“Tall and divinely fair.”
“Tall and divinely fair.”
“Tall and divinely fair.”
Not a beautiful woman, but one created with so much harmony that the whole mortal statue would have to be pulled apart to remedy the defect. Mrs. Sherman would make a most admirable “first lady”—the very best of all the candidates now in the field—for in all the years of her husband’s official life at the capital her unostentatious charity, her kindly deeds to the worthy and deserving, have enshrined her as a patron saint in many a widow’s heart.
Imagine an English duchess who has inherited the rare beauty which descends with hereditary rank. Why are the English nobility the finest specimens of personal beauty? It is because its members leave nothing undone to perfect the physical proportions of the race. Of English origin, Mrs. Ramsey brings to the Cabinet any amount of that material which this administration lacked most. It has already been whispered by those who ought to know that Governor Ramsey was not called to the war office because of his bloody record, but it was made necessary by the deficiency in the social Cabinet, for while a large number of these society leaders were equal to handshaking, they were not quite strong enough to prevent masculine yawns between the courses at official dinners. The coming of Mrs. Ramsey into the field, even at this late day, if it does not win the battle, will at least prevent a complete rout. Mrs. Ramsey’s long residence at the capital, her superior intelligence and winning ways, is doing much to retard the criticism which ended with the retirement of her predecessor, for it is openly declared that Secretary McCrary was hocus-pocused into a “jedge” because “Mrs. Hayes could stand it no longer.”
Next to Mrs. Ramsey stood Mrs. Postmaster-General Key, who, in the language of the Emperor Napoleon, would be pronounced the greatest woman, as he told Madame de Stael “it is she who has the largest number of children.” And yet Mrs. Key is robbed of her laurels, for while she has only ten olive branches, Mrs. Evarts haseleven, or did have when the Hon. William M. Evarts became Secretary of State. Mrs. Key is large and substantial-looking, without any particular genius in the style of dress, as her trying gown of red waist and yellow sleeves sufficiently proved. It is only youth and beauty that can wear theatrical costumes with becoming effect, but when a middle-aged woman can be found to take the risk her courage should be applauded and her wounds artistically dressed.
Just beyond Mrs. Key stood Miss Agatha Schurz, the eldest daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, rather more than pleasing in form and feature, but entirely destitute of that indescribable something which makes her father one of the historical characters of his time. The youthful girl who stood by the side of Miss Schurz might have been the niece of Attorney-General Devens, but as there is no proof on this point the subject is omitted.
It was Mrs. Grant who first invited other ladies to receive with her, and in those primitive days it was often the wives of the army officers. Mrs. General Babcock was almost always at her side. Mrs. Grant was very “near-sighted,” and Mrs. Babcock had the faculty of relieving any embarrassment which might come from this misfortune. Ladies whose husbands had never been in public life, except in the different professions, were seen by the side of Mrs. Grant or artistically grouped a little way off. The receptions of Mrs. Grant reminded the beholder of the picture of “Eugenie and her maids in waiting.” True, Mrs. Grant did not possess the beauty of the charming Spaniard, but her “suite” would compare favorably in dignity, beauty, and grace with the same number of women found near any throne in Europe. Mrs. Grant grouped her assistants as exquisite flowers of different color and perfume are gathered in a bouquet, making a tableau worth spreading on canvas. Mrs. Hayes stretches a straight line, that reminds one of a Bible class in a Methodist meeting, or would if it were not for thePompadour corsage and canary-colored sleeves, and yet all this is permissible in the strictly fashionable churches of the day.
Is “society” improving at the capital? Alas, no! There are no social centres where gifted men and accomplished women meet to exchange original ideas. A few literary societies flourish, where a few friends gather to listen to some worn-out “theme” and bitterly complain of being “bored” afterwards. The brilliant men like Webster, Clay and Calhoun, Ben Wade and Thad Stevens have no genuine successors. Why? Because politics takes the place of statesmanship, and our public men have to work so hard to keep their heads above the muddy pool there is no time to gather and disseminate the rich fruit of thought, consequently there is a short crop and the inevitable famine.
Olivia.
How He Wields the Gavel of the Presiding Officer of the Senate.
Washington,April 1, 1880.
It is a day of indescribable excitement in the Senate, vividly recalling the stormy times of secession, Andy Johnson’s impeachment, or the famous Electoral Commission. Standing-room on the floor or in the galleries can nowhere be found. Even the vast lobbies are crowded with a struggling mass of humanity, such as rarely gathers in the national temple which glorifies Capitol Hill. A face new and strange to the Washington public surveys the throng from the Vice-President’s chair and taps with uncertain hand the official gavel. The private secretary of the late Vice-President stands at his left to prompt him as to the names of the Senators he is to recognize, for as yet he has not had time to become familiar with their features or names. At his right may be seen one of the trusty clerks of the Senate to make sure that no official commission or omission shall follow. It is apparent to all that only experience is necessary to make Vice-President Arthur a model presiding officer. Except a little perplexity, there is the ease and grace of a man instead of the noiseless machinery which constitutes a well-preserved fossil. What the yellow, juicy, rosy-checked peach, with the fur rubbed off, jolting to market, is to the vegetable world, Vice-President Arthur sustains the same relation to the fruit of humanity. There is something about his presence suggestive of strawberries and cream, and yet this fact seems to be completely ignored by the Senate, for the turbulence goes on just the same. He sits in an attitude of grace worthy the painter’s brush or thepen of the poet. Fully six feet in height, broad-shouldered, but rounded and smoothed into curved lines which not only rival but excel those of Cupid. A cold, haughty face is often seen, but warm, proud features are rarely found; but here we have the exception. A high forehead towers above the brown velvety eyes; a nose a little too short for classic perfection; but a firm, manly mouth, with plenty of decision stamped on it, with a width of jaw that means business in any work it undertakes. Never since the days of Breckinridge has so handsome a man wielded the Vice-President’s gavel, and whilst this fact may have no significance in a political sense, in a social way there is no estimating the heights to which it may aspire or depths where it may be cast down. It is a great comfort to be able to rest the vision on a diamond that has few, if any, flaws, and these not perceptible except to the finest judges of the gems.
In a direct line, exactly opposite the Vice-President, may be seen Senator Conkling, more winning in personal appearance than of yore. The gorgeous tints or high colors of early manhood have been toned down, softened, and spiritualized. Tranquillity is pictured on the bosom of the river, but we all know the channel is running at the same rate per minute and no time will be lost in its motion toward the sea. Stronger than most men, stronger than women, it is the inexorable law that the larger absorbs the smaller quantity. The kids that would not be eaten must keep out of the way. He glances now and then at Mahone, who sits only three chairs away, as a spoiled child might at “puss in boots,” whilst this little man, apparently all hair and claws, helps carry out the perfect illusion. Let us look at this “balance of power,” as the other Confederate brigadiers politely call him. At the first glance it seems altogether probable that the hair has been snatched off seven-tenths of the Senate to crown this one small man. His beard in length and density might be mistaken for that of the Wandering Jew. He has obtainedthe clothes of a much larger man, and they constitute a series of wrinkles from shoulders to heels. He does not inspire the beholder that he is a fraction of humanity, but that he is an uncanny contrivance, which, if not opened with the greatest caution, will work irreparable damage to those nearest concerned. There is neither joy nor comfort on the face of the Republicans as they survey this new addition to their ranks, while there is calm submission, if not positive elation, on the Democratic side at the situation.
Don Cameron appears weary, as if tired with it all. A man must have a peculiar organization to thrive in the Senatorial atmosphere. It is a gladiator’s ring, where intellectual combat is the order of the day. Woe to him that is not endowed with weapons of the keenest and most polished kind. Though a Senator can pipe his slogan on a thousand hills at home and carries a bonanza mine in each pocket, it will not add a feather to his Senatorial strength. Men endowed with business talent, even of the highest order, can find neither congenial nor agreeable work in the Senate. Only a natural orator or debater like Blaine or a great lawyer like Edmunds find their native element in the stormy waters of the Senate; and even Blaine was far more at home in the other wing of the Capitol, where his talents at all times shone as a star of the first magnitude. It is no sign of the lack of ability because a Senator does not rank high, but rather a lack of the peculiar and exceedingly rare qualities which make Senatorial success secure.
Of the new Senators Pennsylvania must be awarded the prize in point of beauty, for Senator Mitchell bears away the palm without a dissenting voice. In the grounds of one of the nabobs at Saratoga there may be seen the statue of a Roman gladiator, such as lived in the times of Nero. It is “stalwart” to the last degree. Imagine the old statue Americanized—that is, toned down in its roughest corners, smoothed away—a little less muscle, alittle more nerve, daintier, with a dash of Greek symmetry, and you see the handsome Mitchell of Pennsylvania. His hair is abundant, his eyes a twinkling hazel that rise and set with the arrival and departure of the dry goods in the gallery, but with a modesty that is simply indescribable.
Conger, dear old Conger, is here, cooled down to the polite frigidity which constantly pervades the Senate. He wears a white choker of such elevated height that it grinds away at his ears in the same way that a horrid glacier wears away the face of the mountain. A new suit of the finest broadcloth, of satin sheen, conceals limbs of the Adonis kind, though this last statement is more a matter of faith than actual proof. That “horn” which the wicked Stilson Hutchins was so fond of attacking with cruel squibs in the WashingtonPostappears to have gone where the woodbine creepeth, for it is heard of no more. It is rumored in private circles at the Capitol that Senator Conger is one of the most romantic and sentimental of men, and Governor Foster declares that it is the only case on Congressional record where a man is known to be madly infatuated with his own wife. When Mrs. Conger would enter the gallery of the House it was immediately known that Mr. Conger would soon attract all eyes by his graceful motions and mellow “horn.” Some wretch of a Congressman would call out: “Now, boys, we are in for it,” and there have been seen no such scenes of suffering chivalry since Don Quixote attacked the windmills in behalf of his beloved Dulcinea. But far be it from the head and heart of the writer to mock at this pure and exalted flame. Rather let us stand in the presence of this man with uncovered head who brings to our aching vision a new Garden of Eden, when Adam was good because there was but one Eve, and the serpent did the mischief.
In the gallery assigned the families of the Republican Senators sits Katharine Chase Sprague—cold, stately, andstatuesque as a lily, or a bit of marble in human form. The heavily fringed waxen lids fall over the sorrowful eyes—those large, dark almond orbs, such as glorify the Orient. There are faces all around, but she seems as much alone as Cleopatra in her barge floating down the dusky Nile. A blue turban with a single bird’s wing for an ornament sits jauntily on her auburn hair; not out of place, because youth, beauty, and sweetness still linger in form and face. There is not the slightest attempt at display in her simple toilet—a dark dress, severe in its simplicity, a scarf of scarlet silk folded gracefully around her throat. She has given no thought to her personal appearance, but has come evidently to observe the intellectual combat which has drawn together so large a percentage of the citizens of Washington. The writer recalls the impeachment trial of Andy Johnson when “society” appeared in the Senate galleries and when Katharine Chase Sprague was the acknowledged queen. Her toilet is recalled for the readers ofThe Press, and to-day it may be found recorded in the old files of this paper, for the writer was one of the “staff correspondents” at the time, whose duty it was to make “pen pictures” of the day. A Parisian suit of royal purple velvet, perfect in all its appointments. The detail escapes our memory, but the bonnet never will. It was made in Paris to accompany the suit, and when placed on her head it conveyed the idea of a single Marguerite. Imagine a purple violet large enough to be placed on the head, the leaves bent in bonnet shape. At the time the writer felt that her eyes rested upon the most graceful, distinguished, and queenly woman that she had ever seen in the Capitol or elsewhere on the face of the globe. The writer has no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Sprague, but described her then, as she does to-day, as she would a picture or a poem. When it was published in the newspapers that she was engaged during the Senate session sending notes to a Senator on the floor the writer sat in the gallery, but saw no notesgiven to a page or delivered on the floor. Year after year the writer has noticed this accomplished woman sitting in the gallery from time to time, apparently deeply interested in the debates, without the slightest levity or the smallest departure from the most rigid decorum. In later years she is rarely seen without one or more of her children. History is full of martyred women who have been used to crush obnoxious men. When Katharine Chase Sprague was the daughter of the Chief Justice and the wife of a United States Senator she appeared in the social heavens with the calmness and precision of a fixed star. Sunshine friends have deserted her, but the star does not waver in its course. It is the same haughty Katharine, despoiled of her throne, as true a woman to-day as when surrounded by her fawning flatterers. It is the flatterersof the Tuileriesthat have changed, and not the Empress Eugenie.
Outside the Senatorial circle of chairs may be noticed “a sea of upturned faces.” A dash of bronze reflects the last representation of African blood on the floor of the United States Senate. In the Darwinian political aggression the weaker must give way to the survival of the fittest, and the feebler race will be heard no more. Among the dusky faces in the “men’s gallery” may be seen Pinchback of Louisiana, excluded from the floor where Patterson of South Carolina stands. Pinchback tried to obtain a position with other distinguished men on the floor, but was remanded to the gallery among the scores of black men that compose the dark cloud that is always to be seen sou’west just above the Senators’ heads. It angered him beyond conception. Fierce passion flamed on his burning cheek and darted in lightning glances from his keen black eyes. Could he have invoked the power to turn himself into a huge stiletto he would have buried himself to the hilt in the Senate breast. Oh! the blessed relief of responsibility! His Creator made him, endowed himwith the elements of fearful wrath, subjected him to scorn, because his white soul is wrapped up in a yellow covering! Peace, be still, sorely tried and beloved brother, in whose veins mingle the blood of the haughty Anglo-Saxon with that of another race. The body perishes, but the soul circles on forever and forever.
Olivia.
A Dinner With the Queen of American Aristocracy.
Washington,April 15, 1880.
During the penitence of Lent, and all the succeeding time which Congress honors the capital with its presence, society of the fashionable form assumes a bleached or faded appearance. In a great measure this is brought about by the absence of the swallow-tail and white-necktie element. The assemblings are largely feminine, of necessity, from the fact that Congress, about to depart, is wholly engrossed with its “unfinished business.” So the courtly dinner of state and the official reception is superseded by the aristocratic lunch and “high teas.” At these purely exclusive gatherings may occasionally be found musty old relics of the Army and Navy on the retired list, whose records and shoulderstraps are fast perishing with official mildew and dry rot; or perhaps a supreme or district judge, for enough of this masculine seasoning should be found at least to flavor the social pot. But it frequently happens these lunches are attended by women alone, the hostess intending to bring together only those who are supposed to be agreeable to each other, at least so far as it is possible to bring these repellent atoms into a compact mass, and oh! how delightful! Our ancestors used to call the same kind of meetings “schools for scandal,” for no two or more women ever did come together beyond the hearing of masculine ears without by the merest accident a secret would be told; and in Washington, where every spot is sacred to the death of some poor secret, it is unnecessary to follow this delicate subject to an ignominious end.
All the readers of theJournalare invited in fancy to a high-toned lunch at Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague’s, at her beautiful home in the West End. Mrs. Sprague has said to the correspondents that she has no objection to newspaper comment if it treats her justly and in the spirit of courtesy; so her lunch is described for not only the above reason, but because no woman in Washington excels her as lady “to the manner born,” or can surpass her in those graces which make her the reigning queen in her own home. If fortune has deserted her in a great measure, all the unique, costly, and superb trappings are here. A few terrapin, a few bottles of champagne are all that is necessary to bring the old millionaire days back, unless it be the presence of the young war governor of Rhode Island (God bless him). We shall never forget the day that he came to the capital, dusty and travel-worn, with his thousand men which he had equipped and brought to President Lincoln in person. The capital was cut off from the North by both railroad and telegraph, and the rebel hosts were gathering in Alexandria, as we thought, to burn and sack the city. Governor Sprague did not go to a hotel, but camped in the market-place with his men. The first time the writer saw Governor Sprague he was drinking water from a tincup and eating baker’s bread and cold meat with his regiment; and, when we realized that this royal prince of finance was willing to sleep on the ground and drink from the tincup to preserve the Union, an adoration was born which neither time nor misfortune can chill.
But, coming out from the sanctuary of sacred memories to the lunch, for, after all, it is with to-day we must deal, for the past is just as remote as the future. It is 12 o’clock, high noon. An elegant table may be seen in the center of one of the most perfect dining-rooms at the national capital. There is much in the surroundings to recall to the cultured mind thoughts of the royal as well as republican days of sunny France. Some ancient Gobelintapestry, handed down from the palace when it was occupied by Queen Marie Antoinette, is suspended from the walls, whose threads may yet hold her imprisoned sighs. Beautiful screens, works of highest art, extend or shorten the space according to the caprice of the fair mistress. Exquisite paintings adorn the wall; elaborate service of silver and gold ornament the sideboard; a Parisian clock measures the time in musical chimes; Persian rugs conceal the polished, inlaid floor. Without exception it is the daintiest spot to partake of an innocent bowl of crackers and milk to be found in all Washington. Upon the table is first laid a thick heavy cloth, made expressly for the purpose to deaden all sound in case a knife or spoon meet an accident; though a dozen forks should fall they would not be heard except for their own dashing. The sound-cloth is now covered by Irish damask, soft and sheeny as satin; and around it clusters eight perfect chairs. These seats are chosen for ease quite as much as beauty, because the sitting will last all the way from three to eight hours. Flowers alone occupy the center of the table, and these are so artistically arranged that each guest is visible to every other. On the table before each chair may be seen two knives of different sizes, and a pair of forks, dessert and teaspoons, sherry and champagne glasses, and a thimble-sized gold salt cellar. An elaborate castor, on the sideboard, furnishes pepper, celery-flour and all other condiments; but these are served in good time, at the exact moment wanted, by the white-gloved, machine-like Ethiopian, who understands a glance from the Princess’s eye and does not have to be regulated by means of the English language.
The mistress leads the way and takes her stand at the head of the table, with her ebony assistant at her right. The guest who is to sit in the most honored place is called and seated by the waiter, the next place is filled in the same way, and this is continued until the circle is completed. This consumes but a few moments of time, theright people are brought side by side, and in such a way as to prove the remarkable tact of the fair hostess, and all confusion has been avoided. After all, this lunch turns out to be a dinner in disguise, for the first course consists of French bouillon, which is only a very rich and nutritious beef tea. The Hoosier housewife who is bold and aggressive enough to attempt a Kate Chase Sprague lunch must look out that no fat swims on the top of the bouillon, for the fat had much better be in the fire, as its presence indicates plebeianism. Nothing can be found too handsome and costly in which to serve this beef tea. If there are no golden bowls in the house, the next best are such as are found in the Sprague mansion. These wonderful gems have been brought on the backs of mules over the Ural mountains from the heart of Persia. It is declared by some that these bowls are made of the dust of broken garnets, gathered by the emerald hunters when they are in quest of gems in the great Himalaya range. They are manufactured expressly for the palace of the Shah; but during the greenback regency a few found their way to the table of an exalted official, and in this way have become heirlooms in a distinguished family. These Persian bowls have never been insulted by coming in contact with beans, or even Potomac oysters. Only clover-fed beeves, of the amiable short-horn variety, slaughtered on the Jewish plan, and treated by a skillful French cook, are permitted to be introduced to these jeweled caskets. During the sipping of this delectable stew, which must be as noiseless as a cat licks cream, the Shah of Persia, his advent as a literary character, his strong points of wickedness as a man are discussed, as well as the mineral and vegetable possibilities of the venerable but distant kingdom. Even old Haroun Al Raschid and his disguises come in. No chance for the conversation to languish whilst the Persian bowls are on the table. The bouillon is kindly assisted by different kinds of dainty crackers, “Havenner’s cream” being the favorite, withFrench bread. But one must be very careful, whilst toying with the spoon, not to sip too much beef tea, else the space which might be filled with more eatable matter is all taken up.
The Persian bowls are gone! Ah! who would believe it? one-half hour—or as long as it takes a Buckeye or Hoosier to eat an average dinner. So the next course is hurried on. This consists of oyster patties, served on plates, each one different, each a hand-painted portrait by a skillful French artist, and manufactured at the Sèvres porcelain works, near Paris. All are costly enough to hang as pictures and works of art on the wall. A commonplace Washington society woman is eating her pattie from the honored head of dear old Lafayette. Another scans the face of Napoleon I, and finds a striking resemblance to Congressman Blinks, from the Michigan district, if he would only clear out the brush of his whiskers and mow down the tall grass of his moustache. Sherry, clear as limpid amber and colored like a meerschaum pipe, has kept company all the time with the Persian bowl as well as the medallion plates. These plates were purchased from one of the sales of royal pottery brought about by the decay of a branch of one of the reigning families of the old world.
The next course of sweet breads is brought in on plates designed by the hostess as a present to the late Chief Justice of the United States—a love offering from a most devoted daughter to an illustrious sire. It was made without regard to cost, at the celebrated pottery near Paris, at the same time and place a set was being made for the Prince of Wales. No two plates are alike, but each one is embellished with a gorgeous bouquet. The violet and early gentian, the sweet but humble wild flowers trodden under foot in the hoyden days of girlhood, away off in the old Ohio home, have been caught and stamped in this imperishable form from the idolator to the idol. What pictures of the old home-life are called up like fast-dissolvingphantoms, but as genuine creations in the invisible world as the exquisite works of art before the mortal vision. The white, waxen eye-lid of the fair hostessdroops until thelong silken fringe sweeps the cheek. The spirit of hush! be quiet, falls upon the guest, which the hostess alone knows how to remove. The gulf is visible, like a hideous skull at a feast, between the days of the young millionaire wife, designing gifts for the Chief Justice, and the cold bereavements and change of fickle fortune of to-day.
Begone, dull care, with the sweet-bread course! Thy sweetness is bitter and unsavory! The first of the season! Virginia mountain lamb with green peas from Florida. The mountain lamb is served on another “work of art,” all different, no two plates alike, and this one is pictured with a single flower. It is a royal pink just culled from the parent stem and thrown carelessly down. One feels like picking it up just for one sniff at the perfume before it is smothered in Southern peas. Now comes champagne, clear and beaded, resembling the fluid in all probability in which Cleopatra dissolved the pearls. A course now follows which is a cross between a custard and charlotte russe—an infinitesimal ocean of cream between banks of snowy paste. After this more meat, vegetables, salads on different bits of porcelain with a history, until the ices and fruits are reached. These are served on daintiest of majolica ware or odd bits of crockery, fished from all the uncanny quarters of the globe.
Only think of being pinned to one spot from three to eight hours, forced to be civil and polite at least, if not working for the title of “agreeable diner-out.” Oh, for the blessed privilege, if one must be so tortured, to get as uproariously drunk as did the great Daniel Webster, with the privilege of rolling under the table like him to snore it off. All the nations of the earth who have spent hours eating and guzzling at table have come to that point where decline begins. England’s roast beef and ale, and sensualtime at the table has culminated in Ireland’s horrors and Beaconsfield’s fall. The President’s salary was doubled on account of these dyspeptic state dinners. Congress should at once make a law placing the social expectations of official life on precisely the same basis as that of the private citizen. This is a Republic. We employ our officials to do certain work for which we pay them. They should be made to understand they are servants, and not masters.
A large lobby is engaged to get Congress to build a new White House, because the present one is not large enough “to entertain.” Could we build a house large enough for this purpose, for why should the few be invited and the great mass of voters left out in the cold? Each State is asked to build houses and furnish them for their Senators in order that these gentlemen may “entertain.” Who will pay for the oyster patties, the porcelain and champagne when the great new White House dots Meridian Hill, and the States enter into competition for the grandeur of the Senatorial castle? The human body should be cared for because it is the finest created physical object to be seen by the light of the blessed sun, besides being a receptacle of the different sizes of soul as they come imported; but, as a nation, we should not permit in the care of this mortal mould that kind of legislation which begins in spider webs and ends in chains.
When Lucy Hayes moved into the White House she tried hard to reform the precedents, but Secretary Evarts was too much for her. He painted the Russian bear howling because the minister from that barbarous frozen land might, without wine, get a cake of ice in his stomach, and then what would the Czar say? Prince Alexis came to Washington to attend the inauguration, walked up and down Pennsylvania avenue with two bull pups at his side, because Secretary Evarts, or any other human being (except royalty), were thought not good enough to be there. Dogs were preferred to Secretary Evarts; but itmay be possible that Alexis could put the proper estimate on the State Department, and at the same time do justice to the bull pups. The American people should not feel aggrieved, or pull a single feather from the tail of the national eagle because the government at Washington has been fearfully “snubbed.” When the Prince of Wales was in this country he planted a tree at Mount Vernon, and was as sorrowful as Mark Twain at the tomb of Adam; but Alexis came over and gave us a taste of the genuine Romanoff flavor. But this could be borne, because we could have called out the Army and Navy and charged on the bull pups, but instead of managing in this way, Secretary Evarts took possession of the kitchen of the White House, forced Lucy Hayes to stultify her convictions, and instead of making the Executive Mansion the reflection of the purity and wisdom of a Christian, sensible, high-toned woman, he brought the wornout bestiality of monarchical Europe as represented by its agents here, and made our administration conform to it. Is it a wonder the bull pups take precedence? Nations, like individuals, must respect themselves. When another good woman like Lucy Webb Hayes, united to a great one, such as Queen Elizabeth or Empress Catherine, finds herself wife of the President of the United States, our impotent and costly plenipotentiary foreign missions will be abolished. Established as long ago as feudalism was in its cradle, when it was necessary to have spies in every court of Europe to bolster up each despotic dynasty, what sympathy, or how can a Republic consistently approve such positions?
Let us have a sprinkling of honest commercial consuls wherever they are needed on the earth’s surface; pay them a generous living salary, and the instant they are found coquetting with “fees,” cut off their official heads. The Augean stables cleaned by Hercules needed purification no more than our white-gloved, daintily-perfumed State Department. When it is remembered that the handfulof men sent out from their respective governments to attend to business, who are dignified with the sounding title “foreign legations,” are only polite to our officials, but “snub” all the sovereign people, are the ones who, while they sneer at us, set all our fashions, dictate our manners, steal our rich American girls, and, through Secretary Evarts, order champagne at the White House. This would be unbearable except for the bull pups that were imported to supersede Secretary Evarts. This proves that every cloud hath a silver lining; for the pups were as white as the glistening ice of the Neva.
TheJournalcomes now regular; I am very much pleased with it. It is what I call a live paper. Hon. Edward McPherson, late of the PhiladelphiaPress, was at my house the other evening, and he said it was the best paper published in the West. I was very glad to hear him say so, because he has excellent judgment, and it is a great honor to be connected with an able newspaper.
Olivia.
Society Without a Ruling Spirit to Take the Initiative.
Washington,February 18, 1881.
It takes the most exquisite kind of courage to paint truthful views of life as it is pictured on the social boards at Washington. If the well-known society writers would furnish the newspapers with faithful kaleidoscopes of the “day’s doings” they would be banished or, like Othello, they would “find their occupation gone.” It is the small sins of “high life” which weaken the constitution of society; lack of moral courage, love of finery, gilt and glitter, envy and jealousy, and the enjoyment of slander. When the most beautiful and accomplished leader at the capital became the shining mark at which the quivering arrows of condemnation were hurled, have any of the women who used to bask in the sunshine of her queenly hospitality said one word in her defense? One would suppose that after years of smiling and caressing this monster of society, after lavishing tens of thousands of dollars upon it, one brave, strong utterance, one loving word might come back in return. Where are the women who have smirked and basked in the shadows of the dead and dying administrations? What niche will their minds fill in history? We have railroad kings and bonanza emperors and money grabbers in place of statesmen, by the score; but where are the drawing rooms such as Lady Blessington’s, or the famous salon of Madame de Stael, which has an existence to-day far more substantial than the daily receptions at the capital. Instead of cultivating their minds the “society women” at Washington are expending the last show of vitality in the adorning of theirbodies. Flitting from one “palatial mansion” to another, from “sunny morn to dewy eve,” these human butterflies make no more impression on the world at large than the moths which they so much resemble. Whilst as a general rule the society women have politicians for husbands, it does not always follow that all the politicians have “society” wives. Such accomplished women as Mrs. George F. Edmunds, of Vermont, or Mrs. Thomas F. Bayard, of Delaware, will always be found, and, like the men at the pumps, will keep the old worm-eaten hulk of Washington society from going to the bottom.
Since the retirement of the superb Katharine Chase Sprague “society,” in a blundering way, manages to get along without an acknowledged “head.” If the beautiful and accomplished woman is found, the immense wealth is lacking, for no woman can be a successful “leader” unless she has beauty, brains, and money. To a great extent beauty can be spared, because its loss can be made up by the artistic skill which the brain power will utilize. Just as a general must have the sinews of war to carry on a vigorous campaign, a society leader must be thoroughly equipped, for if the means to accomplish a certain result are somewhat different the end amounts to just about the same. The coming of the bonanza wives is watched with the most intense anxiety. The question is asked: “Has she the qualities to command or will inefficiency and cowardice consign her to the ranks?” A member of Congress was regretting his inability to be present at the Art Club reception. He said he “had reason to believe that in such an assembly he could find a relief or change from the political treadmill where he was forced to be at his post every day.” When his attention was called to the stately card receptions of almost every night, he replied: “I hate them; there is nothing there but clothes.” These were the words from no brain-distorted, dyspeptic Bostonian, but a Western man, in the full sap of existence, who would naturally be supposedto cling to the woman who could show the handsomest amount of shoulder to the square inch. Both General Garfield and Senator Blaine have declared that relief comes to the tired, over-worked brain by changing the train of thought, and not by dabbling in inanity. This proves that the doll’s occupation is gone. The woman of the nineteenth century must shake from her dormant brain the dust of ages and develop her power in precisely the same ratio as man makes the most of his. Almighty God has made the orbit of the sexes parallel, but they can never intersect.
All that which comes under the head of “formal ceremony” at the capital, such as state dinners at the White House, are faithful copies of foreign courts, or rather the tattered fragments of the manners of old baronial time under William the Conqueror, when the feudal chiefs were served first and their retainers were permitted to scramble on the floor for the bones. It is true the bones are not thrown under the White House table, for the world grows neater in its old age; but should a President entertain Victoria at dinner “etiquette” or the spirit of the old barbarians declares the President must be helped first. Instead of the American gentleman at his own table, where the example of private life should be the model for the public manners of a Republic, we have just enough of the old leaven of monarchy working that any child can smell the odor after a short stay in Washington. Nothing more terrible socially can be conceived than one of these cold, formal state dinners at the White House. It is not a company made up of breathing, living men and women, but is the masculine bones of the awful Department of State, with the feminine anatomy clutched for a brief hour from the highest judicial ermine. It is the ponderous Treasury Department, with its legs crossed under the Presidential mahogany. In preceding administrations the victims were allowed to drown their sorrows in wine, and by the time the fifth or sixth course came’round the War and Navy Departments were prepared for the most desperate action on sea or shore. Only from twelve to nineteen inches table room is allowed a guest, and the steward of the White House, instead of the tailor, decides on the breadth of the anatomy. To the great credit of the State of New York it has been found that Secretary Evarts could be wedged in between a couple of Supreme Judges without diminishing the size of the table in the least, but he refuses to be a third party to this kind of an alliance, because there is no precedence of the kind to be found in the archives of the State Department.
The size of the White House table is perfectly prodigious, and when covered with the china dishes ordered by Mrs. Hayes the effect is paralyzing to sensitive nerves. No chance is given the poetic imagination to revel in ambrosial sips and taste the heavenly manna. If your soul is soaring to empyrean heights, you are dragged earthward by seeing pictured on the plates the ugly refuse of the dainties with which you are supposed to be tickling your palate. When one swallows an oyster, who wants to be reminded of the huge, ugly shell, a faint suggestion of a coffin? Who desires to see a shining, scaly fish, with its pink gills already to pulsate, and be made to remember that the fish died that you might roll one little sweet morsel under your tongue? Who can bear to be reminded when tasting a sweet, fresh new-laid egg, that looks as if it might have fallen from the sky, that an ungainly old hen scratching for worms was the origin of that egg? The pictures taken from the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum may be more sensual, but in no sense can they be called more earthly or barbaric. All things beautiful should be spiritually suggestive. If the new White House china was the property of private life incalculable mischief might be the result, but the crafty Cabinet ministers and aged Supreme Judges haveoutlived delicate and lasting impressions, and after the first slight shock no serious trouble will be apt to follow; but it would be well to let Lucretia Garfield know that if the “pitchers go to the well once too often” or a grand collision of plates and platters should take place, such a calamity would be accepted by the nation like the late war—a sore trial at the time but in the long run a blessing in disguise.
If it takes so many scratches of the pen to get over the celebrated china “designed by the highest artistic talent at home,” how shall we manage to get the reader through the three hours that it takes to manage the great state gastronomic feast? It is best told in the language of one of the guests:
“I was led out by Secretary Evarts. I don’t think he would have selected me if he could have been allowed his choice. You have to go in the order of the Cabinet. Three hours so close to the great New York criminal lawyer! I thought I should faint! I cast my eyes down the table at my husband; he was below me on the other side of the table and he looked ‘blue.’ I was just thinking what he could find to say to the strange women on each side of him, for he never talks to me, when I would be interrupted by one of Evarts’ questions that would make me feel that I was on the witness stand. I can talk fast sometimes, but I felt if I spoke except to answer him it would be sure to be wrong, and I would disgrace the Cabinet. I managed to get through some way and afterwards found out that I was liable to be taken into state dinners by Secretary Evarts as long as we were in the Cabinet. I tried to prevail on my husband to resign, to which he agreed as soon as some other good place could be found for him.”
The Cabinet dinners are modeled on the same plan as the state dinners, and the misery endured is in proportion to its size and duration. The torture consequent upon the formal dinners made a hero and a place in historyfor dear old Sam Ward. Of course, his dinners were as much above those of the White House as Sam exceeded the steward in brilliancy of conception of dainty cuisine. Sam’s culinary reputation rests on a ham boiled with three red clover heads, and when put into the oven to “brown” it was treated to a baptism of champagne. The three heads of red clover have been proved to be a fraud. Nothing was ever served on Sam’s table that was half as delicious as himself. He is familiar with nine different languages, three of which he spoke with all the fluency of his mother tongue. He has been seen to put his arm around a foreign minister with all the grace and affection with which a lover embraces his sweetheart. Is it strange that this man became an idol to the public men whose constitutions were impaired by the dyspeptic dinners of “high society?” Extremes meet, and overfeeding is far more disastrous in its remote results than a mild course of starvation. Sam Ward managed that his guests should never be satiated. The oyster patties, like a little woman, would be so perfect, though small, that the next course would be anxiously awaited. “Two dessert spoonfuls of soup with a thimbleful of choicest sherry, that is my foundation for a dinner,” says the immortal Sam. Only people of ability were permitted to gather around his board, and it was the brilliant conversation more than the viands that made it appear “a feast fit for the gods.” If a dinner was to be given to the Spanish minister the proper number of agreeable people who speak Spanish could always be found for a small party. Could anything be more grateful to a stranger in a strange land than to hear his home language spoken by his host with the ease and fluency of a native; to have the conversation adroitly turned to the subjects which lie nearest to the Spanish heart; to drink the blood of the grape brought all the way from Castile or Arragon? Is it a wonder with Sam’s arm around his diplomatic waist that hewould feel as did Mungo Park in Africa when he heard the negro woman singing at the foot of the tree that sheltered him: