his white wife. It will be remembered that Colonel Parker belongs
to the Indian tribe known as the “Six Nations.” It is said that he
comes from mixed blood. If this is the case, the Indian was put on
the outside, and the white blood was kept for the lining. He looks as
much like an Indian as President Grant looks like a white man, and he
is a very good representative of his race. His wife is fair, standing
beside him, and attracts attention because she has broken a law; but
why should she be received in society for the same reason that puts
the poor Irish washerwoman, who links her fate with another race,
beyond the pale of association, only the newspapers can answer.
As yet no half breeds have made their appearance, which proves there
is a destiny which has something to do with shaping our ends.
For the reason that the card receptions of Secretary Fish are held
the same evening, many of the ladies of the foreign legations
pay their respects to the Speaker and his wife before going to
the mansion of the Secretary of State. Whilst the toilette of the
American woman is quite as costly, it cannot be said to be as
elaborate and far fetched as that of the European sisters. The
dresses of these foreigners are usually made up of trimmings. The
eye is bewildered and lost in the multiplicity of flounces, fringes,
laces, ribbons, and all those things which, in moderation, ought
to be dear to every woman’s heart. The stylish daughters of Baron
Gerolt, the Prussian minister, were there, and their costumes must
have been perfect according to the European standard. The whole
upper surface of their pretty little heads was turned into a flower
garden; rosebuds were planted around the edges, and full blown roses
blossomed in the center whilst long shoots and tendrils clung to
their chignons as ivy nestles up to a damp wall. Their dresses were
composed of that peculiar tint of silk called “ashes of roses,” and
the fringes and satin trimmings were deep rose pink. Oh, the weary,
weary labor of making these butterfly wardrobes, and these dresses
were made by hand! No sewing machine had been used in the production.
The tiny short sleeves were put together like patchwork, and between
each tiny piece of silk was a satin cord. There was just the same
proportion of human work on the long trained skirts, on the little
fractional waists; and yet these extravagant toilettes, worn by these
daughters of so-called lineage, only proved that in matters of dress
there is such a thing as gilding refined gold and painting the rose,
but this kind of work is always attended with the same consequences.
A literary woman connected with the _Rural New Yorker_ was present,
and dazzled the beholders with her handsome face, lemon-colored silk,
and black lace. A sweeter face scarcely ever looks out of a picture;
but alas! alas! why did she not put herself into the hands of some
stylish modiste, and yield the point as gracefully as a literary
woman knows how? There is nothing so damaging to a woman’s toilet as
to begin a certain style and not have the stamina or force of mind to
carry it out. What is worse than a weak decoction of anything? If a
woman decides to adopt “Pompadour” it must be completion to the last,
else all is sacrificed. The reason that literary women sometimes fail
in matters of taste in dress is because they do not give sufficient
attention to the subject. The perfect arrangement of a woman’s
costume is one of the fine arts as much as carving a statue, painting
a picture, or writing an exquisite newspaper article.
OLIVIA.
MIDWINTER SOCIETY.
HOW THE CABINET LADIES CONDUCT THEIR SEVERAL FUNCTIONS.
WASHINGTON, _February 15, 1870_.
Midway between a President’s levee and a private entertainment lies
the social ground occupied by the card reception. It is semi-official
in its character, because public position has much to do with general
invitations extended to the guests. It does not necessarily follow
that calls must have been exchanged between any of the parties in the
contest. A man is invited because he is a Senator, head of a bureau,
or an upper clerk in either branch of Congress. At the same time each
Cabinet minister means to look after the social interests of his own
State by gathering under his hospitable wings as many of its citizens
stopping in Washington as his mansion will possibly admit, estimated
by cubic measure.
Since the beginning of the social season four out of the seven
Cabinet ministers have issued cards for three receptions each. These
include Secretaries Fish, Belknap, Cox, and Postmaster-General
Cresswell. The receptions held at the magnificent mansion of the
Secretary of State have been simply a continuation of those elegant
entertainments for which his distant home was celebrated when he was
a citizen in private life. Only a man of great wealth can afford to
be an American “Premier.” All the foreign legations are gathered
around his liberal American hearth, and is it not most consoling
to our national pride to remember that it is broad and generous in
every sense of the word? Yet why our open-handed countryman should
be obliged to spend his private means to keep up the dignity of the
Republic only the people through their representatives can answer.
Elegantly unostentatious have been the receptions held at the
handsome residence of the three remaining ministers. In either
case no effort has been made of display. It would seem that these
Secretaries have a just appreciation of the social bearings of their
positions, and yet realize, with Mr. Dawes, that, in the face of the
financial peril of the country, frugality and economy should be the
order of the day.
The great reception triumph of the season has been held at the
historic Seward mansion, at present the home of the Secretary of
War. Outside of the public buildings no house in Washington is so
memorable in associations as this plain, unpretending pile of brick
and mortar. It is broad, old-fashioned, with rooms extending far
back, and everything about it reminds one of the good old days of
one’s grandfather, and its severe simplicity is as refreshing as pure
air when compared with the sensuous gingerbread work of the luxurious
modern mansion.
The reception of the War Secretary and his accomplished wife was
honored by the President of the United States, accompanied by the
well-known Dent family. The newspapers have much to say about the
“Dents;” but a close inspection of their every-day lives, as well as
their antecedents, proves that our Chief Magistrate might have fallen
into much worse hands. It is true they are numerous; but, as they did
not make themselves, this sin must be laid at another door. Besides,
are they to blame because a President happened to drop into their
nest? Is there a man or woman in the country with stamina enough to
keep them modest if they had a brother-in-law more potent than any
king? Besides, these dozen or more brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law
are exceedingly well behaved, considering the excellent opportunities
which might be turned to mischief. A member of the Dent family has
never been known to be connected with the gold ring; has never been
summoned before a Congressional committee. It is true, they like to
snuggle under the warm wing of the President; but are not the great
arms of the nation long enough to embrace the whole brood?
Up the very stairs that once echoed to the footsteps of the assassin
Paine poured a stream of life composed of the creme de la creme of
the national capital. Members of the foreign legations, with their
ladies, were there; and this is unusual, as many of these haughty
foreigners are seldom or never seen in Washington society except at
the mansion of the Secretary of State. The Cabinet, Supreme Bench,
Senate, House of Representatives, distinguished members of the press,
were present; and, to give additional brilliancy to the scene, the
Army and Navy were largely represented, glittering in blue broadcloth
and the usual golden trappings.
At the entrance of the first parlor stood the Secretary of War; at
his right hand might have been seen his fair young wife. With all due
respect to secrecy, it is whispered that Secretary Belknap is just a
shade handsomer than any other man in the Cabinet.
His exterior surface indicates the pure Saxon, and his eyes are
the color of that deep blue liquid which is obtained by dissolving
indigo in sulphuric acid. He had the true soldier’s form, which is
tall, broad, and deep, and his voice is as mellow as an organ’s. His
step has a ring when his foot touches the pavement, and his hand has
the true grip, whether it hauls a rebel colonel over the earthworks
on the battlefield, or touches the dainty finger-tips of a woman.
It is said that Secretary Belknap has a warm place in the Chief
Magistrate’s heart, which proves that the feminine element does not
enter into the construction of a President. General Belknap is a
warrior by inheritance as well as by practice, for ever since the
beginning of the Republic the long line of Belknaps have taken up
arms in defense of their country.
The fine young face of Mrs. Belknap, as she receives the host of
dignitaries who have come to pay their respects to the great war
power represented by her husband, is just as refreshing as pure water
at the hillside. The bride of a year, a newcomer to the capital, she
has not had time to be spoiled by adulation. The genuine, kind ways
of private life she bears unspotted to her high social position, and
the graceful manners which she brings with her from her Kentucky home
remind us of the days of Mrs. Crittenden, when the distinguished
women of that State were the fixed stars of society in Washington.
Mrs. Belknap wore upon this occasion the same superb dress which
graced the Prince’s ball, which proves that she does not intend to
imitate those extravagant women who will not be seen twice in the
same toilette. If this independent trait in her character lessens her
in the opinion of her feminine peers, let us hasten to tell her how
much it endears her to the people. Mrs. Belknap shares the honors of
beauty with Mrs. Cresswell in the Cabinet.
Just beyond the War Secretary stood the President, with his
sister-in-law, Mrs. Sharp, at his side. Marshal Sharp might have been
in the vicinity, but as he is only a Dent by marriage, his presence
or absence need not be noted. The President brought with him the
same “killing eye” which the New York _World_ so vividly described,
yet another Dent sunned himself in its beams without the least sign
of damage. Mrs. Grant remained at home, owing to indisposition, but
Mrs. Sharp performed her part with exceeding grace and good nature.
She wore a handsome blue silk dress, almost devoid of trimmings, with
an elegant point lace shawl, and pearl jewelry. Mrs. Sharp is not
noticeable for beauty or the want of it. She has the average face of
American women, and her friends speak of her in the highest terms of
praise.
Secretary and Mrs. Fish were seen not very far removed from the
Presidential party. If Mr. Fish was not the Secretary of the State,
we should call him jolly. He looks as if he breakfasts on reed birds,
dines on terrapin, and floats his life barge on rivers of champagne.
Oh! the dainties, the flavors, the sweets that go to make up this
genial and generous man. In contemplating him, one realizes that it
would not be so very bad to be a South Sea Islander or an innocent
Feejee. It must be because he is so palatable in personal appearance
that he makes such an admirable Secretary of State. How delicately
he has manipulated our complicated Spanish and Cuban affairs! how
discreetly he manages the _Alabama_ claims! It is said, “There are as
good fish in the sea as were ever caught.” Secretary Fish, with the
official hook in his mouth lives to fling the truth in the face of
the old adage.
Mrs. Fish--ah! where shall words be found to describe the woman that
awakens that exalted sentiment, and makes one long to call her mother
or some other endearing name? She has an intellectual countenance,
noble enough to belong to a nun. Mrs. Fish has the mind, heart, and
manners to grace the White House, and no greater compliment can be
paid to an American woman.
In the vicinity of Mrs. Fish might have been seen standing many
of the members of the foreign legations. Most noticeable were the
ponderous daughters of the Peruvian minister, Colonel Don Manuel
Freyre. The weight of these South American damsels reaches far
into the hundreds. It is well for the country that Barnum has been
lost in the Mammoth Cave else our relations with distant countries
might become hopelessly entangled. Considering how densely humanity
was packed in the parlors of the war mansion, these elephantine
beauties might have created a panic had a tramp or a promenade
become necessary, but, fortunately for life and limb, this was not
undertaken, and no accident occurred to mar the festivity of the
scene. These accomplished South American ladies are considered
great beauties in their country, for in the land of the Incas
superabundant flesh is not considered in the way.
In a picturesque attitude, leaning against a doorway, might have been
seen Mary Clemmer Ames, of the New York _Independent_. Aggressive
literary labor begins to work its way in tiny little grooves and
daintiest of channels on her poetical face. Mrs. Ames has written
some very fair poetry, which she is well aware of, and it has raised
her to that sublimatic height to which common mortals seldom or never
attain. Her costume was a credit to the New York _Independent_, for
nothing more elaborate was to be seen in the rooms. To prove to the
world that literary women do know how to dress it is necessary to
describe this star of the first magnitude. Mrs. Ames appeared at
the reception of the gallant War Secretary in purest white silk, en
train, surmounted by a heavy pink satin overskirt. This overskirt
arrangement was the crowning triumph of her superb toilette. This
upper skirt was scalloped, paniered, and squared with mathematical
exactness, and rounded with poetic measures. It was lifted up at the
proper corners; at the same time it floated free in Greek outlines
after the manner of ancient drapery. Nothing that an elegant pink
satin overskirt could do for a poetess was left undone. It might be
said that this rose-colored cloud had accomplished its destiny, and
ought henceforth to be spirited to the Milky Way, there to shine in
starry glory forever, a warning to all those common mortals who have
a way of stretching their mouths every time they see a first-class
literary woman prepared for the altar of a social occasion. Mary
Clemmer Ames takes to rosebuds. Isn’t this surest evidence of the
poetic talent? Rosebuds have stirred up more genius than all the
cabbages which have been raised since the world began. A masculine
biped hovered in the vicinity of Mrs. Ames, but as it was plain that
he was no poet, a description of his person is omitted.
In another parlor were to be seen a galaxy of diamonds, with Mrs.
Fernando Wood attached to the back of them. The writer has never
seen so many handsome gems assembled, except on the person of Madame
Bodisco, who used to wear the Russian family jewels at Washington.
A necklace of great value sparkled at her throat, great clusters
gleamed in her hair, her handsome arms were manacled with the same,
but she did not seem to mind being a prisoner, for when her jailor
appeared in the person of the Hon. Fernando, she took his arm just
the same as if he were like other men.
The Hon. Samuel Hooper, of Massachusetts, was there, the finest
wintry picture on the floor. After the same manner of the Secretary
of State, he looks as if the earth loved him and had brought him the
choicest offerings in her power. The sunshine of life has mellowed
his character. Altogether he is a New England elm, around which the
ivy of youth and affection loves to twine. Few men have so many
strong friends as Mr. Hooper, and none can be found in public life
less harassed by enemies.
For hours this distinguished sea of humanity whirled and surged
through the mansion. Waiters managed, by some secret known only to
themselves, to wedge their way through the dense throng and refresh
the guests with cakes and ices. A room was provided where coffee and
chocolate were served, but no costly wine or any other beverage that
intoxicates was seen at the reception of the Secretary of War.
A glowering night prepared itself for the reception of the
Postmaster-General. It rained, but as this part of the program
concerned nobody but the hackmen and the horses, and as no Professor
Bergh was present to look after the trials of his four-footed
friends, the reception came off with additional glory reflected from
the dark surroundings. In the midst of the pelting rain the carriages
drew up before the handsome residence of the Postmaster-General, in
the most fashionable quarter of the West End. Matting or drugget
was laid outwardly from the mansion. A policeman opened the door of
your carriage and held an extensive umbrella over your head while
you found your way into the entrance. That short walk was the most
impressive part of the evening’s entertainment. A cloud darker
than the heavens above lined either side of the open space. It was
reflected from the dense crowd of colored people who had collected
to inspect the guests, who for a moment were visible as they passed
from the carriage to the mansion. This crowd of boys, girls and men
seemed as indifferent to the pelting rain as the dumb creatures which
nature clothes in her own curious fashion. Once within the vestibule,
we had light and music, celebrated men and brave women. In the usual
place at the entrance of the first parlor might have been seen the
Postmaster-General, and not far removed his accomplished wife. The
Postmaster-General has a commanding person, a broad, towering brow,
and underneath it a pair of opal eyes which burn and glow with the
usual brilliancy of that exquisite gem. The lower part of his face
denotes aggressive power, as well as that unmistakable pertinacity so
necessary in a public man. He has set his face against the franking
privilege, and the chances are that the Postmaster-General will win.
No man in the United States has been so tortured with applications
for office; and if he had the photographs of all the women who have
applied to him for postoffices, and they were all laid in a row,
single file, they would reach from Maine almost to California.
Considering Postmaster-General Cresswell’s troubles, he is the most
remarkably well preserved man in Washington.
Mrs. Creswell is handsome, as well as one of the most graceful women
at the capital. Since the absence of Mrs. Senator Sprague from
fashionable society, if she must have a successor, Mrs. Creswell
seems the most available candidate for the vacant place. As an
example of her exquisite taste she wore black velvet the evening of
her reception, and no toilet is so “perfect at home.”
There seemed to be no end to the rooms in this modern mansion. In
one place a soothing weed was prepared for the lords of creation,
where they could steep themselves in smoke if they felt it to be
desirable. In another chocolate and coffee were dispensed in dainty
little cups that must have been imported from Constantinople. In
the coffee-room might have been seen the genteel Montgomery Blair.
He had a certain calm look of resignation on his face, sphinx-like
in the extreme, as if he had the strength to bide the time of half
a dozen administrations, if it was necessary, before the right one
would “turn up” for the Blair family. Ex-Secretary McCulloch was
also in the chocolate-room, surrounded by a bevy of pretty girls;
but his associates were no better than he deserved, for a better,
kinder-hearted man is hard to find. Another room was devoted to
sandwiches, cakes, and ices. In a corner of this room was seen an
immense punch-bowl, in which miniature icebergs were grating their
sides. This punch-bowl contained lemonade colored with claret. An
old lady whose veracity can be trusted, said there was just enough
claret introduced in it to counteract dreadful effects of the ice
and the acid in the beverage; that one could drink a dozen glasses
without the least painful effect. At any rate, great quantities of
this purple fluid disappeared, and no serious mischief followed.
Conspicuous among the hundreds of elegant women present was “Shirley
Dare,” the Washington correspondent of the New York _World_. She was
robed in blue satin, which was extremely becoming to her refined
face, milky complexion, and amber-tinted hair. Her dress throughout
was _comme il faut_ as one of her own fashion letters, and among all
the literary women who shine at the capital she is the one whom the
writer feels most like grasping by the hand. She is the true woman
journalist, who accepts the situation, and is willing to fight the
battle of life on the woman’s platform. She believes that in our
so-called weakness lies our strength, and that if women are only
a mind to wake up and go to work, the men will never put down the
brakes. The New York _World_ has sent her here upon as delicate and
difficult a mission as the females of olden times undertook when they
were sent out by their sovereigns to distant courts to take charge
of certain branches of diplomacy. The _World_ ought to have provided
the wardrobe, the carriage, jewels, and other important et ceteras to
match, and afterwards give her a duchy when she returns to New York
covered with scars and glory. A masculine reporter can slip unnoticed
through the mazes of society; not so with a woman. She must be able
to bear inspection. She must be prepared for any fate. What does a
man know about society after he has bathed in it? He is unable to
write a respectable society article. The great New York dailies have
tried man after man at the capital, and have finally concluded there
are some things which men cannot do. The newspapers now, in some
directions, acknowledge the supremacy of woman.
Gen. Fitz Henry Warren, late minister to Guatemala, was present,
accompanied by his accomplished wife. Mrs. Warren is a kind of
periodical star in Washington society. A few years ago, when her
husband was Assistant Postmaster-General, she was one of the
noticeable women of the capital. She reappears again, bringing
the graceful manners of the old regime, to which is added that
rare cultivation acquired only by residence abroad, and the best
gifts garnered in the passing years. Very few American women have
remarkable inclinations for intellectual pursuits, but Mrs. Warren is
found among the number.
Wending his way daintily, avoiding the long silken trains as if
they concealed serpents and scorpions, was seen handsome Senator
Carpenter, of Wisconsin. Oh! that this letter had not reached such
a prodigious length, so that an inventory of his attractions might
be made public! Let it be summed up that he is everything he should
be and very little that he should not be. Few if any of the men at
the reception had a finer presence. Colonel John W. Forney was there
also. It was impossible to find out whether he was made for the
reception, or the reception was made for him. At any rate, the fit
was excellent; but the same reason that prevents a description of
Senator Carpenter prohibits dwelling upon this specimen of his kind,
and these two last difficult subjects must be laid, for the time, on
the table.
OLIVIA.
PROFESSOR MELAH.
THE FUNCTIONARY IN CHARGE OF STATE DINNERS AT THE WHITE HOUSE.
WASHINGTON, _March 8, 1870_.