Some Insight into Life Senatorial—Safeguards of that August Body.
Washington,April 7, 1876.
To-day the Hon. Abram S. Hewitt, accompanied by other New York citizens, will appear before the House Foreign Affairs Committee to urge the adoption of the bill to incorporate the United States International Commission, and provide for the same being held in the city of New York in 1883. The bill had already been introduced in the Senate by Senator Kernan, and championed by Senator Wallace, of Pennsylvania, who always looks after legislation which will benefit the Pennsylvania Central Railroad. Senator Carpenter argued that it was in violation of the Constitution for Congress to aid a corporation in any such way; that it was a precedent which would entail any amount of trouble in the future. Other great cities would come up with their projects, asking Congress to assume responsibility and bestow financial aid. Senator Wallace argued that it had already been done for the city of Philadelphia; which was answered by Senator Carpenter in his own inimitable way. Leaving his seat, a step brought him into the broad aisle, where he stood directly in front of the Vice-President, and raising his voice to a key which penetrated all surrounding space within the Senate walls, he replied, “Stealing has precedent after precedent; but shall we argue for this reason it is right to steal?” After a brief but ringing appeal in behalf of the assaulted Constitution, this superb and polished orator left the floor. In many ways Senator Carpenter is one of the most able men in Congress, with the mark of genius more pronounced, orrather, more noticeable in his case, than in any other man in the Senate. One of the surest evidences of genius (for genius is God-given, whilst talent can be acquired) is the carrying through the years to the last all the qualities of each period of existence—the blind enthusiasm, the winning folly of the child united to the grand powers of maturity. In genius the character never crystallizes. It is changeable, yet strangely invariable, and in many more ways resembles the indestructible elements. Senator Carpenter has a way of tying his collar, crushing down his hat, and bounding into the Senate with the same kind of abandon which resembles the action of a boy, while his laugh has all the music of youthful glee. His life has been a prolonged enjoyment of the admiration of women, because in him all ages, from romping girl to icy age, find something to adore. A handsome man when in perfect health is Senator Carpenter, but at present he is a good deal of a shadow as compared to his former self. Upon the principle that a high-pressure engine sooner wears itself out, so these men made on the Carpenter plan rarely live to old age. It is the fret and wear of the invisible organization that finally wrecks the physical, and there is no earthly picture so painful as these men who have reached the snow line, when the sun of life, according to the years, should be in full meridian of glory. Turning to the Congressional Directory, it is recorded that Senator Carpenter has reached the age of 56, not so young after all. Is it the boyish mask that has deceived; or have Blaine and Edmunds been afflicted with the weakness which is always pardonable in woman, and recorded the wrong figures? Can it be possible that he is a half a dozen years in advance of Blaine, and nearly the same in regard to Senator Edmunds?
But here are two Senators whose lives are passed on the same high-pressure plan, for such is the penalty which exalted ambition must pay. Not a solitary measure passes the Senate that is not licked into shape by the insinuatingtongue and all-prevailing mind of vigilant Senator Edmunds. Others may toil like the marble-cutters on a statue, but when the breath of life is to be blown into the nostrils, the great artist must be on hand to pinch a soul into the inexorable stone. The casual observer would not pronounce Senator Edmunds handsome according to the Greek or modern standard, but he has the exact appearance which one, in imagination, would picture a Roman Senator before the empire was in its decline. We can realize in this Senator the highest ingredient of New England civilization. His solemn visage seems a reflection of that sombre landscape, the savage grandeur of the sea, the majestic mountains tipped with snow. His sleepless efforts to keep the Senate records clean embody the Puritan’s idea of justice, that rarest product of the seed planted by theMayflower. It is that awful something which nerves the hand of the fisherman on that stormy coast united to the most intellectual culture condensed into a single blade, and it is keen enough to cut a ship’s cable or a single hair. When Belva Lockwood, the woman lawyer, was trying to reach the bar of the Supreme Court through the Senate, her fear centered on Senator Edmunds. She said, “I know I shall ‘pass’ if I can win his support.” So she sent a messenger to plead her cause. “My vote,” said Senator Edmunds, “will not be recorded against Mrs. Lockwood because she is a woman. I think her a very poor lawyer! If I had my own way, only those thoroughly trained in the law should be admitted to practice in the Supreme Court.”
Senator Edmunds has a social record at the capital without a flaw, which proves that men can live pure, clean lives like women; or else do the next best thing—conduct themselves in such a pious manner that they are never found out. But in taking the moral estimate of a man his avoirdupois weight should be carefully taken, and he should be judged in a great measure by the way it is divided. These bloodless New Englanders and fierySoutherners in Washington should be tried by judges capable of tempering justice with mercy upon the principle that tears are in the eyes of the court when he sentences a starving man for stealing a loaf of bread. Senator Edmunds treats women in the most refined and courteous way, just enough frigid to be dignified; but if he chooses to descend to a limited quantity of small talk, everything he says is valuable enough to be printed in the newspapers. This man has been made selfish and otherwise spoiled by the “buzzing of the Presidential bee.” If he should ever reach the White House, of which there is not the slightest danger, no one would be half so astonished as himself. He has reached the highest point of his ambition—to be the leader of his party in the Senate, to fill to the fullest measure the idea of an American Senator; and whilst like the late Charles Sumner, he can grasp the great legislative matters of state, unlike him he can take up the little things. Not a sparrow could fall on the Senate floor without his notice.
But the saddest sight is apparent when a brilliant member is torn up by the roots in the House, and is immediately transported to the Senate. It is like removing a plant from the heat and moisture of a conservatory to an atmosphere found almost anywhere in the temperate zone. Senators Dawes, Lamar and Blaine are striking examples of this kind of transubstantiation. Who can ever forget the brilliant career of Senator Dawes when he occupied the proud position of “leader of the House”? In this branch of Congress, argument, wit and repartee have a specific value, and enable the possessor to mount the ladder of fame; but in the Senate oratory is at a discount, whilst wit or argument may be compared to a clown at a funeral. Speeches are looked upon as talk to distant constituents, to which the Senators must listen in order to make them “official.” The Senate chamber during a “speech” is a subject worthy of study. An air of resignation is born into this cold, selfish world, destinedto last until the torture is over. Usually most of the Senators make their escape temporarily. Burnside and Anthony generally retire to the committee room of “Revolutionary Claims,” a snug nest right under the eaves, where the sparrows build their homes. This dainty spot is presided over by Major Ben: Perley Poore, clerk of the committee, and one of the daintiest morsels to be found at the Capitol done up in manly form. There is a cupboard in the Revolutionary room, which is the exact opposite to “old Mother Hubbard’s.” Lest the reader forget, the poetry is quoted in full:
“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,To get her poor dog a bone;And when she got there, the cupboard was bare,And so the poor dog got none.”
“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,To get her poor dog a bone;And when she got there, the cupboard was bare,And so the poor dog got none.”
“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone;
And when she got there, the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog got none.”
In this far-away, almost forgotten nook, where the musty archives of the old Revolutionary war lie mouldering, this solemn sepulcher is made alive by the spicy odors of fast-evaporating fluids, or the delicate aroma of pineapple cheese. Sometimes, during the lunch hours, crabs and oysters go there without any volition of their own. About the same time the courtly old Thurman becomes so revolutionary that he wends his way to the radical snuggery under the roof. He will probably be joined on the way by Don Cameron, the young Scottish chief, but this combination may be a union like the late Electoral Commission, to produce a lasting peace. But it is astonishing to find how sweet and delicious these old Senators become when they are almost ripe enough to fall from the legislative tree. To go to the committee room of Revolutionary Claims isone way to killthe time during a “speech.” Sometimes the Senators adjourn to the cloak rooms, throw themselves on the luxurious sofas, and steep their crippled senses in well-colored meerschaums or a choice cigar. Others, more nervous, repair to the marble baths, the like of which have never been seen since Rome had her fall. So far as the writer can ascertain, a Senatorial bath has never been witnessed bythe reportorial eye. It is the only sublime spectacle which has eluded the correspondents. The old Roman Senators employed the most skilful artists to portray them associated with the baths, and this will probably follow in due time in the great Western empire. If a Senator remains in the chamber during a speech, he is deeply absorbed in reading or writing.
How can a man make himself felt in the Senate? His voice only reaches his constituents or those who have a personal interest in the measure or man. His fine oratorical efforts fall as those of Demosthenes on the turbulent sea. He must stand, like Senator Edmunds, for years at the mouth of the pit, and watch that nothing goes in dangerous to the liberties of a free people. He must watch the aggressive encroachments of an infamous lobby. The great railroad and other gigantic corporations have their paid agents here to buy up all the small-fry Congressmen, as well as to notify the monopolists all over the country of any adverse legislation in advance. A paid Indian lobby is always here to keep the Indian affairs from being turned over to the War Department. The War Department never employs a lobby. An army officer has never been known to ask for the Indian business, except in the general protest that the soldiers should not be sent out to be scalped and mutilated for the crimes committed by the Indian agents. When a Senator is found to be faithful to the trust confided to his keeping, we should guard him as the apple of our eye. We should protect his good name from the assaults of the malicious, for when a Senator is found immovable the lobby attempts his destruction. It will be remembered that it was the lobby thugs that tried to strangle Senator Blaine on the eve of the last Presidential nomination. The storm is gathering again, but how can a man defend himself against his invisible foes? It is not because Blaine is hated so much; it is because other men are preferred so much the more.
Olivia.
Characteristics of the Lady of the White House.
Washington,December 13, 1879.
Wading through a mass of newspaper correspondence concerning life at the White House during the administration of General Grant, it is invariably found that language most vivid and eloquent is used alike by friend and foe. The admirers find everything to order for highest praise, whilst the enemy finds nothing too dark and threatening with which to paint the pen pictures. By figures taken from authentic sources, it is shown that the expenses incurred for supporting the White House, irrespective of the President’s salary, was increased $27,550 per year on the average under General Grant in excess of the amount consumed under Abraham Lincoln. This vast yearly sum was not used for decorative purposes, unless the military staff with its brass buttons may be considered that way. General Badeau was the historian whose duty it was to save the sands of history, act as chief custodian of the Presidential literary preserves, and at the same time keep all poachers away. Military rule was as rigidly enforced as in the tented field. It not only surrounded the President, but wrapped the whole household in its starry fold.
It seems but yesterday since the writer stormed this peculiar citadel to gain an audience with “the first lady of the land.” After passing the skirmish line of messengers and doorkeepers, the first real lion encountered was General Dent. This gentleman has often been described as made of “fuss and feathers,” a “military martinet,” but the writer found only a genial, pleasant gentleman. Most of his military life had been spent on the frontier,and what seemed “fuss” was only the embarrassment which came from being transplanted from almost obscurity to one of the most trying subordinate positions at the White House. He was not only high chamberlain, head usher, but also brother-in-law to the President, and this last position made him the target for more witty newspaper paragraphs than any other member of the Presidential household.
“Want to see Mrs. Grant, do you? What for, just to pay your respects?”
“Not altogether for that, though the respects will be included.”
“Newspaper woman! eh?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Grant wants to be written up in the newspapers. She ain’t that kind of a woman.”
“I beg your pardon, General! I shall take no advantages of Mrs. Grant’s courtesy or kindness, but the people will wish to know something of the ‘lady of the White House,’ and how can I make up one of the ‘pictures’ unless I am permitted to dip my pen at the fountain head?”
“Can’t you see her at her receptions? I think she sees ladies Saturday afternoons.”
“I never describe dress. I want to tell the people something about the woman inside the clothes.”
“I shall have to turn you over to General Badeau!”
At this moment a bell was touched and a lackey, minus the military buttons, appeared.
“Show this lady to General Badeau’s room.”
Over the tufted carpet, through vestibule and broad hall, until the right door was reached. A smart knock, which was answered by “Come in!”
The man with the military buttons looked up from the mass of papers at which he appeared to be at work, and the servant at my side simply said:
“I am requested by General Dent to show this lady to your room.” The servant immediately disappearedthrough the open door. General Badeau glanced at the writer from head to foot, his eyes instantly reverted to the papers, and his mouth, which had never opened, seemed fastened like those of the sphinx. The situation to the writer became extremely painful, not knowing whether to retreat or advance; but in an instant it was decided to stand firm without flinching a muscle, and await the enemy’s fire. At this moment General Badeau’s assistant kindly inquired if the lady would “have a seat?” The seat was occupied and the foreign sphinx kept at work on his papers. In the meantime the photograph of this foreigner was burned into the writer’s brain. Short and thick set, with the animal neck of a gladiator squatted upon his square shoulders, every visible point about the man indicating his peasant origin, the grim, gray complexion, the small, dead, steel-blue eye and neutral color of hair, a nose which had just escaped a hook, and a mouth which nature denied lips, but left it an ugly slit in the face, like a wound which could not be made to heal.
The embarrassment became almost unendurable, the silence horrible, but the writer sat with folded hands “determined to fight it out on that line if it took all summer.” As a cannon swings on the gun-carriage, the bore of this military arrangement was brought to bear upon the countenance of the writer.
“Did you wish to speak to me?”
“No, sir; I came to the White House to see Mrs. Grant. General Dent has consigned me to your care. What are you going to do with me?”
“You wish to see Mrs. Grant? That is not so easy a matter. Would you allow me to know the nature of your business? We do not allow Mrs. Grant to be subjected to annoyance.”
“I have not the slightest intention to annoy Mrs. Grant. I have no favors to ask, or axes to grind. I should never have ventured over the threshold of the White House had I understood military law. I was accustomedto meet Andy Johnson as though he were still an unpretending citizen of the Republic; and Mrs. Patterson allows the intimacy of a personal friend.”
“What shall I call your name?”
A card was handed the General and he read aloud “Mrs. Emily Briggs.”
“Allow me to say a word,” said General Badeau’s assistant. “If I am not mistaken, I think this is ‘Olivia,’ correspondent of the PhiladelphiaPressand other prominent newspapers.”
The writer bowed in simple recognition. The General raised his eyebrows with another supercilious glance at the writer’s person, and without the slightest notice of the interruption simply answered, “In that case I shall have to turn you over to General Porter.”
Some more footfalls over the tufted floors and the office of General Porter was reached, but the change was like that of the living skeleton into the fat woman and mud into polished marble; of charcoal into diamonds.
General Porter was standing in the council chamber which leads to the room where the immortal eye sees the invisible throne. It is the executive headquarters; where may be found during business hours the American citizen who sways the sceptre over all that is superbly important on the Western Continent. General Porter stood, the central figure of a group of young officers, all handsome enough for a tableau scene in a church charitable performance, with a grace of manner which seemed meant purposely to obliterate the remembrance of the ferocity of former experience. General Porter inquired how could he serve the lady “who had honored him with a call?” The business made known, “Certainly,” said General Porter, “I feel at liberty to say that Mrs. Grant will be pleased to see you. Possibly she may not be engaged at present.” A messenger was despatched and soon returned with an answer. “I must show you theway myself,” said General Porter, “and if you have not met Mrs. Grant I must introduce you myself.”
And this “open sesame” was never changed during the eight years that General Grant occupied the White House. Owing to some difficulty with her eyes, Mrs. Grant was obliged to have a private secretary attend to her letters and assist her in any work which would be impaired by defective vision, and having married into the army a soldier secretary was preferred to one of her own sex, who might in the beginning prove to be a perfectly seaworthy vessel, but after all, without any warning, spring a leak.
During these days a gentleman in New York made up his mind that he would publish a book with the high-sounding title, “The Ladies of the White House from Washington to Grant.” The writer was sent a communication, asking for a paper on these subjects to contain personal reminiscences, etc. Under this stimulant the author of the forthcoming papers called upon General Dent to make inquiry about the early life of his sister. On his recollections the incidents were put together, but before they were mailed Mrs. Grant’s presence was sought, the manuscript spread out for reading and correction. Mrs. Grant listened with a most amused expression on her face. At the conclusion she remarked, “Did brother Fred tell you all that?”
“He did, Mrs. Grant?”
“Then brother Fred does not know me! Let me tell you about Fred. You know I am a Southern woman, was born and brought up on a plantation. Our brothers were much older than we three sisters, and as soon as they were old enough father sent them away to school. We had a governess at home. Our mother directed our education, took a deep interest in everything we learned, just as I believe every mother should who has daughters. When the boys used to come home at vacations we usedto hide our dolls and playthings, for the boys would break them up. Brother Fred finished his education at a military school, and was sent away to the frontier on duty, and has had such a hard life that I prevailed on Mr. Grant to let him come and be near father and the rest of us for a little time. Father will not be with us but a few days longer. Now, don’t send that manuscript away, because it is not my true life. This brother knew nothing about me the years when he was away.”
The book was never published, possibly because some of the papers never reached New York.
After Eugenie was deposed from the throne of fashion as well as that of the empire of France,The Pressrequested that the writer should ascertain where the ladies of the capital would look for future models. The subject was one of interest, because Madame Demorest was trying to set up the golden calf in the great emporium of New York.
“I think,” said Mrs. Grant, “that the American ladies are capable of inventing their own fashions. How this is to be brought about I don’t exactly know, but I am quite sure I shall never set the fashions. Mr. Grant is a poor man. Ask the ladies of the Cabinet. Mrs. Fish has remarkable good sense.”
Another time the writer had heard Mrs. Grant lament her inability to use the eight sewing machines which had been sent from different sources to the White House; what to do with all the patchwork quilts wrought by humble hands.
“I do not feel it is right to give them away, but where can they be stored? Only last week Mr. Grant had a leather picture sent all the way from Oregon. Senator Williams presented it in person. There is no place for it on the walls. I am sure I never saw a leather picture before. To keep it from being harmed I have had to put it under the bed.”
A very warm friendship existed between Mrs. Grantand Mrs. Wilson, the wife of the Senator of that name from Massachusetts. Mrs. Wilson was one of the noblest and most angelic of characters. A soldier who had been one of the staff officers of General Banks had excited her deepest sympathy. He had been dangerously wounded in five different battles and his case was on record in the surgeon-general’s office as a marvel that under the circumstances the man could exist. Mrs. Wilson took his case in hand for advancement in some direction and reported the case to Mrs. Grant.
“There is nothing I would not do to help the soldier,” said the President’s wife, “if it lay within my power, if my word or my efforts would effect it, but I made a resolution that no circumstance should arise which would induce me to ask Mr. Grant for an office. Isn’t Mr. Wilson one of the pillars of the Senate? Mr. Grant is worried all day. There must be one place where he can have quiet.”
This last incident the writer relates as written down from the lips of the late Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson said at the time: “Mrs. Grant is right, and I mean to let Henry alone after this.”
When the only daughter (Miss Nellie) attended school like other young girls of a dozen years of age, the afternoon came and her lesson was unlearned. The carriage came to the door for the incipient young lady, but the teacher dismissed it with the request that it should return at the end of a half hour. The half hour came and glided away with the lesson still unlearned. The carriage came again and was dismissed. At the end of the second half hour the lesson was committed, and Miss Nellie was permitted to go. The next day at the usual hour the young lady arrived, accompanied by her mother. The teacher began to fear she had lost her most cherished pupil, but Mrs. Grant came to thank her for performing her duty.
“Teach her,” said Mrs. Grant, “that she is only plain,simple Nellie Grant, subject to the same rules which govern all the scholars. This course will have my sincere approbation.”
Through the wife of Rev. J. P. Newman, the pastor of the church which the General and Mrs. Grant loved so well, the writer learned of the unostentatious charity, the benevolent deeds which this pure-minded woman has kept from the world. Mrs. Newman said: “This material should be used after Mrs. Grant has gone, when loving friends can speak of these truths without wounding her delicacy.” But how can a paper be made up for publication of Mrs. Grant’s life in the White House and leave out the key to one of the most perfect and lovely of womanly characters. From the historic days of Martha Washington no woman called to this highest social position has wielded the sceptre with more dignity, good sense and grace. Amidst the clashings of the female cabinet, which in every sense of the word has as much significance as its counterpart, as the result is often the loss of an official head, Mrs. Grant was as serene as Victoria on her throne—not sustained by birth and traditionary precedent, but upheld by the noble qualities which makes the American woman in her highest perfection the peer and often the superior of every reigning queen on the earth’s surface.
Olivia.
Gathers a Number of the Beaux and Belles.
Washington,December 31, 1876.
Within the space of three brief years society at the capital has entirely changed in tone and character. The great drawing-rooms that were thrown open to receive guests from all parts of the civilized world are now closed forever, whilst a new set of people are pressing forward to blaze in the social sky as stars of the first magnitude. Glancing at the banquet halls, deserted, one sees with astonishment the path cut by the reaper Death. It requires no stretch of the imagination to call to mind the grand old home of the “West End” so long occupied by Admiral and Mrs. Powell (the latter lately deceased), where all that was most cultivated and refined in what is known as “Washington society” gathered to do honor to this late American queen. Mrs. Powell was the peer of Dolly Madison, the bosom friend of Mrs. Polk and Mrs. Tyler, and her remarkable vivacity and piquant wit lost none of its charm in advancing years. This made her old age just as attractive to youth as to people in the full bloom of life. So it may be truthfully said that this society belle never saw her scepter waning. It is true that only the ladies connected with the Army and Navy have the opportunity to officially perpetuate their reign. Our Republican court is so constructed that no matter how much a woman’s success may prove to be, like her husband, she must “step down and out,” sacrificed on the guillotine of “rotation in office.”
The closing of the Steele mansion, which became for a great many years the “headquarters” of elegant hospitality,was caused by the death of both Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Steele within ten days of each other.
Mrs. Wise, the daughter of Edward Everett, made her home most attractive to the elite of the capital, for, in addition to inheriting to a large degree much of the talent enjoyed by her gifted father, a long residence abroad had given her the advantage of every social acquirement. But she, too, has joined the “innumerable throng.”
Capt. Carlisle Patterson, late head of the Coast Survey, was a gentleman whose hospitality was boundless, so much so that his fortune at his death was found to have melted away. But whilst he lived what a grand good time he had.
The Myer mansion, for so many years occupied by the English legation, but purchased by the late head of the Signal Bureau, was closed by the last summons of its master. During his life this fairy dwelling, with its works of art, was thrown open and enjoyed by those who feel they “ne’er shall look upon its like again.” No doubt finer houses will be built, and the Bonanza kings will import the ancient ruins of Greece and Rome, but every year our receptions are growing colder, and our “drawing rooms” resemble those held in the monarchical palaces of the Old World.
Coming back to the closed habitations, the homes of Justices Hunt and Swayne pass before the mind’s eye—the first closed by affliction, the latter by death. And long will linger in the minds of our old residents the unostentatious hospitality of the late George W. Riggs, banker, and whose “business house” was felt to be the safest in Washington, though avaricious. Mr. Riggs was known to be clean-handed, and he inspired the public to believe that his bank was as solid as the foundation of the earth.
And who will forget the kingly hospitality of our late Mayor Wallach, so superbly assisted by his accomplished wife? The death of the ex-mayor, followed so soon bythe death of Mrs. Wallach’s father, closes this mansion indefinitely.
Coming to the houses occupied by what is termed in Washington “official society,” deserted within the time specified, memory recalls the costly dwelling occupied and owned by the late Senator Chandler. “Old Zach,” as he was familiarly called, had no taste for society proper, but he had great respect for his wife’s feelings, and when she gave the order that he should stand in the proper place with his huge hands encased in white kid gloves and welcome the coming guest it was done with the same vim and audacity with which he would conduct a campaign. One grasp of his solid palm would put the visitor at ease, if the ardor could be made to last through the cooling process of passing the gauntlet of the handsome hostess. Mrs. Chandler conducted society matters on the Victoria plan, everything perfect, superb and grand, but the thermometers always indicated the freezing point, unless “dear old Zach” was around to warm matters up and infuse a little life and spirit.
Senator Carpenter, with all his faults—the mould was broken when he went away—on the floor of the Senate could be a statesman, but in society he had all the rollicking abandon of a school boy. Who can forget the charming Carpenter home, the little spinning-wheel in the parlor, at which sat the sole daughter of the house, with the flax slipping through her slender fingers? Ah, pretty tableaux! Gone, never to return!
Nailed to the stony turret of the celebrated Shepherd mansion floats the yellow flag of the Orient. Within its rocky battlements may be found that which represents in the highest sense Imperial China. The solid walls around this legation must remind the occupants of the famous one of their native country. It is very painful to those who have basked in the prodigality of the Shepherd hospitality to find them gone, and the magnificence usurped by Eastern pagans—one hundred thousand dollars’ worthof furniture, carpets and “silken hangings.” It would take the space of a column to describe this modern dwelling from cellar to turret, and leave out the terrapin, white grasses and champagne. “Boss Shepherd,” rather Alexander the Second, just now is in eclipse. We can afford to wait until “Batipolas” has been well stirred up, then the Shepherd will return to his flock, who, it is said, were once well sheared. But in the meantime our wool will grow, and if we must have a king give us one of the Shepherd kind.
From one of the most elegant and superbly furnished Washington homes the “Bryans” departed, to form new associations in far-off Colorado. At the Bryan fireside used to gather the most distinguished people known in science, literature and art. The only daughter of the house is one of Healy’s most promising pupils, and it is safe to say that Miss Bryan is the finest portrait painter of either sex of her own age in this country. This compliment is not paid her by the writer, who is unable to judge upon so important a point, but it is the decision of men who have studied art, both at home and abroad. The only son, a very young man, is already a successful lawyer, and serving his adopted State in her legislature. These instances are given to show that children reared at the capital amidst the surroundings of the most luxurious wealth need not necessarily be spoiled.
The closing of the “Kilbourne mansion” and the departure of the wife and two beautiful daughters to foreign lands, which happened in the interim, like the flitting of the Bryans, created a loss which has by no means been repaired. “The Kilbournes” have returned, but not to the classic home which grew stone by stone under the supervising eye of its late artistic mistress. Beneath its hospitable roof, evening after evening, were gathered the elite of the foreign legations, with members of the Army and Navy and others most distinguished in the world of literature and art. A landscape painter of no mean ability,and a writer such as would secure her a position on any of our leading newspapers, Mrs. Kilbourne made her elegant home the most attractive to journalists beyond any other at the national capital.
Whilst death has been so busy with our own people, the diplomatic circle has not been spared. Count Lita, the “society man” of the French legation, has passed away, and his place remains vacant. Count Lita owed his position to the relations which his sister-in-law sustains to the present King of Italy, the husband of the beautiful Queen Margharita. Instead of keeping quiet upon such a delicate point, it was a matter of great pride with the late count. It seems the sister-in-law looks after what might otherwise be an obscure and impoverished family. Whenever the newspaper correspondents have touched upon the theme “foreign legations,” we are reprimanded by the officials of the State Department and given to understand that these people are not a part of our body politic, but is that a reason why they should be permitted to be social slivers in our flesh? The late Russian minister, who got into debt at Newport, and then yelled for the Russian flag to protect him from his milk woman and the butter man, came to Washington and Mrs. Russian Minister asked why she was so neglected socially by American women. She was told that American ladies would not call upon the “lady of the White House” if it was public belief that she was living with the President without the marriage ceremony being performed. Mrs. Minister straightened up, saying, “I am illegitimate, my husband is illegitimate, our children are illegitimate. Now, what are you Americans going to do about it? Is it any of your business?” She was informed that American women would not accept the situation socially if the Czar should issue a ukase, so she gathered up her “illegitimates” and has disappeared, whilst the imperial dominion of the Czar at Washington is unbroken by woman’s voice, except the little pipers of the small attachés.
The late home of the Freyres, the Peruvian minister, was noted for its superb hospitality. The family was composed of Señor and Señorita Freyre and the four daughters; but it took eight cooks to provide for their wonderful table. Whilst six would be hard at work in the kitchen the other two would be scouring the markets of the capital to secure terrapin, reed-birds, canvasback and all other dainties for which this famous locality is noted. As a natural consequence, they grew so enormous in size that only two could occupy a carriage at a time, so it took three carriages, or a funeral procession, to land the family in church, and they were all such devoted Catholics that no religious rites were omitted. The very baby of the family weighed over three hundred pounds. But it happened, as it always will, that too many reed-birds brought this family to grief. Sickness seized the father and eldest daughter and both died within a very short time of each other. Whilst the father lay on his death-bed, he sent for an American lawyer who had once been a Cabinet minister of General Grant, to help him make his will. After devising ample fortunes to his wife and the four daughters, he began: “Five thousand Spanish dollars to my son Don Manuel;” five thousand to another, giving the name; five thousand to another, until eleven sons and daughters had been remembered. He then brought this astounding will to a close by saying, “These are not the children by my wife, but my children, by my God.” One of our citizens would probably have died under the same circumstances and bravely kept his lips closed to the last. So let us honor the sincerity and courage of the man. His widow has lost her vast fortune by the late turmoil in Peru and is now living very quietly in Florence, Italy.
Our last diplomatic scandal relates to Victoria’s new protégé, the English “envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary,” the Hon. Lionel Sackville-West. If he were not Victoria’s “Knight of the Garter,” it would notbe so sad. Now it appears that when Lionel went to Spain as a young attaché he became desperately enamored with a ballet-dancer. “He loved not wisely, but too well.” The proud Sackville-Wests would have none of it. They declare to this day that Lionel is a bachelor Simon pure, and so he is inscribed on the awful book of the peerage. It is not understood whether the ballet-dancer has put on angel plumage, but it is known that she left a brood of little chick Sackville-Wests, which the Honorable Lionel is willing to gather under his wings as a hen doth her chickens. His eldest daughter is with him—his acknowledged child—and here lies all the trouble. If he would only ignore her, or wait, as the Peruvian minister did, till he hears the toot of the last trump, Victoria and “Washington society” would wink at his little “escapades.” But the British minister shows that he has a will of his own and a mind of his own, with the Prince of Wales to stand between him and his virtuous sovereign. The capital is becoming alive with men who manage to elude the snares of matrimony, whilst the foreign legations—words fail not because the source is exhausted, but newspaper articles must come to an end.
Olivia.
Pen Pictures of Blackburn, Garfield, Randall and Lesser Lights.
Washington,March 4, 1879.
Prematurely crushed before half its most important work was performed, the Forty-fifth Congress of the Republic has ceased to live. Its dying hours were marked with scenes of almost riotous confusion, reminding one of the exciting days of “secession times.” It is only when each great party has almost an equal number of combatants in Congress that a hand-to-hand battle takes place. To-day the men whose official career ends for the present in the House were the plumed leaders in the strife. In the advance were Foster, of Ohio; Hale, of Maine, and Durham, of Kentucky. To carry out the idea of death, flowers were strewn on the desks of departing members, and on the Speaker’s table uprose a pyramid of floral display. Not an inch of standing room was visible. Even the diplomatic gallery contained an unusual number of distinguished foreigners, whilst that part designated as the “members’ gallery” was crowded to overflowing by the acknowledged leaders of the social world of which politics make a part.
On a front seat in a central position sat Mrs. Hayes, conspicuous among the silks, satins, and jewels by the extreme simplicity of her attire, and lack of pretense of all that pertains to the aristocratic and exclusive. The black and shining bands of hair were drawn close and prim over the temples; the large gray eyes that warm or freeze according to the will of the possessor; the shapely nose above the cold, thin lips, finished with a chin indicating strong points of character.
Neither natural roses nor lilies bloomed in the members’ gallery. Pale, sallow, worn-out women came who proved to the lookers-on what a season of fashionable folly will do if permitted to have matters all its own way. But if real charms were lacking, the loss was fortunately replaced by wise manipulations of the artist. The “paint pots” so vividly pictured by the immortal Vicar of Wakefield had been brought into requisition, and Olivia and Sophie were as well prepared as ever for future triumph and conquest. The diplomatic gallery was graced by the Brazilian, Dutch and Belgian ministers, and by the pretty, modest daughters of Secretary Evarts, attended by some of the handsome officials of the Department of State. Asia was represented, half and half, in the person of Yung Wing, of China, and his American wife. What a strange pair? He is a genuine son of the land of Confucius, with his dark-yellow skin drawn smooth like parchment over his dome of thought; inky hair and eyes, and with all those strange hieroglyphic signs of mystery stamped on his sphinx-like face. Madame Yung Wing seemed to enjoy her novel position, as she leaned back enveloped in all that finery which her marital captivity enables her to wear. This mingling of the races, to the honor of American women let it be recorded, happens only in the extremes of our social system—among the very highest or lowest—the diamonds or the dirt.
The gallery to the right of the Speaker is a study for the artist. Every part of this broad land is represented. The Boston girl is there, with a voice that reminds you of the higher notes of Ole Bull’s supernatural violin. The most beautiful women of the continent spring from the land of the setting sun, descendants of the belles of the “blue grass region,” grown and ripened under the cool sun and peculiar atmosphere of Colorado and California. There they sit, mothers and daughters, as luscious to the eye as a basket of their own inimitable pears and transparent grapes. The women of the Sunny South werethere. Slender, willowy creations, that remind you of Damascus blades. As full of passion as a fagot of wood with sticks, each one carries an invisible goad to prod the statesman if he even thinks of “compromise.” Stronger than ever are the women entrenched in the rulings of the House. Opposite the Speaker might have been seen Africa—reflected from the seats in all tints, from ebony to “Alderney cream.” Ever since the gallery doors were thrown open to this race the space is occupied. The cushioned seats have been removed, but day after day of the session sees the same row, as though the House were a great school in which the spectators are pupils. Few colored women are to be seen, and the crowd seemed made up of those who have no employment, but who go to Congress to bask inthe artificial heatand enjoy the tropical magnificence to be felt on every side.
The gavel falls on the Speaker’s table like the blacksmith’s blows on the forge. A muttering silence follows. General Butler has left the Republican side and rolls over to the Democratic. He glances down on the diminutive figure of Aleck Stevens in his rolling chair, pauses a moment as though he were going to speak, apparently changes his mind, passes on, then sinks into a chair with a staunch Democrat on either side.
The semi-silence is broken, and the Honorable Charles Foster, of Ohio, is on his feet. His face is very white, but his black eyes burn like the wolf’s in the cave when it was pursued by General Israel Putnam. No man in the House commands more respect than the one who has the floor. “Hear! hear!” In a moment the House was made to understand that Charley, as usual, had a political panacea to apply to the blistered situation; but his plan is hurled back by Atkins, of Tennessee, and then the struggle to fasten the responsibility of an extra session begins.
Rapidly the hour hand describes the passage which marks the circle lying between 11 o’clock and 12. “Onlya moment,” begs Atkins, “to put myself right before the country!” Hale, of Maine, intercedes for a moment in which he “may set the Republican party all right, and fix the responsibility for all the calamities which may follow future Democratic legislation.” Anxious eyes glance at the clock. Only twenty-five minutes left. A voice is heard pleading that the crowd of ladies, composed largely of those who include members in the “family,” be permitted to occupy the floor. Speaker Randall asks if there is any objection. None being raised, in an instant the doors become sluiceways through which pour a flood of feminine humanity. This element spills itself in every direction; sinks into crevices made vacant by retreating forms of members. In vain Speaker Randall asserts “the ladies are not to occupy the chairs within the circle.” The timid ones slink back, but a few charming ones stick, and strange to say the members seem to like it. Conger, of Michigan, beckoned his pretty daughter Florence to a seat beside him. In an instant the vinegar and aggressive spleen disappeared from his countenance, proving that the ugly face he wears in Congress is only a mask. One aged sinner, at least one old enough to know better, slipped his arm around the back of a chair, and though no apparent damage was done it was enough to prove the crookedness of the legislative mind. The flirtations on the floor occupied very little time, and divided the space consumed in receiving messages from the Senate. All at once a tall man rises in the gallery, and says audibly to the people around: “A half dozen men on each side do the business; all the rest are drummers!” After this mercantile speech, the stranger subsides. In the midst of the excitement a burly form is seen entering a doorway, and a face lights up the surroundings as a beacon flame flings its beams far out on a turbulent sea. Haul down the canvas; let go the pumps; it is ex-Secretary Robeson, at last safely beached. Republican sympathyclings to him because he has no money, and thought it his duty to repair our war vessels so long as the port holes showed no signs of decay.
Leaning carelessly back, but in an attitude of inimitable grace stands Joe Blackburn of Kentucky, the “blue grass” boy who will be entered in the coming session for the Speaker’s race. Possessed of remarkable points of physical beauty, few men in Congress in this respect can be called his peers. Tall and slender, made up entirely of bone, nerve and muscle, he seems the embodiment of life’s fiercest forces. The energy of his mind is in keeping with the casket, and his chances for the Speakership at the present time seem best of all.
General Garfield disturbs the stifling air by offering a resolution of thanks to Speaker Randall, who receives it with that becoming modesty he knows so well how to assume. In a voice tremulous with emotion, in a few well chosen words, Honorable Sam. Randall announces his labor and his arduous duties done; and for the last time the gavel descended, the curtain fell, whilst the Forty-fifth Congress entered that silent bourn from whence no traveler returns.
Olivia.
List of Eligibles of the Senate and Cabinet.
Washington,December 24, 1879.