colored lights of the country folded their tents and stolen away from
their convention before Washington is visited by another dazzling
meteoric shower. To-day, the great national woman’s rights convention
has met and occupies its position upon the world’s stage. Senator
Pomeroy, of Kansas, seems to be the central figure around which this
planetary system of women revolve. As early as 10 o’clock a. m. a
great number of the so-called weaker sex were seen hurrying along
toward Carroll Hall, the place designated for the meeting. It was
observed by all that these early comers were not those sisters of the
community who wear silk and satin, and who fare sumptuously every
day. They seemed to come from the even plain of society; they seemed
to be the wives and daughters of the thrifty tradesmen and well-to-do
mechanics. Some of them came in timidly, and took seats near the
door, while others marched in boldly, being handsomely flanked
or guarded by the “lords of creation.” Curiosity and suppressed
mirthfulness characterized the appearance of the latter; at the same
time these men had provided themselves with newspapers, into which
they could plunge whenever it should seem the most convenient thing
to do.
In a little side room at the right hand of the platform were gathered
a handful of combustibles of sufficient strength and tenacity of
purpose to move the world, if, like Archimedes, they had only a point
upon which to place the fulcrum. This fulcrum appeared to them to
be the ballot. Before the patience of the medium-sized audience was
entirely exhausted, Senator Pomeroy filed out of the side room,
followed by the venerable Lucretia Mott, Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
Miss Susan B. Anthony, Mrs. Josephine S. Griffing, and a host of
lesser lights; some few of the latter shining on the platform by
reflection alone.
As it may be possible that some of the readers of the _Republican_
have never seen Pomeroy, a brief description of the man so long
identified with this movement may not be out of place. It must
first be acknowledged that he stood alone on the platform with this
handful of pioneer women by his side. We mean by this that no other
Congressmen were gathered there. Though Senator Pomeroy has not
advanced to the snows of age, he has outlived the fiery turbulence of
manhood. Nature did not cast him in her finest mould, but she gave
him breadth of shoulder, and a brow broad and capacious enough for
Jupiter; a brown eye, which twinkles as steadily as a fixed star; a
good-sized American nose, and a mouth which has ever been devoted
to the cause of the gentler sex, and which any woman of taste would
approve. Senator Pomeroy called the meeting to order, and then
remarked, “While one plants and another sows, it is God who giveth
the increase.”
Prayer followed by the Rev. Dr. Gray, who committed the sad mistake
of alluding to the scripture verse which says that woman was made
of the rib of a man. As soon as the prayer was finished, a Mrs.
Davis, of Philadelphia, undertook to take exception to the prayer,
but Mrs. Lucretia Mott said though the audience might differ in the
theological views, she questioned the good taste of discussing the
subject at this convention. This was oil to the troubled waters,
and peace followed forthwith. A very mother in Israel seemed this
venerable woman, now advanced beyond her eightieth year. As she
appeared before the audience in her prim Quaker garb, her voice,
pure and distinct as the notes of a bell, seemed more like the
tones of a spirit issuing from some crumbling ruin than that of a
representative woman on the world’s stage to-day. Those who remember
Thaddeus Stevens in his last days will recall a striking resemblance,
both mental and physical, between these two individuals of a past
generation, both belonging to the same State of the Union. Miss Anna
Dickinson is very much like Mrs. Mott, and it may be well to remember
that only the Quaker element, which centuries ago made it just as
proper for the women to speak in public as the men, could produce two
such marvels of oratory.
Following in the wake of Mrs. Lucretia Mott, up rose the brilliant
Mrs. Cady Stanton, of the Revolution, one of the most beautiful and
socially gifted women of the day; also a very firebrand in the camp
of the enemy. What the poet says about roses in the snow finds a
living embodiment in Mrs. Stanton. Have you never seen the heavens
aglow with purple and gold before the sunset? And who would exchange
these mellow beams for the pale, weak morning rays, or the sultry,
stifling noon? Now add a voice of rare melody, sweet, persuasive,
and enchanting as a flute, and you see a woman as potent in her way
as Queen Elizabeth; an intellectual princess “to the manor born,”
and who is fated to fill a niche in the history of our Republic. And
now, reader, you see before you a woman stern, solid, aggressive.
Her whole personnel is suggestive of the power of nature, strength,
force. You can not help but feel that the good Dame Nature for once
made a blunder. She put a man’s head on a woman’s shoulders; the
massive brain and square brow, the large gray eyes that are set
at cross purposes with each other, the clear cut, thinly chiseled
lips, that, when brought together, seem to have the firm grip of a
vise; a woman to command; a woman to suffer and die for opinion’s
sake. Reader, you see Susan B. Anthony. You see the woman who would
go to the edge of a fiery caldron, or a Democratic convention, to
accomplish a purpose. If there is a pillar of strength among woman,
upon which the weak, the degraded, the down-trodden can lean, it
must be upon Miss Susan B. Anthony. If every State in the Union
were blessed with two such women, the existing factions between the
sexes would suddenly expire. Miss Anthony is a fine public speaker,
choosing her words daintily from the pure Anglo-Saxon, and her voice
is just the kind an orator would desire.
Another woman arises to address the audience. It is Mrs. Josephine
S. Griffing, so long identified with the Freedmen’s Bureau. A
fine-faced, sweet-voiced, elegant woman. You feel that she is
thoroughly in earnest. You seem to know that she is the last one who
would seek notoriety. You feel that you are listening to a woman who
has to fight the battle of life for herself and little ones alone.
In the depths of your heart you realize that it is such as she
who breathe the breath of life into this unpopular cause; and her
well-chosen words sink into your soul like dew in the honeyed corolla
of a flower. If space would admit, other pictures might be added, but
these shall be reserved for another day.
OLIVIA.
MRS. GRANT’S TUESDAY AFTERNOONS.
JESSIE BENTON FREMONT AMONG THE NOTABLES IN THE BLUE ROOM.
WASHINGTON, _January 31, 1871_.
The fashionable season at the capital is in the full meridian of
glory. Every working day of the week is devoted by the beau monde
to dissipation. Feminine faces seamed with the scars of sleepless
nights are the rule, and plump, rosy cheeks the exception. All is
glare, glitter and pomp, and nothing home-like and substantial.
One social gathering is like another, except that the women change
their dresses; but the ideas afloat upon all occasions are precisely
the same. An exhibition of the weather takes place every day,
consequently one topic of conversation can not be exhausted. Another
subject, as Bret Harte would say, “never peters out.” Women who go to
receptions must be “dressed;” consequently the taste, the quality,
the cost of each other’s costumes afford endless food for comment.
Whilst the season lasts there is no time for reading, sensible
conversation, or reflection. The fashionable wife of a Senator has
not time to rest her corporeal frame before a fresh demand is made
upon her nervous and vital forces. In other cities of the Union the
mansions of the opulent and hospitable are thrown open because the
host and hostess desire to see their guests. In Washington this
order of things is reversed. Entertainments are official instead of
social, and the magnificent card reception of a Cabinet minister is
as cold and formal as a President’s levee. Receptions of every kind
seem to be cast in the same cruel and relentless mould. Whilst it is
not expected that President Grant should stop the ceremonies of a
levee to introduce Jones to Brown, it would seem that a Senator’s
wife, at an afternoon reception in her own little, quiet parlor
at a boarding-house or hotel, would make her two or three guests
acquainted for the time being, even though these women were foes
ever after. But no introductions take place. The hostess must be a
wonderful woman to keep three shuttles of conversation going without
occasionally breaking threads. On account of these difficulties many
of the “leaders” in the gay season invite a few particular friends
to help carry on the tasks of reception day. Mrs. Grant set the
example by inviting a number of ladies to preside at her “Tuesday
afternoons.” But in order to make everything perfect the wife of the
President orders the reserve force to come down at the last end of
the battle. This battalion consists of General Grant and as many of
the Cabinet officers as choose to follow, and if General Dent comes
trickling after in his yellow kids there is nothing left to be done
except for the sun and moon to stand still until the performance is
over. In order to fortify the ladies for the afternoon’s work Mrs.
Grant provides a dainty lunch beforehand, in the family dining-room.
A spotless cover of white linen is spread over the national mahogany.
Upon this pearly foundation rest rare and fragrant hothouse exotics.
Fruits rifled from the trees of the tropics, luscious oysters from
the smiling Chesapeake, sardines from the limpid Mediterranean, and
pastry concocted by the “incomparable Melah” lend their charms to
grace the feast provided by our “first lady” for the maids of honor
when they go to the White House to grace reception day. Being only
mortal, like the rest of us, it does sometimes happen that Mrs.
Grant and her accomplished assistants linger a little too long over
the nutritious chocolate and Bahei; consequently, callers assemble
in the East Room and stamp their feet with impatience because the
performance does not commence.
At last the hour has arrived, the doors of the “Blue Room” are thrown
open, and the play begins. Daylight has been as carefully excluded as
if it had thievish propensities. An immense chandelier hung in the
centre of the room throws a fitful glare over the enchanted scene.
Blue and gold everywhere. Blue satin damask masks the walls; blue
velvet carpet under the feet; blue and gold upholstery scattered
profusely around. Baskets of natural flowers make the air fragrant
with faintest perfume. Mrs. Grant stands near the entrance, with
General Michler, master of ceremonies, at her left, and her maids
of honor at her right. General Michler’s face lights up with real
joy at the delightful prospect before him. Not a woman of the vast
incoming throng, be she hag or beauty, but must come in contact with
him before she reaches the Mecca of her hopes. Mrs. Grant, one of the
most amiable and excellent of women, looks as if she meant to make
everybody welcome, and she puts so much hearty good feeling into a
hand-grasp that she would certainly lose caste in the fashionable
world if she was not safely intrenched behind an impregnable
fortress. She is clad in a heavy, pearl-colored brocade, embroidered
with field flowers and modestly trimmed with point lace. Mrs. Grant
has never been accused of being a beauty, and yet there may be seen
in her person a great many points which help to make the handsome
woman. She has a very fine figure, and an arm as beautiful as Mrs.
Slidell’s (and the Greek Slave statue was modeled upon the plan of
this elegant Creole rebel). Mrs. Grant has an exquisite complexion,
lovely hair, and a sincere, unaffected manner, which endears her to
every personal acquaintance. General Grant thinks her beautiful,
and, as he is the highest authority in the nation, this question is
settled. Now let the country hold its peace.
Next to the “first lady” stands the superb wife of the Secretary of
State. She is clad in palest of lavender, richly ornamented with
duchess lace. Mrs. Fish is a fine, queenly looking woman, of middle
age. Time has gently touched her, for her figure is as erect, her
complexion as faultless, and her eyes as bright as in the days of her
girlhood. A Long Island acquaintance of Mrs. Grant is also assisting
to receive. She is rather pretty, and is becomingly dressed in pink
silk, underneath white muslin and lace.
The wife of Judge Dent is also lending a helping hand in the
ceremonies. She is a Southern woman by birth, and the mistress of
all those charms for which the daughters of sunny climes are noted.
She is clad in lemon-colored silk, and her person makes a delightful
place for the eye to rest upon after long and severe wanderings.
Last, but not least, the brilliant wife of General Horace Porter
makes up the group. She is a dazzling little woman, with pearly
teeth, all her own. She may be an American, but she looks like a
French woman. Her costume is made up of pink and blue, the two colors
shaded with an artist’s brush. She is talking to some friend about
the “baby left at home,” which proves that Horace Porter is consoled
in his difficult position by a very sweet wife and a thoughtful
mother.
The guests have begun to assemble, not only in scores, but hundreds.
Conspicuous in the throng, towering like a palm in an oasis, might
have been seen the majestic form of Sir John Rose, of Canadian fame.
His fine old English face seemed alive with festive animal spirits,
sound health, and the good results of a long temperate life. He might
have been thinking of the solution of the fishery difficulties, but
his eyes did not betray the least fishy appearance as they rested
upon the fair faces and fine forms of our countrywomen. He remained
only a short time, but was spirited away by some member of one of the
foreign legations. About the time of the appearance of Sir John Rose
the President and Cabinet, with the exception of General Belknap,
descended from some unknown region and enlivened the brilliancy of
the afternoon. General Grant appeared in a plain working suit,
and his manner from the first betrayed business. Whilst he seemed
willing to take every fairy by the hand, he was very careful at the
same moment to look in an opposite direction. It might be possible
that this was a mere political dodge to gain time to be prepared
for woman suffrage; at any rate, no delicate creature could have
left the Executive presence feeling that she had been particularly
favored, and the most perfect gossip present pronounced his manner
noncommittal, as usual. In close proximity to the Chief Magistrate
might have been noticed the slender scion of a famous stock, in the
shape of the quaint form of Secretary Boutwell, of Massachusetts.
There seemed to be nothing dangerous in the appearance of the
distinguished financier except the immense size of his feet. However,
to set the mind of the country aright in regard to the foundation of
the national finances, it is here declared, upon highest authority,
that Secretary Boutwell’s extremities are precisely like other men’s,
but the huge boots have been purposely built to frighten away female
applicants for office, and bold impertinent Congressmen. Secretary
Boutwell has a fine face, a gracious presence, and can be ornamental
at times, as well as useful.
Far away in the offing might have been seen a jolly “iron-clad” who
is well known in Washington society as the gallant Secretary of the
Navy. No telescope was necessary to see him cruising about, with
his main-sail handsomely squared, and his jib-boom set in the right
direction. All at once he changes his course and bears down upon a
modest little craft that seems entirely unaware of danger. Ugh! it is
all over! No lives lost! They have bespoken each other on the wild
waters of conversation, and each hurries forward to a different port.
One of the most distinguished women who paid her respects to Mrs.
Grant, and honored the large assembly, was Mrs. Jessie Benton
Fremont, the better part of the great “Pathfinder,” of Pacific
Railroad fame. General Fremont may have found a great many wonders
in his terrific exploration, but the best thing he ever did find is
“Jessie,” and if he is ever crowned with immortal bays, it will be
because in their youth they ran away. Although Mrs. Fremont is below
the average height of her countrywomen, she has a royal presence and
a queenly face. Neither paint, powder, nor any other artifice of
the age conceals or enhances the mischief time has wrought with her
features, and her head is crowned with an abundance of snowy hair,
but her countenance is lighted up by a pair of brilliant eyes, and
the dimples that enchanted the “Pathfinder” still remain.
How shall we manage to get space in _The Press_ to describe the wives
of Congress? Every adjective and adverb in the dictionary might be
used and the work not then be accomplished. One most noticeable fact
in relation to the receptions of the winter is the wearing of last
year’s costumes. Very few new dresses are seen, and black silk was
worn by nine-tenths of the ladies who went to Mrs. Grant’s reception.
A very few trains were seen, but walking-dresses were the rule and
long dresses the exception. A great many hats were worn, but the most
elegant toilettes were finished by bonnets. Mrs. Hunter, wife of the
Major-General, wore a black silk dress and a white satin bonnet;
and Mrs. Cresswell, wife of the Postmaster General, wore the usual
habiliments of the season. It will be noticed that the taste of
American women is becoming more chaste and refined. Visiting suits
are sombre; rich high colors are reserved for the evening. But more
of this anon.
OLIVIA.
DYING SCENES OF THE FORTY-FIRST CONGRESS.
VINNIE REAM SECURES AN ADDITIONAL APPROPRIATION FOR HER STATUE OF
LINCOLN.
WASHINGTON, _March 2, 1871_.
With the exception of appropriation bills legislative work appears
to have come to an end. The mildew of dissolution is approaching,
and for the moment the whole strength of the House seems to be in a
seething state of excitement preparatory to the organization of a
new Congress. When it became lawful for a new Congress to assemble
within an hour after the death-knell of the old, a blow of utter
demoralization was aimed at the short session of the national
legislature. This law was made to Checkmate Andy Johnson; and like
many patent medicines, it may be excellent for some particular
disease, but its action upon all the other organs is mischievous and
weakening, in its tendency at least.
The Forty-first Congress had 121 members who quietly slip back
into private life. It is their last few days at the Capitol, and
they decide upon having a good time, leaving the drudgery to the
new Congress. These members will not agree to night sessions. It
is impossible to assemble a quorum, and during the days the least
possible work is accomplished. In order to show the country how a
large mountain can bring forth a small mouse, yesterday the rules
were suspended in order to put into the appropriation bill the amount
necessary for the public buildings in different parts of the country.
The yeas and nays were called, but owing to those intellectual antics
which members know so well how to perform, the root of the matter
could not be reached. The vote was taken eleven times, and after
all this manoeuvring the whole matter was laid upon the table. Over
seven precious hours of the time was wasted and the country has
nothing to show for it except its depleted purse. During the last
short session of Congress a majority of the members feel little or no
responsibility, if they are to be judged by their deportment and work.
The officers to be elected in the new Congress are Clerk,
Sergeant-at-Arms, Postmaster, and Doorkeeper. Pennsylvania is in
possession of the Clerk’s office, and there seems to be little or no
opposition to the present accomplished officer. New York holds fast
to the Doorkeeper, and at this point of the proceedings there seems
little cause for alarm. The great struggle, however, is going to be
between the contestants for Postmaster and Sergeant-at-Arms. The
present Postmaster has all the strength of the House, because he has
proved himself a worthy and efficient officer, but Sergeant Sherwood
ought to have the place, because he would make one of the handsomest
officers in the House, where beauty is at a discount; besides he
takes good care of his widowed mother, and he has but one shapely leg
and no wife to comfort him in case he is defeated. If women were on
the floor of Congress, Sergeant would be elected without a dissenting
voice, and a mild hint is feelingly insinuated that every man on the
floor shall vote exactly as if he expected at some future time in his
life to become the connecting link between woman and the angels.
But whilst the old Forty-first Congress is prostrated with a
paralytic stroke a great cry is heard from the hungry South. It is
declared that the New England and Western States are represented in
the leading offices of the House, but nowhere is the voice of the
sugar-cane heard. Louisiana and Tennessee have both lifted up their
eyes, and refused to be comforted unless room is found for one or
the other in the national council. At the same time, between the
groans of the dying monarch, merriment and feasting are heard. The
present New Hampshire Sergeant-at-Arms is busily engaged in tickling
the palates of helpless Congressmen. Across Capitol square, in a
house of modest pretension, a table is spread which would make the
President’s “incomparable Melah” clasp his hands with joy. It has
been proven beyond a doubt that the vote of Congressmen often lies in
the stomach, and with this end in view New England has been searched
for chaste white pullets to make chicken salad as thorough in its
action as a bottle of Spaulding’s glue. And yet, in the very midst
of the feasts, a member with a stomach as capacious as a cotton-gin
has shown alarming symptoms. His limbs have begun to tremble, and his
knees act like the arch in carnival time. His mouth is seen to open
without apparent cause, and a sound issues therefrom: “I say, Ordway!
Any more chicken salad? I don’t like to bet on the champagne. You can
have my vote (hic). Free country! Free carriages! Hip! hip! hooray!”
The House is still in session. The sonorous voice of the reading
clerk opens the appropriation bill and reads: “To Joseph S. Wilson,
for the valuable scientific Museum at the General Land Office,
$10,000.”
At this point of the proceedings Mr. Kelsey, of New York, declares
that Mr. Wilson is not entitled to one cent of it. Mr. Kelsey affirms
that Mr. Edmunds, the predecessor of Mr. Wilson, sent a circular to
surveyors, registers, and receivers of land offices throughout the
country, thus officially authorizing them to collect the specimens
of which this mineral and geological cabinet is composed. Mr. Kelsey
likewise declared that Professor Hayden, formerly of the Interior
Department, had donated to the Land Office his collection, gathered
during the time he was connected with the Department. In 1868 Mr.
Wilson sent a circular into the country, after the manner of his
predecessor, and all specimens weighing less than four pounds were
allowed to be sent through the mails free. These articles were
arranged by a clerk and labeled by the same, and put in paper cases,
at an expense of a little more than $9,000 to the Government. After
this plain statement of the case, Mr. Kelsey subsided, yet the House
voted $10,000 to Joseph S. Wilson for superintending this work less
than three years, in addition to his own salary. Mr. Sargent, of
California, said in extenuation of his vote that Mr. Wilson had been
a faithful public officer for forty years, and although he had a
perfect knowledge of the land system he didn’t own a single acre, and
that he was now compelled to apply for copying for members of his
family or to rent rooms for lodgings to support the same; and now,
instead of pensioning an old and faithful public servant, as is done
in every civilized country except our own, it is sought to rob him of
the acknowledgment of meritorious service.