaintance ever did. It's of no use talking, I like that woman.
But I am a-going at a rate that wants pulling up, so I tighten the bridle and take a new turn.
What I began to write about was, a reception at Mr. Horatio King's, which always takes off the first skimming of cream from Washington society.
Mr. King is a New England man, and was born and brought up in Maine, which lifts him almost to a level with us of Vermont.
In fact, in the way of statesmen and authors, I am bound to say that Maine pulls an even yoke with the Green Mountain State. So far as authors are concerned, I'm afraid she goes a little ahead of us.
The city of Portland was just a nest of authors before they took wing and settled down in other places.
John Neal, one of the most splendid men and brilliant writers that ever put an American pen to paper, was born there, and has spent most of his life in his native place.
N. P. Willis was born in Portland; so was Sebe Smith, who called himself Jack Downing in his letters.
Longfellow's family was rooted in that town long before he honored it by being born.
James Brooks, who was for years a pillar of strength in Congress, and who started the first newspaper correspondence ever thought of, in thePortland Advertiser, which he edited before he was twenty years old, was a native of Portland, which city he represented in the legislature, then travelled all over Europe on foot, and settled down in New York before he was twenty-six. After this he spent twelve or fifteen years in Congress—earned a place, second to no man there, as a statesman, travelled over Europe three times, visited Egypt and the Holy Land, and finished his travels by a trip round the world, taken between the sessions of Congress. Beside this, he never ceased to be the leading editor of the New YorkExpress,and his book about Japan, China, and so on, which Mr. Appleton, of New York, has published, is one of the best books of travel extant.
Beside all these, Mr. King made his first literary start in Portland, where, as a young man, he edited a weekly paper. But he has lived most of his after-life in Washington, generally holding a high position there. During a portion of Mr. Buchanan's administration, he was Postmaster-General of these United States, and at all times he has been considered a man worth knowing.
D
DEAR SISTERS:—Of course I, being a young girl of New England, felt myself at home in Mrs. King's house the minute I entered it. There is something in the air of a dwelling like that, pure and breezy, like the morning winds on the Green Mountains. I felt myself growing frank and cheerful as I got into the hall. The parlors were crowded full—three of them—with people that one liked to look at, and longed to know; for every face had an idea in it, and, beyond that, a good many were right down beautiful.
But beauty by itself isn't enough to get an invitation here, and good clothes count for just nothing, though there was plenty of them, and I didn't feel as if my pink silk was too much. Something a little more austere, in the velvet or alpaca line, might have been more appropriate to the occasion. Still, there was a rosy brightness about my silk that had a tendency to give a glow of youthful thoughtlessness to intelligence, and combine an idea of high fashion with genius.
Mr. King, and his daughter, a proper, pretty stylish lady,stood near the door when I went in, with the train of my dress streaming back into the hall, and some natural rose-geranium leaves circling my brow in a way that was calculated to remind an observing person of Miss Corinne when she was crowned in the Capitol at Rome.
Mr. King come forward to meet me with his hand held out. He is a thin, spare man, with the sweetest and kindest look in his face that you ever saw. I had intended to just touch his hand, and make a sweeping salute, half bow, half curtsey, that would take in the whole admiring crowd; but his frank, smiling welcome just took me right off from my feet, and I gave his hand a good, hearty New England shake that made him feel to home in a minute.
Mr. King led me into the parlor, and gave me a soft seat among the cushions of a sofa in the middle room, just as Solomon must have waited on the Queen of Sheba. Then, feeling that the eyes of more States than Vermont were upon me, I spread out my skirts, leaned one arm on the sofa cushion, and settled myself just as Mr. Brady had done it when I sat to him for a picture; thus adding an artistic feature to the fashionable and intellectual embodiment of my first appearance. Thus, with downcast eyes and a modest demeanor, which must have been attractive, I waited for the literary programme that lay before us.
It commenced beautifully. Mr. King took his place under the chandelier of the middle room, and welcomed his friends with a very poetic and touching little speech, which ended in a farewell which almost brought tears into my eyes. This was his last reunion for the year, and he seemed to feel the breaking-up a good deal, and his kind voice shook when he mentioned the possibility that death might carry off some of the friends who had brightened his home, before they all met again.
When Mr. King sat down there was dumb silence for a little while; for the whole crowd seemed to feel all he had been saying, deep in their hearts. But this soon changed into smiles and a soft rustle of dresses, for a nice elderly gentlemangot up and made a delightful speech, full of cheerfulness and nice friendly feeling, which brightened the whole crowd up like spring winds in a flower-garden.
After this, another pleasant gentleman arose with a written poem in his hand, which he read under the gaslight, filling the whole room with the sound of his friendly voice.
The poem was written to Mr. King. It was full of sweet thoughts and grateful thanks for all he had done to make his friends happy. But he blushed like a girl, for its praises seemed to take him by surprise, and, like all men of real talent, he is modest as can be.
The lady who wrote this sweet poem was Mrs. Neeley, who has been writing to the Washington papers ever so long, in a way, too, that any woman might be proud of. She sat directly behind the gentleman who read her poem, and looked real nice in her crimson velvet dress.
After this a lady got up and read something mournful about three curls of hair that a man had taken from his wife's head—golden when she was a child, brown when she was a bride, and snow-white when she lay dead.
There was a sort of sob went through all the rooms when this poem died out. Then, after a little, every lady began to cheer up and laugh; for the same lady was reading a poem, half Dutch, half English, about a dog howling, which was so funny that I almost forgot my dignity as the representative of your Society, and near about clapped my hands—a thing I should have regretted to the day of my death.
This dog poem set everybody into a state of high gleefulness and some music struck up in the front room, which could be heard a little now and then above the hum and rush of conversation that set in with the crowd, where artists, authors, and statesmen, and scientifics mingled in, and chatted promiscuously, saying such bright and wise and witty things, that they fairly made my eyes snap. I cut in, too.
What is the use of being the emissary of a literary, scientific, and moral institution, if one can't hold up her end of theyoke in conversation? I did my best, sisters. An artist stood near me; I talked with him about pictures till, I do believe, he thought that I had been born in Rome, and cradled with Michael Angelo—an old fellow, that both painted and made marble men in Italy years ago. Then I had something to say about flowers to an agricultural bureau scientific, and about the chemistry of something to a savant or savan, or a word like that, of the Smithsonian Institution. I tell you, sisters, it was sharp work; but I flatter myself you were not in any way disgraced.
By and by I was introduced to the Chief Justice of the Court of Claims—about as smart a lawyer, and clear headed a judge, as can be found in these parts, I can tell you. He was not long ago United States Senator from Missouri, and has left his mark among the statesmen there; but his genius lay as much in expounding the laws as in making them. He has written some capital law-books, too, and could mate with any judge, statesman, or author that came across his track. His wife joined in a little now and then, as only a right down sensible and handsome woman could. It does one's heart good to see a great man and most lovely woman mated so for once.
That was just what I did in Mr. King's parlors, and, when we stopped talking, it struck me that the gentleman knew a great deal more of literature than your missionary has yet learned of statesmanship or law. In fact, an evening in Mr. King's parlors does teach one humility, and I begin to discover that a person may be capable of writing poetry, and making a fair report, without being able to teach science to a professor, jurisprudence—I hope I have got the word right—to a judge, or high statesmanship to a senator. In fact, in the present state of society, it seems to me that the best of us have got to live and learn—live and learn.
M
MY DEAR SISTERS:—You have no idea how many kinds of parties there are in Washington. Some are called receptions, because they take place in the daytime, in houses where every mite of sunshine is shut out, and the gas set to blazing as if it were midnight. That is, night isn't turned into day here one bit oftener than day is turned into night.
Then there are ladies' lunch parties, where the daylight is allowed to shine in; and picnics, where one gets a little too much of it, besides being tired to death, and nothing to show for it.
Besides these, there are political parties, where men get up entertainments that are called caucuses, which no lady is allowed to join in. Besides dinners and breakfasts, and so on, without end, which makes life in this city just one rush and tumult—to say nothing of Congress, which is just that, and a good deal more so.
Last week, Cousin E. E. and I had so many invitations that we didn't know what to do with them. We should have had to go out to three breakfasts, two dinners, and six parties a night, if we had attempted to do more than read them all. For since Mr. King's literary reunion, the popularity of your missionary has increased like a rolling snowball, and her invitations came by the peck and half bushel.
Well, out of this heap, there was one or two places that I felt like honoring with my presence. So E. E. and I sat down and wrote a little note—all ladies writelittlenotes nowadays—and relieved the intense anxiety of the people who had invited us, by saying, in the most polite way, that we would come.
This act of kindness had its reward in the feeling that wehad relieved more than one anxious host, and given certainty of a brilliant success to parties that must necessarily have been in doubt until certain of our coming. With my usual modesty, I say "our," wishing to give E. E. her little chance, you know.
The invitation we resolved to honor was from one of the foreign ministers. Of course I expected that there would be a good many religious people there, and, as I hadn't mingled much with persons who were over pious for some time, I anticipated a refreshing season; for a foreign minister must have a noble missionary spirit, and, no doubt, came to Washington on purpose to reform the members of Congress, which is a work of Christian mercy, if ever there was one.
For this reason, my spiritual nature was aroused, and I was burning with desire to help in the noble cause, and let foreign nations know that we had women in this country that could be at once brilliant and devout, celebrated and conscientious; in fact, women who could gracefully combine two characters, hitherto supposed to be opposite.
Yes, I was resolved to go to this ministerial reunion. Had I not been at Mr. King's literary gathering, which lifted me, as it were, out of a frivolous, fashionable life into the purely intellectual, and now, should I refuse to bathe my soul in the purer element of high Christian fervor? No, a thousand times no!
On a religious occasion like this, I felt that a modest dress—simple black alpaca, for instance, with a pink bow at the neck—would be about the thing; but Cousin E. E. got almost huffy about it.
"Why," says she, "at the Foreign Minister's a full toilet is expected, always. It is but proper respect."
"Cousin," says I, "no one can have more respect for the ministerial functions than I have; no one ever attended meeting more faithfully. Am I not a missionary myself? Do you think I would or could fall short of the mark of the prize of the high calling? If alpaca isn't the thing, I am open to reason and pink silk."
"That will do," says she, a-brightening up, "looped up with black velvet and bows, anddécolletté."
"Dic o' nonsense?" says I, riling a little.
"Well, low neck and short sleeves," says she.
"At a meeting of ministers?" says I. "Cousin E. E., are you crazy?"
"Well, do as you please," says she, "only I tell you it will be expected. I intend to be very low, with a strap for a sleeve, and all my jewels."
"I shall be content with the jewels of the soul," says I, with an austere rebuke in my voice; for if there is anything that riles me up more than another, it is flashy dressing where one's mind should be given up to solemn thoughts. "Cousin E. E., there are times when levity of dress and lightness of speech are to be excused, but this isn't one of them. Put a bridle on your tongue, and something more than a strap over your shoulder."
E. E. colored up, and gave her head a toss.
"Phœmie," says she, "you are past finding out. Do as you please, and just let me do as I please."
I lifted my forefinger in gentle warning; for, with all her fashionable crotchets, E. E. is a good soul as ever lived, and I don't want to be hard on her, feeling that great minds should be forbearing, especially in religious matters. So we parted good friends, and I went into my room to get ready for the solemn occasion.
I took out my pink silk dress—for the alpaca was a little rusty—and laid it out on the bed. Then I ripped some black velvet ribbon from another old dress, and tied it up into bows that looked scrumptious as new. After that I brushed my hair out straight, and braided it in an austere fashion appropriate to the occasion. Not a friz or a curl was to be seen; for this once I threw aside the other woman's hair, and was from head to foot myself again.
"Neat, yet genteel," says I to myself, when my dress was on and the black bows in place. "Nothing flash or frivolous,though everything refinedly elegant. No minister, be he ever so strict a disciplinarian, can find fault with me. I suppose the critics of all the religious papers will be there. Well, let them draw my portrait; I am ready for the ordeal."
With these high thoughts in my mind I went downstairs; but the sight of my cousin made me step back with both hands thrown up. She was just on fire with jewelry and precious stones. They flamed out on her neck, twinkled in her ears, and shot fiery arrows through her hair. Her cheeks were rosy red, and her eyes had shadows about them that had come since she went down to dinner. Perhaps she had taken a nap in a dark room, though. The dress she wore was soft and white and floating, like a cloud in the sky; and there was black lace mixed with it, and roses tangled up with that. I declare to you, sisters, if that woman had been going to a worldly party, she couldn't have been titivated off more than she was. It riled me to look at her.
Advice scorned isn't to be offered again. I said nothing, but let E. E. go on in her frivolous career.
D
DEAR SISTERS:—We entered the carriage, where Dempster took the front seat, just buried up in his wife's dress, and sat there like an exclamation-point gone astray. As for me, I sat upright and thoughtful, resolved to do my duty in spite of their shortcomings.
We reached a large brick house; before it a line of carriages kept moving like a city funeral, only people were all the time a-getting out and walking under a long tent that sloped down from the front door.
"There will be a full Conference," says I, in my heart, for I was too much riled up by E. E.'s dress for any observation to her.
One thing struck me as peculiar. None of the ladies wore their bonnets, and a good many had white cloaks on, huddled up around them as if they had been going to a party.
If I hadn't known the house belonged to foreign ministers, I really should have thought from the look of things that we had lost our way, and got into somebody's common reception. As it was I got out of the carriage, and went up the steps with my bonnet on, and holding up the train of my pink silk, feeling that so much appendage was out of place.
A colored person in white gloves opened the door, and waving his hand like a Grand Duke—oh, how that word goes to my heart—said:
"Front door, second story."
Another time I should have known that this meant that I could take off my things there. But now I felt almost certain that the ministers were holding a prayer-meeting, or conference, or something in "the front room, second story," so I went upstairs with a slow and solemn tread, feeling that the rustle of my pink silk was almost sacrilege.
I went into the room and looked around. It was full of women, wonderfully dressed women, all in low necks and short sleeves, and white shoes—laughing, giggling women, who looked over each others naked shoulders into a great broad looking-glass crowded full of faces that couldn't seem to admire themselves enough.
I stopped at the door. I scarcely breathed. What could all those rosy-cheeked, bare-armed ladies be doing in that house?
I asked this question, of course, of Cousin Dempster, who came into the hall a-pulling his white gloves on.
"Dempster," says I, in a low voice, "what does this mean? Where are the ministers?"
"Oh, they are in the back room. You didn't expect them to be turned in with the ladies, did you?"
"Well," says I, "it is customary in our State now, though it was not formerly, when the men sat on one side at prayer-meetings, and the girls on the other, but I didn't think that notion had got to foreign parts."
I don't think Dempster heard me clearly, for that minute his wife came out of the room, blazing like the whole milky-way of stars.
"Why, Phœmie," says she, a-holding up both the white kid gloves she had just buttoned on, "you don't mean to go down with that bonnet on?"
"I should think you would be ashamed to go into a conference or a prayer-meeting with it off," says I, severely.
E. E. stared at Dempster, and he stared at her. Then he hitched up his shoulders, and she gave her hands a little toss in the air.
I didn't seem to notice their antics, but went with them downstairs, where I heard the sound of music, which didn't strike me as so sacred as it ought to be. Besides, there was a buzz and a hum like a hive of bees swarming, which was puzzling.
When we went into the great, long room, that seemed running over with light, the crowded state of the congregation astonished me. There wasn't seats enough for one quarter of the worshippers.
Sisters, I was the only one present who had studied the sacred decencies of a bonnet and shawl. The rest were dressed—well, they weren't dressed at all about the arms and shoulders, which shocked me dreadfully; the mere presence of a lot of ministers ought to have made women more decorous.
Would you believe it, the people round the doors stared at me as if they had never seen a beehive bonnet, with feathers floating over it, before.
Some people might have felt shocked at so many eyes turned on them, but I was in the straight and narrow path of duty, and their looks passed by me like the idle wind. If they didn't understand the solemnity of the occasion, I did.
"There is the Minister," says Dempster, "let us pay our respects."
"Why," says I, "there don't seem to be either a reading desk or pulpit here!"
I don't think Dempster heard me, for he began to edge our way through the crowd, till we got clear into the room, which was so full of flowers and lights and music that I began to think the foreign ministers were keeping up Easter-Sunday yet.
A gentleman was standing near the door with some ladies around him. Dempster took us straight up to him.
"Your Excellency," says he, "Miss Frost. Miss Phœmie Frost, of Vermont."
I didn't think that exactly a proper place to be introducing people in, and measured off my bow accordingly, and passed on without troubling myself about the ladies around him, who seemed to wonder at it. As if I wanted to know them!
When we got into the crowd again, I whispered to Dempster:
"Do tell me where the foreign ministers are!"
"The Ministers! Why you have just been presented to the very highest of them," says Dempster.
"What, that man," says I, "with precious stones a-twinkling on his shirt-bosom, and a bit of red ribbon in his button-hole, who seems to have cut up his words with a chopping knife? You couldn't make me believe that, Dempster!"
"But it is, upon my honor, Phœmie; and those gentlemen standing around him are all Ministers, or persons sent out with them. Almost every civilized nation is represented here to-night."
I looked around at the persons Dempster pointed out—some were young, some old, some you could understand, others you couldn't; most of them were talking and laughing with the ladies around them. I didn't see a downright serious face in the whole crowd.
"Them ministers!" I said, scorning Dempster's attempt to deceive me.
"Every one of them is a Minister now, or means to be."
"Dempster, I don't believe you."
"Well, ask some one else whom you can believe," says he, a-turning red. "Here is Miss ——, she can tell you."
I didn't hear the name clear, but Dempster introduced me to a young lady that had just sat down by me.
"Are those men who are chatting and laughing so, really ministers?" says I to her.
"Most of them are; the rest are connected with the Legation," says she. "Elegant, don't you think so?"
Before I could ask her what newfangled society had been got up under the name of Legation, a young gentleman with a round gold glass screwed into one eye, came out from the hive of ministers, and walked toward us, moving along slow and lazy, as if walking were too much for him.
The girl was all in a flutter when she saw him a-coming our way. She looked at me as if I had a seat that she wanted for some one else, but I didn't move; and after shaking out her dress as a cross hen flutters its feathers, she pretended to look the other way, as if she didn't care a mite whether the young minister came up or not.
Oh, the airs some of these school-girls put on is disgusting.
The young divinity student came up with a sort of half-dancing step.
"Miss," says he, a-bowing and chewing up his words as if he'd a piece of sweet flag-root in his mouth, "delighted to—aw—aw—have the honor of seeing you here—am, indeed."
She bowed, she prismed up her mouth, waved her fan a trifle, and says she—
"Of course you ought to have expected me. I am a little exclusive, but always make a point of coming here."
The young—no, he wasn't over young, but did his best to look so. Well, this foreign student just turned his glass on me, his impudent little eye stared right through at my bonnet. Then he looked at that finefied girl, and they both smiled at each other.
This riled me.
Then a couple of young ladies crowded by us, laughing a little. The divinity student turned his glass—eye and all—upon them, then he turned to the young creature by my side, and says he, curling up his wisp of a mustache:
"Now, really, miss, what is the reason all the American young ladies have the manners of chambermaids?"
I felt my Yankee heart spring straight up into my New England mouth; but the foreign snipe wasn't speaking to me, so I sat still and listened for what that young creature would say.
"The manners of chambermaids!" says she, "did you mean that?"
"Really—yes—I think they have, you know."
"Well, I will not contradict you, for you generally are right," says she, as meek as Moses—yes, Moses in the bulrushes, "but not quite all, I hope."
The mean thing couldn't keep from trying to wring a compliment for herself out of this insult to the general American female.
The fellow had sense enough to see what she wanted, and he gave it to her.
"Aw—aw—of course there are a few lovely exceptions, you know," says he, a-bowing so low that his eye-glass dropped out of his poor little eye that looked like a green gooseberry without it. "I speak of American women, generally, as having the manners of chambermaids."
I couldn't hold in one minute more. No coffee-grounds, twice soaked, ever riled up like my temper.
"Ifyoufind American ladies acting like chambermaids," says I, "it's because they feel compelled to adapt themselves to the company they are in."
Here I bent my head with a low, dignified bow, and waved my fan with a calm but decided motion.
That little humbug of a young lady looked half scared to death. The divinity student ground his glass into his eye, looked at me from head to foot, and says he:
"Aw, aw!" and walked away.
The girl looked after him as if she wanted to cry, but just then a great whirl of music burst from the next room, and I thought the meeting was about to organize, when a tall fellow, with his mustache quirled up like an ox-horn, came tetering up to the young female by my side.
"May I have the honor?" says he.
The girl turned her head sideways, and rolled up her eyes like a pullet drinking.
"It is a quadrille, Count," says she, "and I never join in one."
"A quadrille, pardonne! You are right. When you daunce—if you daunce—why, of course, you daunce a round daunce."
The fellow flung out his white hands, making a little dive forward with each word; then he saw my face, which must have spoken volumes, and slacked off his antics. I don't think he liked the cut of my smile, for, crooking up his elbow, he leaned forward, and says he:
"May I be honored with a promenade?"
She took his arm, and the two fluttered off into the crowd, which was pouring off into a large room beyond the one we were in.
"The meeting is going to commence now in good earnest," I thought. "I'll try and get a seat where I can hear."
Cousin Dempster and E. E. came up, and I joined in. The lecture-room was long, and lighted up beautifully. Right in front of the door was the singers' gallery, hung round with red cloth, and over that hung great wreaths of flowers, but I saw neither pulpit nor reading-desk.
"Where will the minister be?" I whispered to Cousin Dempster.
"Oh, he will open the ball."
"Open the ball! Whatdoyou mean?" says I. "A minister dancing! I won't believe it."
"Why, they all do," says he, innocent as a lamb. "No better dancers in Washington."
Sisters, whatdoyou think of that? Was I to blame when I insisted on leaving that house at once? Would you have had me sit by and witness this degradation? "No," says I to Cousin Dempster, "I won't stay. If ministers of the Gospel will do such things, I, as a New England woman—girl I mean—would be committing a sin to look on."
"But you do not understand. They are Foreign Ministers, sent here by other nations, which they represent."
"So much the worse—how dare they set such examples?" says I.
"Ambassadors! can't you understand?"
"Of course I understand. All ministers are ambassadors from the Lord; but I never heard of their dancing, except that Shaking Quakers do now and then, which is a part of their religion, and they are only elders, anyhow."
"But there is no religion in these things!"
"I should rather think not," says I, a-walking resolutely toward the door. "Now it's of no use explaining and apologizing to me. Dancing ministers ain't of my sort. I'm going right straight home."
Sisters, I went.