_Society’s Leaders--A Lady whose Dinners were Exquisite and whose
Wines were Perfect--Her “Blue Room Parties”--Two Colonial
Beauties--The Introduction of the Chef--The Prince of Wales in New
York--The Ball in his Honor at the Academy of Music--The Fall of
the Dancing Platform--Grotesque Figures cut by the Dancers--The
Prince Dances Well--Admirable Supper Arrangements--A Light Tea and
a Big Appetite--The Prince at West Point--I get a Snub from General
Scott._
Society must have its leader or leaders. It has always had them, and
will continue to have them. Their sway is more or less absolute. When I
came to New York as a boy, forty years ago, there were two ladies who
were skillful leaders and whose ability and social power the fashionable
world acknowledged. They gave the handsomest balls and dinners given in
this city, and had at them all the brilliant people of that period.
Their suppers, given by old Peter Van Dyke, were famous. Living in two
adjoining houses which communicated, they had superb rooms for
entertaining. These were the days when Isaac Brown, sexton of Grace
Church, was, in his line, a great character. His memory was something
remarkable. He knew all and everything about everybody, knew always
every one’s residence, was good-nature itself, and cracked his jokes and
had a word for every one who passed into the ball-room. You would hear
him _sotto voce_ remarking upon men as they passed: “Old family, good
old stock,” or “He’s a new man; he had better mind his p’s and q’s, or I
will trip him up. Ah, here’s a fellow who intends to dance his way into
society. Here comes a handsome boy, the women are crazy about him,” etc.
A year or two later, during my absence in Europe and at the South, a
lady living in Washington Place found herself filling a very conspicuous
place in the matter of social entertainment by the departure of her
husband’s relatives, who had been society’s leaders, for a prolonged
stay in Europe. A woman of charming manners, possessing eminently the
talent of social leadership, she took up and easily carried on society
as represented by the “smart” set. For from six to seven years she gave
brilliant entertainments; her dinners were exquisite; her wines perfect;
her husband’s Madeiras are still famous. At that time, her small dances
were most carefully chosen; they were the acme of exclusiveness. On this
she prided herself. She also arranged and controlled for two years (the
winters of 1870 and 1871) small subscription balls at Delmonico’s,
Fourteenth Street, in his “blue rooms.” They were confined to the young
men and maidens, with the exception, perhaps, of a dozen of the young
married couples; a few elderly married ladies were invited as matrons.
These dances were known and became famous as the “Blue Room parties.”
There were three hundred subscribers to them. Having a large fortune,
she was able to gratify her taste in entertaining. Her manners were
charming, and she was a most pleasing conversationalist. Her
brother-in-law was one of the founders of the Patriarchs, and at a later
period her two sons-in-law also joined them, though the younger of the
two, the husband of her accomplished and beautiful daughter, has lived
abroad for many years, but is still numbered among the brilliant members
of our society. It was during the winter of 1871 that a ball was given
in these same rooms to Prince Arthur, when on his visit here. On this
occasion, the Prince danced with the daughter of my old friend, the
Major, who, in air and distinction, was unrivaled in this country.
About this time two beautiful, brilliant women came to the front. They
were both descended from old Colonial families. They had beauty and
wealth, and were eminently fitted to lead society. A new era then came
in; old fashions passed away, new ones replaced them. The French _chef_
then literally, for the first time, made his appearance, and artistic
dinners replaced the old-fashioned, solid repasts of the earlier period.
We imported European habits and customs rapidly. Women were not
satisfied with their old _modistes_, but must needs send to Paris for
everything. The husband of one of these ladies had a great taste for
society, and also a great knowledge of all relating to it. His delight
was to see his beautiful young wife worshipped by everybody, which she
was, and she soon became, in every sense, the prominent leader. All
admired her, and we, the young men of that period, loved her as much as
we dared. All did homage to her, and certainly she was deserving of it,
for she had every charm, and never seemed to over-appreciate herself, or
recognize that as Nature had lavished so much on her, and man had laid
wealth at her feet, she was, in every sense, society’s queen. She was a
woman _sans aucune prétention_. When you entered her house, her
reassuring smile, her exquisitely gracious and unpretending manner of
receiving, placed you at your ease and made you feel welcome. She had
the power that all women should strive to obtain, the power of attaching
men to her, and keeping them attached; calling forth a loyalty of
devotion such as one imagines one yields to a sovereign, whose subjects
are only too happy to be subjects. In the way of entertaining, the
husband stood alone. He had a handsome house and a beautiful picture
gallery (which served as his ball-room), the best _chef_ in the city,
and entertained royally.
I well remember being asked by a member of my family, “Why are you so
eager to go to this leader’s house?” My reply always was, “Because I
enjoy such refined and cultivated entertainments. It improves and
elevates one.” From him, I literally took my first lesson in the art of
giving good dinners. I heard his criticisms, and well remember asking
old Monnot, the keeper of the New York Hotel:
“Who do you think has the best cook in this city?”
“Why, of course, the husband of your leader of fashion, for the simple
reason that he makes his cook give him a good dinner every day.”
* * * * *
Just at this time all New York aroused, and put on their holiday attire
at the coming of the Prince of Wales. A grand ball at the Academy of
Music was given him. Our best people, the smart set, the slow set, all
sets, took a hand in it, and the endeavor was to make it so brilliant
and beautiful that it would always be remembered by those present as one
of the events of their lives.
My invitation to the ball read as follows:
_THE GENERAL COMMITTEE OF ARRANGEMENTS_
_Invite Mr. Ward McAllister to a Ball to be given by the Citizens
of New York to the_
PRINCE OF WALES,
_At the Academy of Music, on Friday Evening, the twelfth of
October, 1860, at nine o’clock_.
PETER COOPER,
_Chairman_.
_M. B. Field_,
_Secretary_.
The ball was to be opened by a _Quadrille d’Honneur_. Governor and Mrs.
Morgan, Mr. Bancroft the historian, and Mrs. Bancroft, Colonel and Mrs.
Abraham Van Buren, with others, were to dance in it. Mrs. Morgan had
forgotten all she had learned of dancing in early childhood, so she at
once took dancing lessons. Fernando Wood was then Mayor of New York. The
great event of the evening was to be the opening quadrille, and the rush
to be near it was so great that the floor gave way and in tumbled the
whole centre of the stage. I stood up in the first tier, getting a good
view of the catastrophe. The Duke of Newcastle, with the Prince, who, as
it happened, was advancing to the centre of the stage, followed by all
who were to dance in the quadrille, at once retired with the Prince to
the reception room, while Mr. Renwick, the architect, and a gang of
carpenters got to work to floor over the chasm. I well remember the
enormous form of old Isaac Brown, sexton of Grace Church, rushing
around and encouraging the workmen. A report had been spread that the
Duke would not allow the Prince to again appear on the stage.
In the mean while, the whole royal party were conversing in groups in
the reception room. The Prince had been led into a corner of the room by
the Mayor’s daughter, when the Duke, feeling the young lady had had
fully her share of his Royal Highness, was about to interrupt them, when
our distinguished magistrate implored him not to do so. “Oh, Duke,” he
exclaimed, “let the young people alone, they are enjoying themselves.”
The stage made safe, the quadrille was danced, to the amusement of the
assembled people. The old-fashioned curtseys, the pigeon-wings, and
genuflexions only known to our ancestors were gone through with dignity
and repose. Mrs. Van Buren, who had presided over the White House during
Martin Van Buren’s presidency, has repeatedly since discussed this
quadrille with me, declaring she was again and again on the point of
laughing at the grotesque figures cut by the dancers.
“But, my dear sir,” she said, “I did not permit my dignity and repose to
be at all ruffled; I think I went through the trying ordeal well; but
why, why will not our people learn to dance!” A waltz immediately
followed the quadrille; the Prince, a remarkably handsome young man,
with blue eyes and light hair, a most agreeable countenance, and a
gracious manner, danced with Miss Fish, Miss Mason, Miss Fannie Butler,
and others, and danced well. I followed him with a fair partner, doing
all I could to enlarge the dancing circle. He danced incessantly until
supper, the arrangements for which were admirable.
One entered the supper room by one stage door and left it by another; a
horseshoe table ran around the entire room,--behind it stood an army of
servants, elbow to elbow, all in livery. At one end of the room was a
raised dais, where the royal party supped. At each stage door a
prominent citizen stood guard; the moment the supper room was full, no
one else was admitted. As fifty would go out, fifty would come in. I
remember on my attempting to get in through one of these doors,
stealthily, the vigilant eye of John Jacob Astor met mine. He bid me
wait my turn. Nothing could have been more successful, or better done.
The house was packed to repletion. Now, all was the Prince. The city
rang with his name; all desired to catch a glimpse of him. His own
people could not have offered him greater homage.
A friend of mine at Barrytown telegraphed me to come to him and pass
Sunday, and on Monday go with him to West Point to a breakfast to be
given by Colonel Delafield, the Commandant of the Point, to the Prince
of Wales. It was in the fall of the year, when the Hudson was at its
best, clothed in its autumnal tints. I was enraptured on looking out of
my window on Sunday morning at the scene that lay before me, with the
river, like a tiny thread away below, gracefully flowing through a
wilderness of foliage, the flock of Southdown sheep on my friend’s lawn,
the picturesque little stone chapel adjoining his place, all in full
view, and the great masses of autumn leaves raked in huge piles. Going
to church in the morning, I proposed to myself a ten-mile walk in the
afternoon to get an appetite for what I felt sure would be my friend’s
best effort in the way of a dinner, as he well knew I loved the “flesh
pots of Egypt.” Fully equipped for my walk, the butler entered my room
and announced luncheon. I declined the meal. Again he appeared, stating
that the family insisted on my lunching with them, as on Sunday it was
always a most substantial repast.
My host now appeared to enforce the request. I protested. “My dear
fellow, I can dine but once in twenty-four hours; dinner to me is an
event; luncheon is fatal to dinner--takes off the edge of your
appetite, and then you are unfit to do it justice.”
“Have it as you will,” he replied, and off I went. Returning, I donned
my dress suit, and feeling as hungry as a hound, went to the
drawing-room to await dinner. Seven came, half after seven, and still no
announcement of that meal. I felt an inward sinking. At eight the butler
announced “Tea is served.”
“Good heavens!” I muttered to myself; “I have lost dinner,” and woefully
went in to tea. I can drink tea at my breakfast, but that suffices; I
can never touch it a second time in twenty-four hours. I think my host
took in the situation, and to intensify my suffering, walked over to me,
tapping me on the back, exclaiming:
“My dear boy, in this house we never dine on Sunday.”
“Why in the plague, then,” I thought, “did you ask me up here on a fast
day? However,” I said to myself, “I will make it up on bread and
butter.” In we went to tea, and a tea indeed it was; what the French
would call a “_Souper dinatoire_,” the English, a “high tea,” a
combination of a heavy lunch, a breakfast, and tea. No hot dishes; but
every cold delicacy you could dream of; a sort of “whipping the devil
around the stump.” No dinner, a gorgeous feast at tea.
Down the river the next morning we went to West Point, every moment
enjoyable, and reached the Commandant’s house. As General Scott was
presenting Colonel Delafield’s guests to the Prince I approached the
General, asking him to present me to his Royal Highness. A giant as he
was in height, he bent down his head to me, and asked sharply, “What
name, sir?” I gave him my name, but at the sound of “Mc,” not thinking
it distinguished enough, he quietly said, “Pass on, sir,” and I
subsequently was presented by the Duke of Newcastle.
DELIGHTS OF COUNTRY LIFE.