Postmaster-General--a pretty, petite woman, but not quite strong
enough to stamp her impression on the age. And yet women who have
only social qualities upon which they can rely are remembered long
after their thrones are crumbled into dust.
To-day Mrs. Crittenden, of Kentucky, has her shrine in Washington.
Her manners are quoted like the speeches of Clay or Webster. “Tell
me,” inquired the writer of an elderly lady who was blessed with an
excellent memory, “what made Mrs. Crittenden so famous?”
“I am sure I cannot tell, unless it was because she treated the
poorest slaves as though they were ladies and gentlemen.”
OLIVIA.
CHARLES SUMNER.
AN INTERVIEW IN THE WORKSHOP OF THE VETERAN STATESMAN.
WASHINGTON, _April 15, 1873_.
This article is not written with the attempt to portray that which
makes Charles Sumner the central figure of the American Senate. No
woman possesses the gift to explore his mind. Yet there may be those
who read _The Press_ who feel an interest in the material part of
his nature, and who would like to know something about his every-day
life--how he looks, how he appears, and the impression he makes upon
the womanhood of the day. The so-called gentle sex are convened in
secret now, and men are not supposed to hear what we say. We will
examine Charles Sumner in the same way that we would a picture,
whilst his fine house and exquisite surroundings may be called the
frame. Stand a little way off, because light is needed, and remember
he is seen to the best advantage in what he terms his “work-room.”
An easy chair high enough to support the head is drawn before the
open grate, and its capacious depths reflect the majestic figure
of Mirabeau, but the face was designed by his Maker expressly
for Charles Sumner. It is one of the best living pictures that
foreshadows the exceeding grace of autumn. The sense of harmony in
its highest embodiment is fulfilled; but the vision is neutral-tinted
with all the scarlet glory left out. Even the long dressing-gown with
its heavy tassels is soft, bluish-gray.
In scanning the features you realize that the artist has been trying
to follow the classical order of art. You see it in the royal head
crowned by its abundant gray hair, in the oval face, and the clear
eyes which, if you watch closely, you can catch a glimpse of the
soul within. Observe the Greek nose, and finely moulded lips, which
are never used except to make the world wiser and better. Now add the
manners of an English lord and an improvement on the polish of the
Chesterfieldian age, and we have the picture of the simple American
gentleman.
The difference between spending a morning with Charles Sumner or
learning about him through the newspapers is like quenching our
thirst at a fountain at Saratoga or procuring some of the elixir at
a drug store. It may be that your apothecary is honest, and that you
are imbibing genuine Congress water, and then again perhaps you are
the victim of misplaced information. With his permission, let us
make a visit to that model “work-room,” because Charles Sumner will
take us into the company of the famous people of the world. He will
tell us about meeting George Eliot at a dinner party, or about his
being on the same ship with George Sand. Then we can say to him with
enthusiasm: “Tell us about this wonderful George Eliot. How old is
she? Whom does she look like, and don’t you think her the greatest
intellect represented by the womanhood of the present day?”
“I think her a great woman, perhaps the greatest, but time must
decide all things connected with fame. I have a picture amongst my
engravings very much like her, so much so that it would answer very
well for her portrait.”
The picture is found. It represents Lorenzo de Medici, and is ugly to
the last degree.
“Not like that. No! It cannot be possible that her face is as wide
as it is long; that these are her eyes, that her nose, that her
mouth--why, this is the face you see looking out of the moon!”
“It may be a plain face,” says Mr. Sumner, “but then it is so strong
and noticeable, a face once seen that will never be forgotten.”
“But her hair is cut short like a man’s.”
“That is a matter of taste. You see at a glance that she lacks
vanity, which is another sign of a great woman. I also met Mr. Lewes,
her husband, at the same time. He is noted for his German studies,
but he is not so eminent as his wife.”
“About her age, Mr. Sumner?”
“That is a very hard point to settle, but without flattery I should
think her beyond 50.”
“Beyond 50, and still writing the best love stories that the world
enjoys?”
“Why not? Genius never grows old.”
“But about George Sand?”
“I met this famous woman many years ago on a steamer. We were
going from Marseilles to Genoa. Among the passengers this woman in
particular attracted my attention, because she held by the hand a
very beautiful child. I have never observed such hair on a child’s
head. It was the real gold in color, and fell to his knees, not in
curls, but in waves. The lady wore the Spanish costume. I now recall
her Spanish mantilla. She was short, we might call her thick-set, not
handsome, yet holding her child by the hand. I had a curiosity to
find out her name. She was accompanied by a tall, slender gentleman.
They kept aloof from the other passengers, and seemed to find
society enough in each other. Upon inquiry I found her to be the
celebrated George Sand. At that time she was a topic of conversation
everywhere. She made a very distinct impression on my mind. She was
comparatively a young woman. On board the same ship I was interested
in two other passengers. This time it was quite an aged couple. The
old gentleman carried his gold-headed cane and bustled around as if
it was his mission to entertain everybody. One would almost think
that he thought himself in his own house and the people around him
his guests. His aged wife was at his side, helping in the good work.
I noticed a respect shown them which age alone cannot always command.
I soon learned the man to be one of Charles the Tenth’s Ministers,
I am not quite certain which, but I think his minister of finance. I
shall always remember the extreme courtesy and politeness of these
old people and their endeavors to make everybody happy around them.”
“Did they talk to George Sand?”
“No! for the lady and her cavalier kept to themselves, and did not
seem to need any exertions in their favor.”
In the conversation about the private lives of writers, a query came
up of this kind: “Will a woman of good judgment marry a man fifteen
years younger than herself?”
“I shall have to refer you to Mr. Disraeli. I know that to have been
a very happy marriage. I met Mr. Disraeli and his wife at Munich,
when they were on their wedding tour. At the principal hotel we met
at the breakfast table. Mr. Disraeli sat by the side of his newly
made wife. He might have been, or at least looked, about 30 years
old. His intensely black hair smoothed to perfection. At that time
he had become famous as an author. Everything seemed noticeably new
about him. Mrs. Disraeli appeared like a kind-hearted, middle-aged
English woman, and Disraeli seemed the one to carry the idea that he
had drawn the prize. Time has shown how devoted they were to each
other. In the last few months we hear of his walking by her side and
supporting her tenderly. She must have been nearly, if not quite,
80. In my opinion Disraeli is one of the most remarkable men of this
age when we remember the obstacles he had to overcome to reach the
position he occupies in England. The prejudice which exists there
against his Jewish faith alone is enough to chill the most ambitious.”
A book was drawn from a side table which had been printed in 1460.
It was in the German language, and, with one exception, it is as
perfect as a book published yesterday. Its binding would shame our
best modern work.
“This,” said the man in gray, “reminds me of a conversation I once
had with Macaulay, as well as an incident of my school-boy days. The
master once said to the scholars, ‘Can any of you tell me in which
year printing was invented?’ No answer. ‘Remember, children, it was
the year which contains the figure 4 three times.’ The small brains
were greatly puzzled. At last one little fellow answers ‘1444’. When
I grew older I tried to ascertain the proof of this; but I have
never been able to find which year printing was invented. It was
somewhere about 1450, and, from all I can learn, I am inclined at
times to think the Dutch instead of the Germans made this discovery.
I remember a long talk I had with Macaulay on this subject. I
was on the side of the Dutch; he was for the Germans. At last he
proposed that we should adjourn to the British Museum and search the
authorities, and have this weighty matter decided. I did not go,
but I have always regretted it. We all remember Macaulay’s Essay on
Milton. I think it ranks with the best of his writings; yet he told
me that he regretted nothing so much as its publication; and this
proves the incompetency of authors to judge their own works.”
We spoke about the changing seasons of human life, and the writer
asked the statesman a question which lies very near to every woman’s
soul.
“Is beauty confined to one period of our existence? Infancy and
childhood are only promises; the summer is something more; but give
me the golden reality of October or the bracing chill of a December
landscape if the intellectual powers are not on the wane.”
“I have known beauty to go with the years, but this I fear is the
exception, not the rule. One of the handsomest women I ever knew was
the mother of Lord Brougham. At the time I met her she must have been
over 80 years of age. I was then quite a boy, and abroad for the
first time, and met with the kindness to be invited to the castle of
this nobleman. The manners and figure of Mrs. Brougham betrayed none
of the decrepitude of age. I never shall forget her extreme kindness
and efforts to entertain a young American. I remember that amongst
other things she brought the bag which her son wore at the time he
was Lord High Chancellor. This bag is worn around the neck of this
exalted officer of the British Government. It is an elaborate affair,
made of silk, gold lace, and embroidery. When the Lord Chancellor
goes into the official presence of his sovereign this bag rests upon
his breast, and it contains the petitions which the loyal subjects
desire to be laid before the throne. Every new Chancellor must have a
new bag, and these are always retained as the precious heirlooms of
the family. The great seal of England is always kept in the bottom of
this bag. Lord Brougham’s mother related an incident connected with
this small affair of silken embroidery:
“‘When my son Henry was in the presence of the King this bag was
crammed full of petitions, and he became very tired taking them out.
At last he said, “I hope this bag will soon be emptied.”
“‘“Empty it of everything except the great seal of England,” said his
majesty.’”
But the picture which illustrates the man is not completed, and
newspaper letters must come to an end.
OLIVIA.
WOMAN’S INFLUENCE FOR GOOD.
SHAPING LEGISLATION FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
WASHINGTON, _April 29, 1873_.
Before the present form of government was inaugurated, Washington,
in every respect, resembled a gambling or watering spa. A session of
Congress might be termed “the season.” It was called a city through
courtesy, because in reality it was only a straggling, awkward
village. The brute creation traversed its streets, whilst forlorn
pedestrians picked their way over disjointed sidewalks. The greater
proportion of its people were made up of “birds of passage.” The
citizen proper, if caught, was found to belong to one or the other
of the two extremes of the social scale. He might be of the line of
Lord Baltimore, with the blue blood of a foreign aristocracy coursing
through his attenuated frame; but the chances are that he was some
poor artisan or shopkeeper, who picked up a precarious living
existing on the double-distilled crumbs which fell from Uncle Sam’s
table.
Washington had no such electric life as Philadelphia enjoys, imparted
to her by her commerce and manufactures. When Congress expired, the
city, like a lazy bear, snuggled down to its long, snoozey sleep, and
when waking-time came, like poor Bruin, it found nothing left but its
claws. In its famished condition it took a great many strangers and
Congressmen to fill the aching void. But gone are the lawmakers and
Credit Mobiliers! Vanished the bare shoulders and Paris frippery! But
Washington, newly baptized and regenerated, takes her place in the
long line of sister cities whose foundations are securely laid by the
strong hands of her permanent citizens.
Yesterday our new legislature met for the third time. The hall
consecrated to the delegates and members of the council was filled
with well-dressed, fine-looking men, adorned with shining beavers
and immaculate boots. They occupied all available space on the
floor; they poured over long flights of stairs, and spread out in a
broad expanse of human life on the pavement below. “These,” said a
bystander, “are taxpayers of the District,” and the response came
quick, “This is the real Washington, wide-awake!”
In an upper room of the same building at the same hour the council
meet. This nice little body is called together by the governor,
a president is then elected who presides during the session, and
altogether considerable honor is evoked from a small outlay, and in
the meantime the siestas and summer comforts of the principal heads
of the government need not be disturbed.
Below, in the house of delegates, the excitement deepens. The
opposing candidates seem to have equal strength. The fight is all
within the limits of one party. The three Democrats look around as
innocently as if they were not inwardly praying for the fate of
the Kilkenny cats to overtake their opponents. Two women are seen,
each with a delegate fastened securely by the buttonhole. They
are both genuine ladies--one being the wife of a leading United
States Senator, the other known in Washington and elsewhere for
her disinterested labors in behalf of the poor and unfortunate of
her own sex. What does it all mean? One of the gentle lobbyists is
interrogated:
“We have two men up as candidates for speaker; one is a good husband
and father. He is with us in all our works of reform. He believes in
doing as much for women as for men. The other is bad--just as bad as
he can be. He loves women because they are women.”
“Isn’t that every man’s fault?”
“Oh, yes! but just look at him. He believes in keeping us women
down, denying us the rights which the Creator designed for us.”
“If we are to judge men by their looks I cannot see where the other
candidate has the advantage. They both look as if they didn’t exactly
realize the difference between women and peaches.”
The woman continued: “I know one to be a good man, and I am going to
work for him. Excuse me, here comes one of the doubtful delegates. I
must speak to him.”
The delegate is arrested in his onward flight, and proves to be one
of the ablest men in the house, as well as an accomplished gentleman.
“I learn, Mr. H----, that you are going to desert us?”
“Desert the ladies?--never!”
“I mean that you are going for Shepherd?”
“That is another thing. I have thought the matter over seriously, and
whilst I don’t approve of all the deeds done by the board of public
works, upon the whole I must give them my hearty support.”
“But you know my candidate is a good man.”
The tall, handsome biped looked down on the little woman, and his
eyes twinkled whilst he said: “We are all good men.”
At this moment the other candidate came up--the poor, bad man who had
no woman like Mungo Park to bring him milk and grind him corn.
“You know, Mr. Shepherd, that I have opposed you from the start. I
have been doing all I could; I don’t deny it.”
The great, sharp, white teeth close over the red under lip, as if a
laugh must be strangled regardless of consequences.
“I know it; but I cannot understand your opposition. I love the
ladies; I always have.”
“That may be; but you opposed our movement. When you were editor of
the _Republican_ you made fun of me.”
“But you must know an editor cannot oversee everything that goes into
his paper.”
“But the tone of the paper I complain of.”
“I do not oppose the movement of reform, but I earnestly object to
the manner in which you intend to bring it about! but I must go. I
hope you will think better of me,” and the jolly figure and winning
face disappears.
The delegate who spoke so earnestly in favor of the board of public
works pauses to be introduced to the Senator’s wife. As he is about
to depart the writer asked his opinion in regard to woman coming to
such a place to influence “legislation.”
“I rather like it.”
“Do not let your gallantry get the better of truth. For my part I
oppose it, for this reason, we accomplish nothing. Every Samson on
this floor ought to have had his ambrosial locks sheared before he
came here. Would the old Scriptural giant have held still in public
whilst that sly puss, Delilah, was engaged in her artistic work?
“I cannot think of anything that would tempt me to be found here to
influence legislation. I came with my pen to make a picture for _The
Press_, just as I shall go to the Virginia hills, with my pencil and
portfolio, when the weather becomes fine.”
“This is a serious subject; but I am inclined to ask the women to
go with us wherever we are obliged to go. I have had a good deal to
do with politics since the new government was inaugurated, and we
have had some pretty stormy times. We have had our meetings broken
up with howls and hootings, and it seemed as if anarchy had come.
One night we called a meeting in one of the worst wards of the city,
where we had all along been able to accomplish little or nothing.
I knew something out of the ordinary way must be done. So a short
time before the call was made I gave out that upon such an evening
there would be a meeting at a certain church in the neighborhood;
that a portion of the gallery would be set aside for the ladies.
The colored men were especially invited to bring their wives and
daughters. I then called upon my political friends and told them how
matters stood, and urged them to tell their wives what we were trying
to do. The ladies, God bless them! put on their Sunday bonnets and
good dresses and came out; the colored women did the same, and the
meeting in that ward was the event of the season. Everything passed
off pleasantly, and we went home better men.”
“According to your story, not quite all of you are good men.”
“Yes; in the presence of some women we are all good men; the night I
have been talking about proves it.”
All this took place before the gavel sounded. When the last blow
fell, Edwin L. Stanton arose in his seat and called the assembly
together. From various directions came twenty-two men differing in
race, color, condition, and servitude. The tall, haughty Caucasian,
with his thin nostril and flowing beard, was followed by the inky
African so lately held in bondage; but the procession was finished
by the chain which the Almighty has forged to bind the white parent
to the black one in the shape of a man in bronze. In the solemn
stillness a semi-circle was formed, and twenty-two right hands
pointed upward whilst Justice Carter administered the oath to support
the Constitution. Whilst the Judge was reading, the circle began
to melt, and when he came to the part which relates to the taking
of bribes in exchange for votes, every white man and black man had
disappeared. But that most solemn obligation was to be subscribed to
by a solitary mortal who stood like a fixed star in his place. Down
on your knees to the man who stands by the _right_! God help us! It
was the man in bronze.
OLIVIA.
THE KING REUNIONS.
ATTRACTIVE GATHERINGS OF THE NATION’S CELEBRITIES.
WASHINGTON, _February 11, 1874_.
On a vein leading off the great artery of Seventh street may be seen
a modest mansion of four stories, yet better known and more highly
appreciated in this curious city than far more pretentious piles of
brick and mortar. For more than a quarter of a century the occupant
of that point of the compass has clung to this spot and proved to
the country that the character and qualities of an American citizen,
independent of his opinions, decide his standing in the community.
Belonging to the old Democratic regime, yet always opposed to
slavery, like President Grant, he conceived the idea that it was
best “to unload to save the party.” When a member of Mr. Buchanan’s
Cabinet, he wrote a letter to Secretary Toucey, which should be
printed to-day, to show the people that the country is safe in the
hands of men of high character, irrespective of race, color, creed or
politics.
Let us modestly ask what draws the intellectual cream to the modest
house 707 H street? The press, artists, scholars, travelers, the
President, members of the Cabinet, and the portable brains of
both branches of Congress; the real heads of the Departments; the
cultivated and most highly appreciated of our Washington citizens,
go there as the “faithful” enter a Mahommedan mosque. The eye is not
dazzled with satin and ebony. The feast or collation is invisible.
Would you know the secret, reader? The master and his daughter are
the magnets, and this is the explanation. A certain human quality
is possessed by the Hon. Horatio King unlike the usual gems which
comprise our national crown jewels. He is the only instance of the
kind since our Government was founded where a man began with the
lowest clerkship, salary $1,000 per year, and was promoted step by
step, without political influence, simply by the force of integrity
of character, until he stood on the last round, a full-fledged
Cabinet minister. It was his mind that moulded, in a great measure,
our foreign postal relations as they existed a few years ago. In
manner he reminds one of the late William H. Seward, possessing in a
remarkable degree the same simplicity, dignity, and grace. Now add
the courtliness of the English nobleman without the condescension,
and the role is filled. This delightful compound makes the highest
title a citizen can win. It is called the true American gentleman.
And the daughter, Mrs. Annie King, for though a widow she retains
the family name. Who remembers Miss Harriet Lane when she presided
at the White House, her regal manners, her queenly beauty, her high
tone of character? The sun by day or the moon by night would as soon
be a subject for the scandalmonger as the accomplished niece of the
President. Have we any such women left in Washington? It is true they
are rare, but they are here, just as diamonds of the first water are
found in remote parts of the earth. The portrait of Mrs. King bears
a striking resemblance to those of Miss Harriet Lane taken when
she was “the leading lady of the land.” Mrs. King is the favorite
“American lady” with the foreign legations. Her residence abroad made
her familiar with the French language, which she speaks as fluently
as English. Some great writer has said “that all we have to show for
the civilization of five thousand years is the difference between a
wigwam and a lady’s parlor.” Let us beg to differ with the man who
wrote that. At least, before the writer gave such a final decision
about civilization, he should have come to Washington and attended a
President’s levee, a Cabinet crush, and then beached himself high and
dry at 707 H street.