A Saturday Holiday With Its Strollers And Equipages.
Washington,April 22, 1872.
Spring, though laggard, has at last smiled upon Washington. Once more the bosom of Mother Earth has yielded up the frost and the baby vegetation wears a smiling face. No longer the cold, bitter winds smite the wayfarer, for the king of the season has tempered their edge. Saturday afternoon at the capital is a holiday. Congress usually adjourns from Friday until Monday. Not always the Senate, but the House, which is a much harder-worked body, necessarily must have a short respite for breathing time, although it is claimed by the members that the last day of the week is the hardest of them all. A Senator who holds his position for six years can afford to take more or less ease; but a member who has only two years to serve, if he has any ambition or talent, is about the hardest-worked man in the nation. He has the superhuman effort to perform of making himself felt in Congress; at the same time he must manage to keep the peace at home. The majority of them know there are men in their districts as gifted as themselves, who are working out the problem of rotation in office. So when Saturday afternoon comes they try to forget their troubles whilst riding up and down Pennsylvania avenue, with the smoke of cigars issuing from their lips; but only the women suffragists envy this deceitful happiness.
Smoothly the carriage moves over the faultless pavement. Some of the members are wealthy enough to own their own “turnouts,” but these seem to have simply been purchased for their comfort, for there is scarcely anythingabout them suggestive of display. The carriage of Mrs. Secretary Fish is of the plainest and most comfortable description. It might have belonged to some Knickerbocker relative of a past generation, so prim and respectable it seems. Even the wheels have an aristocratic roll, entirely unlike the little plebeian satin-lined concerns of theparvenueswhich have been called into existence in the same way that Cinderella’s fairy god-mother changed the nut-shells and mice.
When the Avenue was first lined with Nicholson pavement the carriages of the “first families” were seen rolling over it. In those days the “thoroughbreds” belonging to the President were seen stretching their graceful limbs in contrast to the fast-trotting bays owned by Sir Edward Thornton. The carriages of the foreign ministers were then displayed in all their glory. The most magnificent were usually occupied by the South American ministers. The representative of Peru could be seen in the daintiest affair, lined with white satin. The body of the carriage is rounded and the top opened in the centre, and when thrown back it seemed to disclose a huge bird’s nest, and the white satin in the distance bore a striking resemblance to eider down. Altogether it looked like a portable nest filled with the rarest birds of a tropical clime, whilst coachman and footman in the most gorgeous livery completed one of the handsomest pictures of a Saturday afternoon.
Another elegant establishment might have been noticed—a luxurious carriage, with its light-bay prancing thoroughbreds attached. On the creamy cushions, with their costly white lap-robe, was seated a solitary woman in the earliest stages of the winter of life. She usually wore a white carriage costume—nothing but white from the snowy ostrich tip to the Paris kids that encased her slender fingers. Who is it? A wealthy New York widow, too wise to be ensnared by fortune hunters, and not a remarkably shining target for arrows of the other kind.
In those days not so very far remote the carriage of Senator Chandler might have attracted attention, especially if the superbly dressed madame and her accomplished daughter were securely inclosed within. But, alas! alas! thecreme de la cremeno longer patronize the Nicholson pavement. This is given up to the blonde-haired beauties, fast youths, and tipsy Congressmen. The sunny side of the Avenue has become the fashionable promenade. What a changing human kaleidoscope!
Here comes Secretary Robeson with his substantial bride. One feels like lowering the mainsail of conversation in time to salute the jolly consort and tender as they go sailing down the river of human life.
This is the Hon. Eugene Hale, of Maine, with his graceful new wife. Would the ladies know how the richest heiress in Washington is attired? In plain black cashmere and a simple straw hat.
And this is the Hon. Benjamin F. Butler, one of our most famous citizens, but so changed for the better that his nearest friends scarce recognize him. The time has been when General Butler was dubbed “belligerent,” but this must have been when he was in the active fermentation of life. To-day the dregs have settled to the bottom. The froth and scum were all whisked off in that last Massachusetts campaign. Nothing but the rich, generous body remains. Even the famous Don Piatt can find no peg to hang a fault on; besides, the General is growing handsome, for the beauty of the spirit lights up the countenance, and this is the truest type of perfection.
A slender and exceedingly graceful man hurries by—a gentleman whom the wicked types made us call in our last letter “Sunset Cox.” We never applied any such appellation to this gentleman, and for this reason we call attention to this correction. We have no personal acquaintance with the Hon. S. S. Cox, but men, like greenbacks, pass in Washington for just about what they are worth. There is nothing about this Congressman to remind oneof sunset, unless it is the brilliant coloring of his mind. This is the term which envy and malice have fastened upon him; and this uncourteous term cannot be made to foreshadow his decline. Although he has not reached the noontide of life, he is one of the readiest debaters, one of the most eloquent and pleasing speakers, a fascinating writer, and in every sense of the word an accomplished man. If this is “sunset,” may we have a little more of it in Congress, for we believe in men instead of parties, and when women vote we shall not stop to ask “Is he a Republican?” “Is he a Democrat?” but we shall propound the awful question, “Who is the man?”
Yonder comes Mrs. Cresswell, clinging to the arm of the Postmaster-General—a pretty, petite woman, but not quite strong enough to stamp her impression on the age. And yet women who have only social qualities upon which they can rely are remembered long after their thrones are crumbled into dust.
To-day Mrs. Crittenden, of Kentucky, has her shrine in Washington. Her manners are quoted like the speeches of Clay or Webster. “Tell me,” inquired the writer of an elderly lady who was blessed with an excellent memory, “what made Mrs. Crittenden so famous?”
“I am sure I cannot tell, unless it was because she treated the poorest slaves as though they were ladies and gentlemen.”
Olivia.
An Interview in the Workshop of the Veteran Statesman.
Washington,April 15, 1873.
This article is not written with the attempt to portray that which makes Charles Sumner the central figure of the American Senate. No woman possesses the gift to explore his mind. Yet there may be those who readThe Presswho feel an interest in the material part of his nature, and who would like to know something about his every-day life—how he looks, how he appears, and the impression he makes upon the womanhood of the day. The so-called gentle sex are convened in secret now, and men are not supposed to hear what we say. We will examine Charles Sumner in the same way that we would a picture, whilst his fine house and exquisite surroundings may be called the frame. Stand a little way off, because light is needed, and remember he is seen to the best advantage in what he terms his “work-room.”
An easy chair high enough to support the head is drawn before the open grate, and its capacious depths reflect the majestic figure of Mirabeau, but the face was designed by his Maker expressly for Charles Sumner. It is one of the best living pictures that foreshadows the exceeding grace of autumn. The sense of harmony in its highest embodiment is fulfilled; but the vision is neutral-tinted with all the scarlet glory left out. Even the long dressing-gown with its heavy tassels is soft, bluish-gray.
In scanning the features you realize that the artist has been trying to follow the classical order of art. You see it in the royal head crowned by its abundant gray hair, in the oval face, and the clear eyes which, if you watchclosely, you can catch a glimpse of the soul within. Observe the Greek nose, and finely moulded lips, which are never used except to make the world wiser and better. Now add the manners of an English lord and an improvement on the polish of the Chesterfieldian age, and we have the picture of the simple American gentleman.
The difference between spending a morning with Charles Sumner or learning about him through the newspapers is like quenching our thirst at a fountain at Saratoga or procuring some of the elixir at a drug store. It may be that your apothecary is honest, and that you are imbibing genuine Congress water, and then again perhaps you are the victim of misplaced information. With his permission, let us make a visit to that model “work-room,” because Charles Sumner will take us into the company of the famous people of the world. He will tell us about meeting George Eliot at a dinner party, or about his being on the same ship with George Sand. Then we can say to him with enthusiasm: “Tell us about this wonderful George Eliot. How old is she? Whom does she look like, and don’t you think her the greatest intellect represented by the womanhood of the present day?”
“I think her a great woman, perhaps the greatest, but time must decide all things connected with fame. I have a picture amongst my engravings very much like her, so much so that it would answer very well for her portrait.”
The picture is found. It represents Lorenzo de Medici, and is ugly to the last degree.
“Not like that. No! It cannot be possible that her face is as wide as it is long; that these are her eyes, that her nose, that her mouth—why, this is the face you see looking out of the moon!”
“It may be a plain face,” says Mr. Sumner, “but then it is so strong and noticeable, a face once seen that will never be forgotten.”
“But her hair is cut short like a man’s.”
“That is a matter of taste. You see at a glance that shelacks vanity, which is another sign of a great woman. I also met Mr. Lewes, her husband, at the same time. He is noted for his German studies, but he is not so eminent as his wife.”
“About her age, Mr. Sumner?”
“That is a very hard point to settle, but without flattery I should think her beyond 50.”
“Beyond 50, and still writing the best love stories that the world enjoys?”
“Why not? Genius never grows old.”
“But about George Sand?”
“I met this famous woman many years ago on a steamer. We were going from Marseilles to Genoa. Among the passengers this woman in particular attracted my attention, because she held by the hand a very beautiful child. I have never observed such hair on a child’s head. It was the real gold in color, and fell to his knees, not in curls, but in waves. The lady wore the Spanish costume. I now recall her Spanish mantilla. She was short, we might call her thick-set, not handsome, yet holding her child by the hand. I had a curiosity to find out her name. She was accompanied by a tall, slender gentleman. They kept aloof from the other passengers, and seemed to find society enough in each other. Upon inquiry I found her to be the celebrated George Sand. At that time she was a topic of conversation everywhere. She made a very distinct impression on my mind. She was comparatively a young woman. On board the same ship I was interested in two other passengers. This time it was quite an aged couple. The old gentleman carried his gold-headed cane and bustled around as if it was his mission to entertain everybody. One would almost think that he thought himself in his own house and the people around him his guests. His aged wife was at his side, helping in the good work. I noticed a respect shown them which age alone cannot always command. I soon learned the man to be one of Charles the Tenth’s Ministers,I am not quite certain which, but I think his minister of finance. I shall always remember the extreme courtesy and politeness of these old people and their endeavors to make everybody happy around them.”
“Did they talk to George Sand?”
“No! for the lady and her cavalier kept to themselves, and did not seem to need any exertions in their favor.”
In the conversation about the private lives of writers, a query came up of this kind: “Will a woman of good judgment marry a man fifteen years younger than herself?”
“I shall have to refer you to Mr. Disraeli. I know that to have been a very happy marriage. I met Mr. Disraeli and his wife at Munich, when they were on their wedding tour. At the principal hotel we met at the breakfast table. Mr. Disraeli sat by the side of his newly made wife. He might have been, or at least looked, about 30 years old. His intensely black hair smoothed to perfection. At that time he had become famous as an author. Everything seemed noticeably new about him. Mrs. Disraeli appeared like a kind-hearted, middle-aged English woman, and Disraeli seemed the one to carry the idea that he had drawn the prize. Time has shown how devoted they were to each other. In the last few months we hear of his walking by her side and supporting her tenderly. She must have been nearly, if not quite, 80. In my opinion Disraeli is one of the most remarkable men of this age when we remember the obstacles he had to overcome to reach the position he occupies in England. The prejudice which exists there against his Jewish faith alone is enough to chill the most ambitious.”
A book was drawn from a side table which had been printed in 1460. It was in the German language, and, with one exception, it is as perfect as a book published yesterday. Its binding would shame our best modern work.
“This,” said the man in gray, “reminds me of a conversationI once had with Macaulay, as well as an incident of my school-boy days. The master once said to the scholars, ‘Can any of you tell me in which year printing was invented?’ No answer. ‘Remember, children, it was the year which contains the figure 4 three times.’ The small brains were greatly puzzled. At last one little fellow answers ‘1444’. When I grew older I tried to ascertain the proof of this; but I have never been able to find which year printing was invented. It was somewhere about 1450, and, from all I can learn, I am inclined at times to think the Dutch instead of the Germans made this discovery. I remember a long talk I had with Macaulay on this subject. I was on the side of the Dutch; he was for the Germans. At last he proposed that we should adjourn to the British Museum and search the authorities, and have this weighty matter decided. I did not go, but I have always regretted it. We all remember Macaulay’s Essay on Milton. I think it ranks with the best of his writings; yet he told me that he regretted nothing so much as its publication; and this proves the incompetency of authors to judge their own works.”
We spoke about the changing seasons of human life, and the writer asked the statesman a question which lies very near to every woman’s soul.
“Is beauty confined to one period of our existence? Infancy and childhood are only promises; the summer is something more; but give me the golden reality of October or the bracing chill of a December landscape if the intellectual powers are not on the wane.”
“I have known beauty to go with the years, but this I fear is the exception, not the rule. One of the handsomest women I ever knew was the mother of Lord Brougham. At the time I met her she must have been over 80 years of age. I was then quite a boy, and abroad for the first time, and met with the kindness to be invited to the castle of this nobleman. The manners and figure of Mrs. Brougham betrayed none of the decrepitude of age. Inever shall forget her extreme kindness and efforts to entertain a young American. I remember that amongst other things she brought the bag which her son wore at the time he was Lord High Chancellor. This bag is worn around the neck of this exalted officer of the British Government. It is an elaborate affair, made of silk, gold lace, and embroidery. When the Lord Chancellor goes into the official presence of his sovereign this bag rests upon his breast, and it contains the petitions which the loyal subjects desire to be laid before the throne. Every new Chancellor must have a new bag, and these are always retained as the precious heirlooms of the family. The great seal of England is always kept in the bottom of this bag. Lord Brougham’s mother related an incident connected with this small affair of silken embroidery:
“‘When my son Henry was in the presence of the King this bag was crammed full of petitions, and he became very tired taking them out. At last he said, “I hope this bag will soon be emptied.”
“‘“Empty it of everything except the great seal of England,” said his majesty.’”
But the picture which illustrates the man is not completed, and newspaper letters must come to an end.
Olivia.
Shaping Legislation for the District of Columbia.
Washington,April 29, 1873.
Before the present form of government was inaugurated, Washington, in every respect, resembled a gambling or watering spa. A session of Congress might be termed “the season.” It was called a city through courtesy, because in reality it was only a straggling, awkward village. The brute creation traversed its streets, whilst forlorn pedestrians picked their way over disjointed sidewalks. The greater proportion of its people were made up of “birds of passage.” The citizen proper, if caught, was found to belong to one or the other of the two extremes of the social scale. He might be of the line of Lord Baltimore, with the blue blood of a foreign aristocracy coursing through his attenuated frame; but the chances are that he was some poor artisan or shopkeeper, who picked up a precarious living existing on the double-distilled crumbs which fell from Uncle Sam’s table.
Washington had no such electric life as Philadelphia enjoys, imparted to her by her commerce and manufactures. When Congress expired, the city, like a lazy bear, snuggled down to its long, snoozey sleep, and when waking-time came, like poor Bruin, it found nothing left but its claws. In its famished condition it took a great many strangers and Congressmen to fill the aching void. But gone are the lawmakers and Credit Mobiliers! Vanished the bare shoulders and Paris frippery! But Washington, newly baptized and regenerated, takes her place in the long line of sister cities whose foundations are securely laid by the strong hands of her permanent citizens.
Yesterday our new legislature met for the third time.The hall consecrated to the delegates and members of the council was filled with well-dressed, fine-looking men, adorned with shining beavers and immaculate boots. They occupied all available space on the floor; they poured over long flights of stairs, and spread out in a broad expanse of human life on the pavement below. “These,” said a bystander, “are taxpayers of the District,” and the response came quick, “This is the real Washington, wide-awake!”
In an upper room of the same building at the same hour the council meet. This nice little body is called together by the governor, a president is then elected who presides during the session, and altogether considerable honor is evoked from a small outlay, and in the meantime the siestas and summer comforts of the principal heads of the government need not be disturbed.
Below, in the house of delegates, the excitement deepens. The opposing candidates seem to have equal strength. The fight is all within the limits of one party. The three Democrats look around as innocently as if they were not inwardly praying for the fate of the Kilkenny cats to overtake their opponents. Two women are seen, each with a delegate fastened securely by the buttonhole. They are both genuine ladies—one being the wife of a leading United States Senator, the other known in Washington and elsewhere for her disinterested labors in behalf of the poor and unfortunate of her own sex. What does it all mean? One of the gentle lobbyists is interrogated:
“We have two men up as candidates for speaker; one is a good husband and father. He is with us in all our works of reform. He believes in doing as much for women as for men. The other is bad—just as bad as he can be. He loves women because they are women.”
“Isn’t that every man’s fault?”
“Oh, yes! but just look at him. He believes in keepingus women down, denying us the rights which the Creator designed for us.”
“If we are to judge men by their looks I cannot see where the other candidate has the advantage. They both look as if they didn’t exactly realize the difference between women and peaches.”
The woman continued: “I know one to be a good man, and I am going to work for him. Excuse me, here comes one of the doubtful delegates. I must speak to him.”
The delegate is arrested in his onward flight, and proves to be one of the ablest men in the house, as well as an accomplished gentleman.
“I learn, Mr. H——, that you are going to desert us?”
“Desert the ladies?—never!”
“I mean that you are going for Shepherd?”
“That is another thing. I have thought the matter over seriously, and whilst I don’t approve of all the deeds done by the board of public works, upon the whole I must give them my hearty support.”
“But you know my candidate is a good man.”
The tall, handsome biped looked down on the little woman, and his eyes twinkled whilst he said: “We are all good men.”
At this moment the other candidate came up—the poor, bad man who had no woman like Mungo Park to bring him milk and grind him corn.
“You know, Mr. Shepherd, that I have opposed you from the start. I have been doing all I could; I don’t deny it.”
The great, sharp, white teeth close over the red under lip, as if a laugh must be strangled regardless of consequences.
“I know it; but I cannot understand your opposition. I love the ladies; I always have.”
“That may be; but you opposed our movement. When you were editor of theRepublicanyou made fun of me.”
“But you must know an editor cannot oversee everything that goes into his paper.”
“But the tone of the paper I complain of.”
“I do not oppose the movement of reform, but I earnestly object to the manner in which you intend to bring it about! but I must go. I hope you will think better of me,” and the jolly figure and winning face disappears.
The delegate who spoke so earnestly in favor of the board of public works pauses to be introduced to the Senator’s wife. As he is about to depart the writer asked his opinion in regard to woman coming to such a place to influence “legislation.”
“I rather like it.”
“Do not let your gallantry get the better of truth. For my part I oppose it, for this reason, we accomplish nothing. Every Samson on this floor ought to have had his ambrosial locks sheared before he came here. Would the old Scriptural giant have held still in public whilst that sly puss, Delilah, was engaged in her artistic work?
“I cannot think of anything that would tempt me to be found here to influence legislation. I came with my pen to make a picture forThe Press, just as I shall go to the Virginia hills, with my pencil and portfolio, when the weather becomes fine.”
“This is a serious subject; but I am inclined to ask the women to go with us wherever we are obliged to go. I have had a good deal to do with politics since the new government was inaugurated, and we have had some pretty stormy times. We have had our meetings broken up with howls and hootings, and it seemed as if anarchy had come. One night we called a meeting in one of the worst wards of the city, where we had all along been able to accomplish little or nothing. I knew something out of the ordinary way must be done. So a short time before the call was made I gave out that upon such an evening there would be a meeting at a certain church in the neighborhood; that a portion of the gallery would be set asidefor the ladies. The colored men were especially invited to bring their wives and daughters. I then called upon my political friends and told them how matters stood, and urged them to tell their wives what we were trying to do. The ladies, God bless them! put on their Sunday bonnets and good dresses and came out; the colored women did the same, and the meeting in that ward was the event of the season. Everything passed off pleasantly, and we went home better men.”
“According to your story, not quite all of you are good men.”
“Yes; in the presence of some women we are all good men; the night I have been talking about proves it.”
All this took place before the gavel sounded. When the last blow fell, Edwin L. Stanton arose in his seat and called the assembly together. From various directions came twenty-two men differing in race, color, condition, and servitude. The tall, haughty Caucasian, with his thin nostril and flowing beard, was followed by the inky African so lately held in bondage; but the procession was finished by the chain which the Almighty has forged to bind the white parent to the black one in the shape of a man in bronze. In the solemn stillness a semi-circle was formed, and twenty-two right hands pointed upward whilst Justice Carter administered the oath to support the Constitution. Whilst the Judge was reading, the circle began to melt, and when he came to the part which relates to the taking of bribes in exchange for votes, every white man and black man had disappeared. But that most solemn obligation was to be subscribed to by a solitary mortal who stood like a fixed star in his place. Down on your knees to the man who stands by theright! God help us! It was the man in bronze.
Olivia.
Attractive Gatherings of the Nation’s Celebrities.
Washington,February 11, 1874.
On a vein leading off the great artery of Seventh street may be seen a modest mansion of four stories, yet better known and more highly appreciated in this curious city than far more pretentious piles of brick and mortar. For more than a quarter of a century the occupant of that point of the compass has clung to this spot and proved to the country that the character and qualities of an American citizen, independent of his opinions, decide his standing in the community. Belonging to the old Democratic regime, yet always opposed to slavery, like President Grant, he conceived the idea that it was best “to unload to save the party.” When a member of Mr. Buchanan’s Cabinet, he wrote a letter to Secretary Toucey, which should be printed to-day, to show the people that the country is safe in the hands of men of high character, irrespective of race, color, creed or politics.
Let us modestly ask what draws the intellectual cream to the modest house 707 H street? The press, artists, scholars, travelers, the President, members of the Cabinet, and the portable brains of both branches of Congress; the real heads of the Departments; the cultivated and most highly appreciated of our Washington citizens, go there as the “faithful” enter a Mahommedan mosque. The eye is not dazzled with satin and ebony. The feast or collation is invisible. Would you know the secret, reader? The master and his daughter are the magnets, and this is the explanation. A certain human quality is possessed by the Hon. Horatio King unlike the usual gems which comprise our national crown jewels. He is the only instanceof the kind since our Government was founded where a man began with the lowest clerkship, salary $1,000 per year, and was promoted step by step, without political influence, simply by the force of integrity of character, until he stood on the last round, a full-fledged Cabinet minister. It was his mind that moulded, in a great measure, our foreign postal relations as they existed a few years ago. In manner he reminds one of the late William H. Seward, possessing in a remarkable degree the same simplicity, dignity, and grace. Now add the courtliness of the English nobleman without the condescension, and the role is filled. This delightful compound makes the highest title a citizen can win. It is called the true American gentleman.
And the daughter, Mrs. Annie King, for though a widow she retains the family name. Who remembers Miss Harriet Lane when she presided at the White House, her regal manners, her queenly beauty, her high tone of character? The sun by day or the moon by night would as soon be a subject for the scandalmonger as the accomplished niece of the President. Have we any such women left in Washington? It is true they are rare, but they are here, just as diamonds of the first water are found in remote parts of the earth. The portrait of Mrs. King bears a striking resemblance to those of Miss Harriet Lane taken when she was “the leading lady of the land.” Mrs. King is the favorite “American lady” with the foreign legations. Her residence abroad made her familiar with the French language, which she speaks as fluently as English. Some great writer has said “that all we have to show for the civilization of five thousand years is the difference between a wigwam and a lady’s parlor.” Let us beg to differ with the man who wrote that. At least, before the writer gave such a final decision about civilization, he should have come to Washington and attended a President’s levee, a Cabinet crush, and then beached himself high and dry at 707 H street.
In the early part of the nineteenth century, the French painter, Gerard, who was a resident of Paris, opened his salon and held what he termed “reunions.” To these gatherings came all that was refined, elegant, and distinguished at this gayest of capitals. Gerard’s salon consisted of a floor of four rooms, with an ante-room. At 12 o’clock he gave his guests a cup of tea and the same everlasting cakes, says Madame Ancelot, the whole year round. Monsieur Gerard had no help from his wife so far as the entertainment was concerned, for she took her seat at a whist table and kept it until the last guest was gone. But Gerard’s “reunions” became known all over Europe, for the man had the talent to draw all that was celebrated in literature, science, and art to his humble headquarters. “From Madame de Stael down to Mlle. Mars, from Talleyrand and Pozzo di Borgo down to M. Thiers, there were no celebrities, male or female, that during thirty years (from 1805 to 1835) did not flock to Gerard’s house, and all, no matter how different might be their characters or position, agreed in the same opinion as to their host.”
Monsieur Gerard termed his modest entertainments “reunions,” and this must be the original from whence the Hon. Horatio King took the name. Transplanted, it flourishes at our own crude capital.
At the last Saturday evening “reunion” Grace Greenwood in her inimitable way, gave us dramatic readings in costume. Her personations exceeded anything the writer has seen either on the stage or in private life. Charlotte Cushman, Fanny Kemble, Scott Siddons, last but not least, our own Grace Greenwood, make all the stars of the first magnitude that we have now in this particular heaven of genius. Attorney-General Williams says that “he looks upon Grace Greenwood as the best writer and the most gifted woman in the country.” This decision is legal, and may be considered final. Years ago the great and good Horace Mann said that she was not only themost gifted, but that she was “the most beautiful woman he had ever seen;” and his passion for her in youthful days was as pure as though she had been a disembodied spirit. It is so rare that beauty and genius are wedded to one soul. In the opinion of the writer, Grace Greenwood is a handsomer woman at 50 than in the “long ago.” It is the difference between the budding green of April and the garnered glory of September. If her portrait was taken as she stands before us to-day and hung in the Corcoran gallery, the spectator would say, “This must be a Roman matron who lived before the pall of the Middle Ages darkened the earth.” How does she look? A brunette of the purest type, with clear-cut features, sorrowful, inquiring eyes, that shine as though a quenchless flame burned somewhere in the solitude of her own soul. There are some pictures which are burned into the human mind. We shall never forget her personation of “Over the Hills to the Poor House,” one of Carleton’s poems. The poverty-stricken outfit, the worn carpet-bag, the iron-bowed spectacles, the gray hair. When the propriety of “readings” was canvassed at Plymouth Church, Henry Ward Beecher said, “Object to it! I never object to one of the best sermons that can be preached.” From the highest to the humblest of that goodly company scarce a dry eye was to be seen. Then she told us what Miss Tattle, from Buttonville, saw at a “Rejective Session of the Senate.” This was followed by that which proves man to have been the only “created laughing animal.”
Among those who enjoyed the delightful evening were Mrs. Senator Stewart, the daughter of ex-Senator Foote, as all the world knows who reads the newspapers. Mrs. Stewart has recently returned from abroad and brought back with her the polish of Continental Europe. Perhaps she has returned with only that which she took away, for she has the same frank, winning address that used to distinguish Madame Slidell, and which is seen in the highest state of perfection in Madame Le Vert, who was also present.
What is that quality which makes the Northern and Southern women so unlike? It cannot be tasted. It cannot be described. It is the same kind of difference which exists between a white, mealy Northern potato and a Southern yam; a Baldwin apple and a banana in the Northern woods and Southern jungle—but only a man’s descriptive powers can do this subject justice.
Mrs. Attorney-General Williams was there, most talked about, most superb woman, in some respects, in Washington. One of your Cleopatras. Such a creation requires a separate paper, just as some gems must have a solitaire setting. And there was Mary S. Nealy, so well-known in letters and art at the capital. There was Mrs. Ames, the amiable and accomplished daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, as well as the widow of the late Admiral Dahlgren, who by the way, is fast earning a place in literature by her perseverance and talent. Possessing an ample fortune, a leader in the fashionable world whenever she chooses to reign, yet, like Lady Jane Grey, she chooses the solitude of the scholar, and delights in the labor of her pen. But newspaper letters must come to an end, because there is no space to write what might be said about the gentlemen who were there. Attorney-General Williams and Senator Stewart alone are as much as one newspaper can carry, if all their good deeds are related. So this will end with a little paper which Mr. King read between the “acts.” He said it had been “picked up in the hall,” in all probability where he dropped it.
“The Graces.“By grace divine we come together here,To pass the time in pleasure and good cheer;To study all the graces that adornThe maiden fair or widow ‘all forlorn,’The grace of speech, of music, and of song,The grace of conversation, short or long.But name thegraces, these and all the rest,GraceGreenwood is the grace we love the best.”
“The Graces.“By grace divine we come together here,To pass the time in pleasure and good cheer;To study all the graces that adornThe maiden fair or widow ‘all forlorn,’The grace of speech, of music, and of song,The grace of conversation, short or long.But name thegraces, these and all the rest,GraceGreenwood is the grace we love the best.”
“The Graces.
“By grace divine we come together here,
To pass the time in pleasure and good cheer;
To study all the graces that adorn
The maiden fair or widow ‘all forlorn,’
The grace of speech, of music, and of song,
The grace of conversation, short or long.
But name thegraces, these and all the rest,
GraceGreenwood is the grace we love the best.”
Olivia.
A Field Day in the Senate and Stellar Attractions.
Washington,February 26, 1874.
Yesterday was termed what is called a “field day” in the Senate. The opposing forces which go to make up the intellectual aggregate of this highest legislative body met in combat, and the whole nation is wide awake as to the result. Two men, both claiming to be Republican Senators, both as ambitious as the Evil One when he led Christ to the mountain-top, engaged in an intellectual hand-to-hand fight, but let it be recorded that Senator Morton alone lost his amiable temper. But who ever saw a chained tiger that did not lose his temper? Physically speaking, no two men could appear more dissimilar. When Carl Schurz is seen sitting in his seat he does not impress the spectator with the idea of a tall man. But when he rises you wonder when his head will stop going up towards the clouds. After he has “towered” to a certain altitude, and all the links and kinks and hinges seem straightened, he gives his shoulders another twist upward, as much as to say, “Shades of the mighty Schiller! if one only could touch the top of space!” Then there is a shake of the long, brown, curling locks as a lion tosses his mane, for all the royal animals of creation use similar signs and symbols. The mouth opens. It is not a growl. The ear is greeted with the sweetest and softest strains of the human voice. Who has ever read Oliver Wendell Holmes’ description of those velvet and flute-like tones that ravish the soul like the heavenly melodies of Beethoven? Carl Schurz has a voice like the wind sighing through the sugar cane, and his classical Englishfloats in a sea of rhythmical measure. In manner this distinguished German orator would not attract notice for either awkwardness or grace. The personality of the man is lost, because the mind is fully engaged in following his subtle thread of argument, which is fairly embroidered with pearls of thought. “I love America! I believe in her people! I have faith in her great future! But America must be honest. She must be true to everlasting principle. Parties, fashions, men, pass away, but incorruptible integrity, whether applied to nations or individuals, remains the same in all ages, from the beginning to the end of time.”
These words, as near as the writer can remember, were meant to bear upon the inflation of the currency. He wishes to have our greenbacks fixed upon a foundation so that our money will have a permanent value. In other words, he says a dollar of the national currency is worth eighty-eight cents to-day; six months hence it may be worth seventy cents value in gold or silver. He believes that a nation like this ought to fix our money in such a shape that the people cannot be at the mercy of the sharpers of Wall street and Boston. Why should the great American Republic have a fluctuating currency? Is it because our greenbacks are only promises to pay, and that the Republic may become a defaulter in the end, therefore the nation’s notes are in a certain way just like the private citizen’s? This mighty problem of finance requires a kind of statesmanship which has not been brought into the arena of politics during this session of Congress. Carl Schurz says if we make more currency that which we already have will be depreciated.
Whilst Carl Schurz was addressing the vast audience, Senator Morton had turned in his seat so that he sat facing the orator. Not a word that fell from the speaker’s lips were lost to this highly gifted product of the great State of Indiana, most noticeable and in one sense the most interesting member of the United States Senate. Wehave all read the story in the “Arabian Nights,” where the men of a certain city had become so powerful and so very naughty that the genii had to do something that would not destroy the men for all usefulness yet would prevent any outbursts of wickedness or folly. So he touched them all with the enchanter’s wand at some point below the shoulder blades. Instantly the men lost the power of locomotion. Whilst the upper part of their persons were alive, the lower became black marble. But what Senator Morton has lost in one extreme, he has gained in another, for to-day he is the strongest man who attempts to lead in his faction of the Senate. There is something about his head which bears a striking resemblance to the portraits of Webster, and he is thought to be one of the most forcible speakers in the Senate. His arguments are hurled at his opponent as cannon balls fly to kill the enemy. But if he has a hard, rugged, sharp side to his intellect, there is another as fascinating as that said to be possessed by Aaron Burr or Mirabeau. Men may not agree with this opinion, because they never can see that point of his character which is revealed to women alone. Men see only the surface of men. It is left to women to go down into the depths and bring up the pearls and coral.
About the audience that listened to Senators Schurz and Morton. There was a large delegation from the House, composed of those who have apparently taken the deepest hold of the slippery question of finance. Benjamin Butler was there, flushed, worried, and apparently somewhat worn in his encounter with the committee of Boston, Massachusetts.
He had just had a conference with them in regard to the collectorship of Boston in his committee room, and told them “hands off,” and yet he was not happy. They, too, had come over from the House to listen; sharp, keen Puritans, determined as so many bloodhounds. But the nation realizes that when Massachusetts is torn by herown intestine broils the rest of the world is safe, the Centennial will flourish, and no possible harm can follow.
Few men have attracted the notice of the Senate and secured that close attention as did Carl Schurz in his effort of yesterday. Even Senator Sumner laid aside his pen and pushed back his large pile of papers, apparently giving himself up to the fascination of the hour. Senator Mitchell, of Oregon, sat leaning back upon a sofa in a distant corner. He had resigned his Senatorial seat for the time to benefit a prominent member of Congress. As he appeared, with the gorgeous walls of the Senate for a background, no finer picture could be found for an artist’s copy. Tall, elegant, and graceful, with a singular purity of complexion, his head crowned by a glory of chestnut hair, such as the ancient painters used to delight to transfer to their canvas, large deep blue eyes, such as Raphael gave his Madonnas. “Fell into trouble with women,” said the newspapers. Will water fall when the clouds are moist? Will labor seek the neighborhood of capital? Alas! Will a duck swim? Senator Mitchell is not to blame because he is the handsomest specimen in the Senate. He did not make himself. Suppose he made mistakes or committed mischief before the sense of right and justice was crystallized in his mind? Who knows anything about the temptations placed before Adonis? What did Adam do when Eve gave him the apple and told him it would do him good? It is true the Oregon legislature have never discussed the subject of apples, but they sent Senator Mitchell back indorsed by the highest authority of the State, and he has only to take hold of legislation with heart and soul, and live the same pure and consistent life that he has in the last few years, and the country will honor him as one of her most distinguished sons.
Who is that leaning back in all that negligent abandon so becoming the occupant of that particular chair? It is the silver Senator of Nevada—the successor of Jim Nye. “Why, the man that wants my place,” says Jeems,“has a silver mine; do you think I can beat that?” Well, there he is, the monarch of the silver mine, watching with closest attention the eloquent speaker. Everything about him looks as if it had a standard value. If he should happen to trip and fall a metallic ring would be heard, just as if a new coin was thrown upon the pavement. A fine-looking man, rather below the medium height, but the most perfect specimen of high and costly living to be seen in the Senate. One can imagine him looking at the world and saying, “I am bound to get all the comfort. My house shall be a palace, my bath shall be champagne!” As yet he has done nothing to make himself felt as an integral part of this august body, but is prized at the capital because he is pleasing in manner, he is a United States Senator, and last but not least, he is a dashing widower with a silver mine attached.
Olivia.
A Visit to the Navy Yard—The Carroll and Butler Residences.
Washington,September 24, 1874.
The exclusive aristocracy of Washington is found in that part of the city known as Capitol Hill. Upon the emerald heights crowned with gardens and flowers, the proud old families of ancient lineage occupy their ancestral acres almost under the dome of our beloved Capitol. Whilst standing on the brow of “the Hill,” if the eye is directed southward, the baronial home of the Carrolls scourges the vision with its monastic severity. A wall as round as the arm of beauty encircles the extensive grounds, and the haughty old castle within is a perpetual aggression to the paint, parvenu, and pretence that spread itself at the “West End.” The spirit of holiness seems to envelop this elegant home. At certain hours of the twenty-four the dainty occupants emerge to go upon their rounds of daily charity. Like so many nuns, yet a part of the world, they bear the same relation to modern society at the capital as the old French regime to the Bonaparte reign. Earlier blossoms of the family tree have worn the proudest coronets of England; and these lovely silver-haired sisters are characterized by the same courtly refinement and queenly grace. To the north, but within a stone’s throw of the Capitol, may be seen the pile once known as the city home of General Washington. Within the remembrance of the child of a dozen summers it remained as the great statesman left it, except it had succumbed to the gnawing tooth of Time. The high plateau upon which it was built had in a great measure crumbled. The windows were mostly broken and thechimneys were beginning to fall. But the hand of modern Progress seized it and a pretentious building, made up of the old walls, now marks the site; too large for a boarding-house and too small for a hotel, destitute of kitchens and servants’ quarters, useless as a mansion, but splendid as a tomb. But nothing in the great laboratory of Nature is lost, for the ghostly brick and mortar serves to mark the hallowed spot sacred to the memory of the Father of his Country, and no Mount Vernon corporation can pen cows within the precious enclosure and peddle pale fluid at so much per gallon or so much per glass.
On Capitol Hill may be found Christ Church, where Washington and other early Presidents worshipped. The bricks of which it is constructed were baked on English soil and tossed over the stormy Atlantic. The antique building has none of the fancy airs of the modern cathedral, but it is built square and unpretending, an outward emblem of the spirit of those who gave it birth. It was made as a defence against the elements whilst the inmates were holding communion with the Most High. In the large, square pews sat Washington and Lafayette, whilst the gallant Hamilton held the slip-door that the “first lady of the land” might enter there.
Scarcely three blocks from the church is situated the navy yard, in many respects the most attractive point in Washington, because it is the great headquarters of the maritime power of the Republic. Inside the grounds the visitor is treated with a sight of wonderful naval trophies. Here are the guns captured off Tripoli when boarded by the brave Decatur, and here not long ago might have been seen some of the same kind of iron pots with the lid on that went down on Cape Hatteras with twenty poor fellows aboard. Holmes, Whittier, Longfellow, ahoy! Who will give us the story of theMonitor? the triumph in the James River? the tragedy off the stormy cape?
At the navy yard the great war vessels come in on purposeto go into dry dock and have all their corporeal troubles removed. The most majestic object in nature is the awful face of the mountain. The most sublime picture in art is a great war vessel lifted from the water and placed on the land. Look at the enormous hull, with its ribs of oak, sheathed with copper; the lofty masts almost piercing the clouds; and yet these little pigmies, scarce six feet high, put her points together. Certainly one is not to blame for asking if the Lord is as small in proportion to his created works. What artist will give us a picture of the great war vessel that was driven four miles inland by a tidal wave, at the Island of St. Thomas? Think of a ship buried on the land, just as though it were a mortal, and had a soul to be saved! “Cut the ropes, and every man for himself!” rang out the shrill command of the captain above the roar of the elements. “In an instant,” says an eye witness, “the solid wall of water was upon us. Oh, moment of supreme and mortal horror; we felt we were going into the jaws of hell!”
The last ship which left the navy yard, most beloved by the writer, was the ill-fatedPolaris, of Arctic fame. It seems but yesterday since the decks were trod by those who will see her no more. “Taste that pemmican,” says Captain Hall; “don’t it melt in your mouth like a peach? There is nothing better after you cross the circle unless it is a tallow candle. That is the place where the Esquimaux will sleep, small quarters, but everything is packed, even to the ice, as you go towards the pole. This is my snuggery room for two. That is for the doctor or a companion in case I don’t like to be left by myself. I want you to see the nose of the ship. Seven feet of solid wood, finished with iron, to munch the ice. See the extras that have been sent us. That parlor organ is just the thing to cheer the men in winter quarters.” “Have you no fear, Captain?” “I am going to find the open Polar Sea, and Captain Buddington will take care of the ship.” As he said this a grave shadow flitted over hisface. There was a vacant look in his deep blue eyes, as if the soul had stepped back from the windows of vision. At this moment all that was mortal of the ill-fated explorer was photographed on the memory forever.
The navy yard covers about 37 acres, and, besides the workshops, contains the officers’ quarters. The newspapers announce that the fashionable festivities of the season are to be inaugurated the first of next month by a series of Monday morning hops at the navy yard. Can anything be more bright and attractive? Imagine the smooth-shaven sward dotted with historic relics of mighty achievements, and ornamented with the same cannon balls that Henry Ward Beecher seduced into his boyish hat, the darling “middies” in bright buttons and smart blue coats, with all their delightful ocean pranks. Is it a wonder the girls’ hearts are gone before they are quite sure they have any? Besides, a sailor makes love in a different way from an ordinary landlubber. Time is short on shore, and the moments must not be spent in dallying. It is a kiss and a blow, and the blow means matrimony; and God help the woman who has a sailor husband or lover. A person was once heard to say, “My parents were married twenty-seven years, and my father was a commodore in the Navy; twenty-two of those years my mother spent alone on the land, for in those days no woman was allowed on a United States war vessel. When I was a little child, I remember a tall, bearded, rough-looking man, who used to come once in a great while to our house, and mother would call, ‘Children, come and see your father!’ The only time I was glad to look at him was when he brought us a parrot.”
Leaving the navy yard, you stroll to other parts of Capitol Hill, and soon become aware why the noble Capitol was planted on the heights, and why the adjacent grounds towards the east were chosen as the homes of the early aristocracy. Here Nature has lavished her most precious gifts. Our magnificent Capitol is the publicbuilding which dwarfs all others by comparison. Its superb front faces the homes on the hill. Its rear, from polite necessity, must be forever turned towards that western end, where speculation runs riot, and fortunes have been made in a single night.
One never tires writing about the Capitol. It is pronounced the finest architectural creation in the world, and the most costly, with the exception of a palace in Lisbon. It represents the accumulated grandeur of human taste, as it has been handed down in stone through the centuries. From the Egyptian Pyramids it borrows its overpowering massiveness, chastened and etherealized by the tone of the Greeks. After the Roman Temple of Jupiter Stator it takes its pillared porticoes, Corinthian in order, but here the resemblance to ancient architecture ends. The antique temples were open courts, and the porticoes were the useful part of the building. Before the letters of the alphabet were invented philosophers stood on the portico of the temple and taught the people. We have covered our open court with a roof, and put our instructors and lawmakers inside. What have they done? They have abolished the franking privilege, and wrested from the Government their back pay, but they will not send the public books to the people, therefore our modern Jupiter Stator is a fraud. One-half a million volumes have to-day accumulated at the Capitol. The vaults of this stupendous building are packed tier upon tier until space can nowhere be found. Already the broad aisles are choked, and the great highway is becoming impassable. Books! books! like the madman’s fiends, are above, around, and everywhere. Twenty bags full were sent to Congressman Dawes last week, and they are no more missed than so many leaves from the forest. In a brief time the Capitol will be stuffed with its own garbage, like a huge turkey in Christmas time, and the economical Congressmen will be driven to the porticoes outside.Then will return the pristine glory of ancient Rome.
We have no Anaxagoras or Petrius, but we have General B. F. Butler, a greater Roman than them all. As a last leap up the ladder of fame, this distinguished Congressman has decided to become an aristocrat and an old settler, and to this purpose he has bought a delightful site on Capitol Hill, and is building a residence worthy of the constructor. This costly creation may be called a stone triplet, as three houses will be born at the same time. The first faces the east, but its northern side salutes the Capitol. It is said this is intended for a grand “club house,” but the gambling will be exclusively confined to politics. All this is in anticipation of the grand hurdle race which will probably come off in 1876. The second house remains a mystery. The last has already been rented to the Coast Survey for a library. Henceforth Capitol Hill claims General B. F. Butler. He is our Congressional cloud by day and our political fire at night. There is a great deal of legislative chaff, and only a few grains of wheat. Capitol Hill has drawn her solitary ration and is satisfied.
Olivia.
The Bells, Madame Bodisco, Mrs. Southworth, and Governor Cooke.
Washington,October 20, 1875.
Recently some stones have been unearthed in Georgetown of great value to the student of antiquated taste. These slabs bear a date so remote that most of the letters have been eaten away by the teeth of Time, but sufficient remains to identify the Bell family, who occupied Georgetown Heights in the early part of the last century. Far back in the shadowy past the clear ringing tongue of this English Bell might have been heard as it poured its melody in the ear of an Indian princess, who soon after became his wife. The first nest of the young pair was a tent; afterward a quaint English cottage snuggled on the woody heights. Below them moved the silvery waters of the solemn Potomac. To the east stretched their vast possessions, which embraced all the land within the scope of vision which lay between the cottage and the rising sun. Here Madame Bell, attended by her pale-face consort, led the fashions without rivals and with none to dispute her sway. Over the stormy Atlantic came the winged schooners, bringing rich brocades for this dusky queen. Her costumes were half enlightened, half barbaric, like many of the styles of to-day. The descendants of these ancient Georgetown aristocrats have been slowly undergoing the bleaching process, and the past hundred years had almost obliterated the last trace of Indian lineage, and yet within the memory of the present generation “white trash” have been noticed in this vicinity bearing the name of Bell, and carrying in their lithe forms and eagle eyes the last superb touch of thegrace of Indian origin. But, true to the savage instinct, these were the first men to seize the deadly musket in the Southern cause, and the late battlefields of the South are made richer by the bones of the last of the first aristocracy of Georgetown.
After the Bells came the Peters, a haughty Virginia family, whose slave call was answered by hundreds of inky men. Georgetown Heights in those early days was called the Tudor estate, in memory of the royal line of England. Tudor Place stretched itself between the Heights and the Washington Navy Yard, but in the course of time this vast estate was broken up. This was prior to the Revolution. The Peters family were related to the Washingtons and Lees. Washington Peters is the most prominent descendant of this aristocratic family, but the last fragment of the estate has passed away from him, and he lives at Ellicott’s Mills, on a farm, a man almost eighty years of age, the last to retain the haughty bearing of the proud old family, the last of his race whose hand has rested on the yoke of a slave.
The shifting panorama shows us Protestant Thirkel, who, through the influence of Archbishop Carroll, of Baltimore, gave the extensive grounds now occupied by the Georgetown College and Convent to the Roman Catholic Church some time during the latter part of the last century. Little is known of the social standing of the Thirkels, but they were a family of wealth, and their tombstones are institutions of learning.
Coming down to the last fifty years, we find the aristocracy of Georgetown strongly flavored with merchants and tradespeople. The Linthicum mansion, which is said to be one of the finest, was built and owned by a hardware merchant, but he, too, has passed away like all the old residents who gave tone to the elegant society which ruled during the administration of Polk and Buchanan. During the Presidential reign of these two menthe social queen of the capital lived in Georgetown, the city of her birth and education. She was the daughter of an obscure but highly respected merchant, and was married at the early age of sixteen to the Russian Minister Bodisco, whose diplomatic position at once lifted his lovely wife to the highest round of the social ladder, whilst his vast wealth was used to give this wifely jewel the most costly setting. From over the sea came the flashing gems that had adorned the savage throats of a hundred generations of Bodisco Russians—diamonds only eclipsed by those of world-wide fame. In those somewhat primitive days the working people used to line the roadway to see Madame Bodisco pass from her mansion to the White House on occasion of reception or levee. If the weather permitted, she was visible to all in her open carriage—far more beautiful than the famous Eugenie, and with the same inimitable tact and grace. Creamy white satin and costly old lace was the favorite costume, and when adorned with jewels worth more than a million, mounted policemen followed in her train. The poor people said, “Old Bodisco is afraid some one will steal his wife,” but he was simply protecting her, Russian fashion. But this American girl was something more than a figure to be adorned with stones. With that superb tact which only a Josephine knew how to practice, she united the contending social elements. She thawed the frozen ocean of diplomatic ceremony and bade the foreign fortress open its doors to her countrywomen as well as herself. It is true she had standing at her right hand the incomparable Harriet Lane, of the White House, who held the last royal scepter of this extinct line. History rarely records the fact that distinguished leaders are beautiful, but popular acclamation gave to both these women the fairest crown. Alike in style of type, both opaline blondes, perfect in form and feature, with Titian-tinted flesh and golden hair, such as the old masters gave their beloved Madonnas, they held theiremblems of power with a firmer grasp than did Marie Antoinette, a woman of the same mould. In the days which marked the magnificence of the Bodisco and Lane regime, beauty and grace were not punished as under the Grant dynasty. George H. Williams, of Oregon, would have been Chief Justice of the Republic to-day had his wife been one of the “ugly sisters.” “They pared their heels and they pared their toes,” but the Prince did not dare defy the “Sisters.” Underneath the political drift lies the stony social strata which decides the character of the products above.
With the coming of civil war a society mildew fell upon Georgetown. Neighbors and old friends looked upon each other with mutual distrust. As a general rule most of the fighting element rolled southward. In a few instances a house might be found divided against itself. Once a Georgetown mother appeared before Abraham Lincoln to beg for the life of her son, who had been caught as a guerrilla with arms in his hands. “My eldest son,” said the mother, “is a trusty officer in the Union army; my youngest, my darling, was one of Mosby’s guerrillas.” “Miserable mother!” said the great President. “God help you, for I cannot. I know who you are! This is the third time your boy has been caught; mercy is beyond me!” and the man with streaming eyes supported the faltering steps of the wretched woman beyond the threshold. At this period social life was dead, apparently beyond resurrection.
Mrs. Southworth, the noted novelist, and a prominent resident of Georgetown, nailed the stars and stripes over the front gate, saying, “Whoever comes to my door will have to pass under that.” With patriotic zeal she gave her only daughter, Lotta, to be the wife of a gallant Union captain, and her only son, who was studying and not strong enough to go into the field, was attached as medicine boy to one of the hospitals. But these deprivations were not enough sacrifice. Either in camp orhospital she caught the smallpox. “I cannot prevent the soldiers from taking the smallpox,” said the great novelist, “but I can suffer with them; there is some consolation in that.”
Alas, the social wave has receded, apparently never to return. Weddings, even, were under the ban; but with peace came a violent reaction which threw the sediments of society to the surface, and Henry D. Cooke, first governor of the District, came prominently into view. It was never intended that he should be anything but a figure-head for governor. When he was relieved from the cares of state it was but natural that he should turn to a field of action where there would be little or no competition. A leader of theton! Why not? Old issues were dead; besides, if he traveled in this path Shepherd and Babcock would let him alone. Only a few moons previous to his being crowned governor his station in life was as humble as that of Sancho Panza—a modest clerk at the capital, with no higher aim than to make his salary cover the family needs. But at this particular epoch in our critical history Salmon P. Chase, then Secretary of the Treasury, thought he spied an open way to the White House. “Money,” said the statesman, “much money will pave the track.” So he gave the enchanted keys of the people’s pocket to his distant kinsman, Jay Cooke, and together they were to cook the political pie. It would take the pen of Victor Hugo to describe the huge financial bubble which hung so long suspended by a single hair. It made the little clerk first governor of the District, united with the fact that he was “Shepherd’s man.” “He won’t give us trouble,” said Alexander, and Grant broke a solemn pledge which he made to the people of the District to give him a crown. Politically Governor Cooke had no more weight than an Alaska Indian, but socially the resident governor gave Georgetown a new lease of life. But the few dying snails of the old aristocracy drew coldly within their shells like the monarchists under theBonaparte reign. “Who is thisparvenuand his upstart wife? Who are the Cookes?” said the proud old spirit. The question was soon answered. In one of the grandest of the proud old mansions might have been found the new governor, surrounded by all that was costly and luxurious in nature or art. The atmosphere of the large drawing-rooms was heavily laden with the fragrance of choice exotics, and foreign birds sang in the cages which hung in the emerald bloom. The richest Axminster covered the floors; silk, satin and embroidery ornamented rosewood and ebony; pictures and statuary were all as profuse as they were costly or extravagant. If refined taste did not prevail the defect was covered by Oriental splendor. Two thousand dollars per month was put into the hands of the steward to furnish this small private family with ordinary marketing, and this did not include the wines and staple groceries. Every day the courses were laid as if for a dinner party, with preparations for any number of the ordinary unexpected guests. Fleet horses stood in the stable, with coachman and footman awaiting call. A son of the illustrious house was married and a railroad car is chartered to bring the distant guests, and this, added to the expense of the wedding breakfast, costs the aristocratic governor the sum of $10,000, a large fortune for any young man of 21. An official reception is given in mid-winter, and $1,500 is paid for the single item of roses alone. Is not this truthful history as wonderful as any tale found between the covers of the Arabian Nights? From the narrow walls of a cheap tenement and sixteen hundred a year to all the gilded trappings of royalty! Yet only one-eighth of the profits of Jay Cooke’s concern was received by the governor as his share of the public plunder. The old, old story—the few robbing the many. The “court” traveling with its paint pots and the working men left to starve. Henry D. Cooke can no longer be called the “social leader.” His title has been taken away, and he has given up the mansion, buthe has saved enough from the wrecked concern to establish his son and name-sake in the banking business. The son of the President is a member of the firm, whilst Mr. Sartoris has just stepped over to England to raise the wherewith to join this “national” enterprise. Mrs. Cooke is also independent for life. The passerby of Fifteenth street, opposite the Treasury, can almost any day see a portly, jolly man lounging like a genteel loafer. That is Henry D. Cooke, late clerk, governor, banker, and leader of the fashion of Georgetown.
Olivia.