Gerard, who was a resident of Paris, opened his salon and held what
he termed “reunions.” To these gatherings came all that was refined,
elegant, and distinguished at this gayest of capitals. Gerard’s salon
consisted of a floor of four rooms, with an ante-room. At 12 o’clock
he gave his guests a cup of tea and the same everlasting cakes, says
Madame Ancelot, the whole year round. Monsieur Gerard had no help
from his wife so far as the entertainment was concerned, for she took
her seat at a whist table and kept it until the last guest was gone.
But Gerard’s “reunions” became known all over Europe, for the man had
the talent to draw all that was celebrated in literature, science,
and art to his humble headquarters. “From Madame de Stael down to
Mlle. Mars, from Talleyrand and Pozzo di Borgo down to M. Thiers,
there were no celebrities, male or female, that during thirty years
(from 1805 to 1835) did not flock to Gerard’s house, and all, no
matter how different might be their characters or position, agreed in
the same opinion as to their host.”
Monsieur Gerard termed his modest entertainments “reunions,” and this
must be the original from whence the Hon. Horatio King took the name.
Transplanted, it flourishes at our own crude capital.
At the last Saturday evening “reunion” Grace Greenwood in her
inimitable way, gave us dramatic readings in costume. Her
personations exceeded anything the writer has seen either on the
stage or in private life. Charlotte Cushman, Fanny Kemble, Scott
Siddons, last but not least, our own Grace Greenwood, make all the
stars of the first magnitude that we have now in this particular
heaven of genius. Attorney-General Williams says that “he looks upon
Grace Greenwood as the best writer and the most gifted woman in the
country.” This decision is legal, and may be considered final. Years
ago the great and good Horace Mann said that she was not only the
most gifted, but that she was “the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen;” and his passion for her in youthful days was as pure as though
she had been a disembodied spirit. It is so rare that beauty and
genius are wedded to one soul. In the opinion of the writer, Grace
Greenwood is a handsomer woman at 50 than in the “long ago.” It is
the difference between the budding green of April and the garnered
glory of September. If her portrait was taken as she stands before
us to-day and hung in the Corcoran gallery, the spectator would say,
“This must be a Roman matron who lived before the pall of the Middle
Ages darkened the earth.” How does she look? A brunette of the purest
type, with clear-cut features, sorrowful, inquiring eyes, that shine
as though a quenchless flame burned somewhere in the solitude of her
own soul. There are some pictures which are burned into the human
mind. We shall never forget her personation of “Over the Hills to the
Poor House,” one of Carleton’s poems. The poverty-stricken outfit,
the worn carpet-bag, the iron-bowed spectacles, the gray hair. When
the propriety of “readings” was canvassed at Plymouth Church, Henry
Ward Beecher said, “Object to it! I never object to one of the best
sermons that can be preached.” From the highest to the humblest of
that goodly company scarce a dry eye was to be seen. Then she told us
what Miss Tattle, from Buttonville, saw at a “Rejective Session of
the Senate.” This was followed by that which proves man to have been
the only “created laughing animal.”
Among those who enjoyed the delightful evening were Mrs. Senator
Stewart, the daughter of ex-Senator Foote, as all the world knows who
reads the newspapers. Mrs. Stewart has recently returned from abroad
and brought back with her the polish of Continental Europe. Perhaps
she has returned with only that which she took away, for she has the
same frank, winning address that used to distinguish Madame Slidell,
and which is seen in the highest state of perfection in Madame Le
Vert, who was also present.
What is that quality which makes the Northern and Southern women
so unlike? It cannot be tasted. It cannot be described. It is the
same kind of difference which exists between a white, mealy Northern
potato and a Southern yam; a Baldwin apple and a banana in the
Northern woods and Southern jungle--but only a man’s descriptive
powers can do this subject justice.
Mrs. Attorney-General Williams was there, most talked about,
most superb woman, in some respects, in Washington. One of your
Cleopatras. Such a creation requires a separate paper, just as some
gems must have a solitaire setting. And there was Mary S. Nealy,
so well-known in letters and art at the capital. There was Mrs.
Ames, the amiable and accomplished daughter of the Secretary of the
Interior, as well as the widow of the late Admiral Dahlgren, who by
the way, is fast earning a place in literature by her perseverance
and talent. Possessing an ample fortune, a leader in the fashionable
world whenever she chooses to reign, yet, like Lady Jane Grey, she
chooses the solitude of the scholar, and delights in the labor of her
pen. But newspaper letters must come to an end, because there is no
space to write what might be said about the gentlemen who were there.
Attorney-General Williams and Senator Stewart alone are as much as
one newspaper can carry, if all their good deeds are related. So this
will end with a little paper which Mr. King read between the “acts.”
He said it had been “picked up in the hall,” in all probability where
he dropped it.
“THE GRACES.
“By grace divine we come together here,
To pass the time in pleasure and good cheer;
To study all the graces that adorn
The maiden fair or widow ‘all forlorn,’
The grace of speech, of music, and of song,
The grace of conversation, short or long.
But name the _graces_, these and all the rest,
_Grace_ Greenwood is the grace we love the best.”
OLIVIA.
CARL SCHURZ.
A FIELD DAY IN THE SENATE AND STELLAR ATTRACTIONS.
WASHINGTON, _February 26, 1874_.
Yesterday was termed what is called a “field day” in the Senate. The
opposing forces which go to make up the intellectual aggregate of
this highest legislative body met in combat, and the whole nation is
wide awake as to the result. Two men, both claiming to be Republican
Senators, both as ambitious as the Evil One when he led Christ to the
mountain-top, engaged in an intellectual hand-to-hand fight, but let
it be recorded that Senator Morton alone lost his amiable temper. But
who ever saw a chained tiger that did not lose his temper? Physically
speaking, no two men could appear more dissimilar. When Carl Schurz
is seen sitting in his seat he does not impress the spectator with
the idea of a tall man. But when he rises you wonder when his head
will stop going up towards the clouds. After he has “towered” to
a certain altitude, and all the links and kinks and hinges seem
straightened, he gives his shoulders another twist upward, as much
as to say, “Shades of the mighty Schiller! if one only could touch
the top of space!” Then there is a shake of the long, brown, curling
locks as a lion tosses his mane, for all the royal animals of
creation use similar signs and symbols. The mouth opens. It is not a
growl. The ear is greeted with the sweetest and softest strains of
the human voice. Who has ever read Oliver Wendell Holmes’ description
of those velvet and flute-like tones that ravish the soul like the
heavenly melodies of Beethoven? Carl Schurz has a voice like the wind
sighing through the sugar cane, and his classical English floats
in a sea of rhythmical measure. In manner this distinguished German
orator would not attract notice for either awkwardness or grace. The
personality of the man is lost, because the mind is fully engaged in
following his subtle thread of argument, which is fairly embroidered
with pearls of thought. “I love America! I believe in her people!
I have faith in her great future! But America must be honest. She
must be true to everlasting principle. Parties, fashions, men, pass
away, but incorruptible integrity, whether applied to nations or
individuals, remains the same in all ages, from the beginning to the
end of time.”
These words, as near as the writer can remember, were meant to bear
upon the inflation of the currency. He wishes to have our greenbacks
fixed upon a foundation so that our money will have a permanent
value. In other words, he says a dollar of the national currency is
worth eighty-eight cents to-day; six months hence it may be worth
seventy cents value in gold or silver. He believes that a nation
like this ought to fix our money in such a shape that the people
cannot be at the mercy of the sharpers of Wall street and Boston.
Why should the great American Republic have a fluctuating currency?
Is it because our greenbacks are only promises to pay, and that the
Republic may become a defaulter in the end, therefore the nation’s
notes are in a certain way just like the private citizen’s? This
mighty problem of finance requires a kind of statesmanship which has
not been brought into the arena of politics during this session of
Congress. Carl Schurz says if we make more currency that which we
already have will be depreciated.
Whilst Carl Schurz was addressing the vast audience, Senator Morton
had turned in his seat so that he sat facing the orator. Not a word
that fell from the speaker’s lips were lost to this highly gifted
product of the great State of Indiana, most noticeable and in one
sense the most interesting member of the United States Senate. We
have all read the story in the “Arabian Nights,” where the men of
a certain city had become so powerful and so very naughty that the
genii had to do something that would not destroy the men for all
usefulness yet would prevent any outbursts of wickedness or folly.
So he touched them all with the enchanter’s wand at some point below
the shoulder blades. Instantly the men lost the power of locomotion.
Whilst the upper part of their persons were alive, the lower became
black marble. But what Senator Morton has lost in one extreme, he has
gained in another, for to-day he is the strongest man who attempts to
lead in his faction of the Senate. There is something about his head
which bears a striking resemblance to the portraits of Webster, and
he is thought to be one of the most forcible speakers in the Senate.
His arguments are hurled at his opponent as cannon balls fly to kill
the enemy. But if he has a hard, rugged, sharp side to his intellect,
there is another as fascinating as that said to be possessed by Aaron
Burr or Mirabeau. Men may not agree with this opinion, because they
never can see that point of his character which is revealed to women
alone. Men see only the surface of men. It is left to women to go
down into the depths and bring up the pearls and coral.
About the audience that listened to Senators Schurz and Morton.
There was a large delegation from the House, composed of those who
have apparently taken the deepest hold of the slippery question of
finance. Benjamin Butler was there, flushed, worried, and apparently
somewhat worn in his encounter with the committee of Boston,
Massachusetts.
He had just had a conference with them in regard to the collectorship
of Boston in his committee room, and told them “hands off,” and yet
he was not happy. They, too, had come over from the House to listen;
sharp, keen Puritans, determined as so many bloodhounds. But the
nation realizes that when Massachusetts is torn by her own intestine
broils the rest of the world is safe, the Centennial will flourish,
and no possible harm can follow.
Few men have attracted the notice of the Senate and secured that
close attention as did Carl Schurz in his effort of yesterday. Even
Senator Sumner laid aside his pen and pushed back his large pile
of papers, apparently giving himself up to the fascination of the
hour. Senator Mitchell, of Oregon, sat leaning back upon a sofa in
a distant corner. He had resigned his Senatorial seat for the time
to benefit a prominent member of Congress. As he appeared, with the
gorgeous walls of the Senate for a background, no finer picture
could be found for an artist’s copy. Tall, elegant, and graceful,
with a singular purity of complexion, his head crowned by a glory
of chestnut hair, such as the ancient painters used to delight to
transfer to their canvas, large deep blue eyes, such as Raphael gave
his Madonnas. “Fell into trouble with women,” said the newspapers.
Will water fall when the clouds are moist? Will labor seek the
neighborhood of capital? Alas! Will a duck swim? Senator Mitchell is
not to blame because he is the handsomest specimen in the Senate. He
did not make himself. Suppose he made mistakes or committed mischief
before the sense of right and justice was crystallized in his mind?
Who knows anything about the temptations placed before Adonis? What
did Adam do when Eve gave him the apple and told him it would do
him good? It is true the Oregon legislature have never discussed
the subject of apples, but they sent Senator Mitchell back indorsed
by the highest authority of the State, and he has only to take hold
of legislation with heart and soul, and live the same pure and
consistent life that he has in the last few years, and the country
will honor him as one of her most distinguished sons.
Who is that leaning back in all that negligent abandon so becoming
the occupant of that particular chair? It is the silver Senator of
Nevada--the successor of Jim Nye. “Why, the man that wants my place,”
says Jeems, “has a silver mine; do you think I can beat that?” Well,
there he is, the monarch of the silver mine, watching with closest
attention the eloquent speaker. Everything about him looks as if
it had a standard value. If he should happen to trip and fall a
metallic ring would be heard, just as if a new coin was thrown upon
the pavement. A fine-looking man, rather below the medium height, but
the most perfect specimen of high and costly living to be seen in
the Senate. One can imagine him looking at the world and saying, “I
am bound to get all the comfort. My house shall be a palace, my bath
shall be champagne!” As yet he has done nothing to make himself felt
as an integral part of this august body, but is prized at the capital
because he is pleasing in manner, he is a United States Senator,
and last but not least, he is a dashing widower with a silver mine
attached.
OLIVIA.
ON CAPITOL HILL.
A VISIT TO THE NAVY YARD--THE CARROLL AND BUTLER RESIDENCES.
WASHINGTON, _September 24, 1874_.
The exclusive aristocracy of Washington is found in that part of the
city known as Capitol Hill. Upon the emerald heights crowned with
gardens and flowers, the proud old families of ancient lineage occupy
their ancestral acres almost under the dome of our beloved Capitol.
Whilst standing on the brow of “the Hill,” if the eye is directed
southward, the baronial home of the Carrolls scourges the vision with
its monastic severity. A wall as round as the arm of beauty encircles
the extensive grounds, and the haughty old castle within is a
perpetual aggression to the paint, parvenu, and pretence that spread
itself at the “West End.” The spirit of holiness seems to envelop
this elegant home. At certain hours of the twenty-four the dainty
occupants emerge to go upon their rounds of daily charity. Like so
many nuns, yet a part of the world, they bear the same relation
to modern society at the capital as the old French regime to the
Bonaparte reign. Earlier blossoms of the family tree have worn the
proudest coronets of England; and these lovely silver-haired sisters
are characterized by the same courtly refinement and queenly grace.
To the north, but within a stone’s throw of the Capitol, may be seen
the pile once known as the city home of General Washington. Within
the remembrance of the child of a dozen summers it remained as the
great statesman left it, except it had succumbed to the gnawing tooth
of Time. The high plateau upon which it was built had in a great
measure crumbled. The windows were mostly broken and the chimneys
were beginning to fall. But the hand of modern Progress seized it
and a pretentious building, made up of the old walls, now marks the
site; too large for a boarding-house and too small for a hotel,
destitute of kitchens and servants’ quarters, useless as a mansion,
but splendid as a tomb. But nothing in the great laboratory of Nature
is lost, for the ghostly brick and mortar serves to mark the hallowed
spot sacred to the memory of the Father of his Country, and no Mount
Vernon corporation can pen cows within the precious enclosure and
peddle pale fluid at so much per gallon or so much per glass.
On Capitol Hill may be found Christ Church, where Washington and
other early Presidents worshipped. The bricks of which it is
constructed were baked on English soil and tossed over the stormy
Atlantic. The antique building has none of the fancy airs of the
modern cathedral, but it is built square and unpretending, an
outward emblem of the spirit of those who gave it birth. It was
made as a defence against the elements whilst the inmates were
holding communion with the Most High. In the large, square pews
sat Washington and Lafayette, whilst the gallant Hamilton held the
slip-door that the “first lady of the land” might enter there.
Scarcely three blocks from the church is situated the navy yard, in
many respects the most attractive point in Washington, because it
is the great headquarters of the maritime power of the Republic.
Inside the grounds the visitor is treated with a sight of wonderful
naval trophies. Here are the guns captured off Tripoli when boarded
by the brave Decatur, and here not long ago might have been seen
some of the same kind of iron pots with the lid on that went down
on Cape Hatteras with twenty poor fellows aboard. Holmes, Whittier,
Longfellow, ahoy! Who will give us the story of the _Monitor_? the
triumph in the James River? the tragedy off the stormy cape?
At the navy yard the great war vessels come in on purpose to go into
dry dock and have all their corporeal troubles removed. The most
majestic object in nature is the awful face of the mountain. The
most sublime picture in art is a great war vessel lifted from the
water and placed on the land. Look at the enormous hull, with its
ribs of oak, sheathed with copper; the lofty masts almost piercing
the clouds; and yet these little pigmies, scarce six feet high, put
her points together. Certainly one is not to blame for asking if the
Lord is as small in proportion to his created works. What artist will
give us a picture of the great war vessel that was driven four miles
inland by a tidal wave, at the Island of St. Thomas? Think of a ship
buried on the land, just as though it were a mortal, and had a soul
to be saved! “Cut the ropes, and every man for himself!” rang out the
shrill command of the captain above the roar of the elements. “In an
instant,” says an eye witness, “the solid wall of water was upon us.
Oh, moment of supreme and mortal horror; we felt we were going into
the jaws of hell!”
The last ship which left the navy yard, most beloved by the writer,
was the ill-fated _Polaris_, of Arctic fame. It seems but yesterday
since the decks were trod by those who will see her no more. “Taste
that pemmican,” says Captain Hall; “don’t it melt in your mouth like
a peach? There is nothing better after you cross the circle unless
it is a tallow candle. That is the place where the Esquimaux will
sleep, small quarters, but everything is packed, even to the ice,
as you go towards the pole. This is my snuggery room for two. That
is for the doctor or a companion in case I don’t like to be left by
myself. I want you to see the nose of the ship. Seven feet of solid
wood, finished with iron, to munch the ice. See the extras that have
been sent us. That parlor organ is just the thing to cheer the men in
winter quarters.” “Have you no fear, Captain?” “I am going to find
the open Polar Sea, and Captain Buddington will take care of the
ship.” As he said this a grave shadow flitted over his face. There
was a vacant look in his deep blue eyes, as if the soul had stepped
back from the windows of vision. At this moment all that was mortal
of the ill-fated explorer was photographed on the memory forever.
The navy yard covers about 37 acres, and, besides the workshops,
contains the officers’ quarters. The newspapers announce that the
fashionable festivities of the season are to be inaugurated the first
of next month by a series of Monday morning hops at the navy yard.
Can anything be more bright and attractive? Imagine the smooth-shaven
sward dotted with historic relics of mighty achievements, and
ornamented with the same cannon balls that Henry Ward Beecher seduced
into his boyish hat, the darling “middies” in bright buttons and
smart blue coats, with all their delightful ocean pranks. Is it a
wonder the girls’ hearts are gone before they are quite sure they
have any? Besides, a sailor makes love in a different way from an
ordinary landlubber. Time is short on shore, and the moments must not
be spent in dallying. It is a kiss and a blow, and the blow means
matrimony; and God help the woman who has a sailor husband or lover.
A person was once heard to say, “My parents were married twenty-seven
years, and my father was a commodore in the Navy; twenty-two of those
years my mother spent alone on the land, for in those days no woman
was allowed on a United States war vessel. When I was a little child,
I remember a tall, bearded, rough-looking man, who used to come once
in a great while to our house, and mother would call, ‘Children, come
and see your father!’ The only time I was glad to look at him was
when he brought us a parrot.”
Leaving the navy yard, you stroll to other parts of Capitol Hill, and
soon become aware why the noble Capitol was planted on the heights,
and why the adjacent grounds towards the east were chosen as the
homes of the early aristocracy. Here Nature has lavished her most
precious gifts. Our magnificent Capitol is the public building which
dwarfs all others by comparison. Its superb front faces the homes on
the hill. Its rear, from polite necessity, must be forever turned
towards that western end, where speculation runs riot, and fortunes
have been made in a single night.
One never tires writing about the Capitol. It is pronounced the
finest architectural creation in the world, and the most costly, with
the exception of a palace in Lisbon. It represents the accumulated
grandeur of human taste, as it has been handed down in stone through
the centuries. From the Egyptian Pyramids it borrows its overpowering
massiveness, chastened and etherealized by the tone of the Greeks.
After the Roman Temple of Jupiter Stator it takes its pillared
porticoes, Corinthian in order, but here the resemblance to ancient
architecture ends. The antique temples were open courts, and the
porticoes were the useful part of the building. Before the letters
of the alphabet were invented philosophers stood on the portico of
the temple and taught the people. We have covered our open court
with a roof, and put our instructors and lawmakers inside. What have
they done? They have abolished the franking privilege, and wrested
from the Government their back pay, but they will not send the
public books to the people, therefore our modern Jupiter Stator is
a fraud. One-half a million volumes have to-day accumulated at the
Capitol. The vaults of this stupendous building are packed tier upon
tier until space can nowhere be found. Already the broad aisles are
choked, and the great highway is becoming impassable. Books! books!
like the madman’s fiends, are above, around, and everywhere. Twenty
bags full were sent to Congressman Dawes last week, and they are no
more missed than so many leaves from the forest. In a brief time the
Capitol will be stuffed with its own garbage, like a huge turkey in
Christmas time, and the economical Congressmen will be driven to the
porticoes outside. Then will return the pristine glory of ancient
Rome.
We have no Anaxagoras or Petrius, but we have General B. F. Butler,
a greater Roman than them all. As a last leap up the ladder of fame,
this distinguished Congressman has decided to become an aristocrat
and an old settler, and to this purpose he has bought a delightful
site on Capitol Hill, and is building a residence worthy of the
constructor. This costly creation may be called a stone triplet,
as three houses will be born at the same time. The first faces the
east, but its northern side salutes the Capitol. It is said this
is intended for a grand “club house,” but the gambling will be
exclusively confined to politics. All this is in anticipation of the
grand hurdle race which will probably come off in 1876. The second
house remains a mystery. The last has already been rented to the
Coast Survey for a library. Henceforth Capitol Hill claims General
B. F. Butler. He is our Congressional cloud by day and our political
fire at night. There is a great deal of legislative chaff, and only a
few grains of wheat. Capitol Hill has drawn her solitary ration and
is satisfied.
OLIVIA.
GEORGETOWN ARISTOCRACY.
THE BELLS, MADAME BODISCO, MRS. SOUTHWORTH, AND GOVERNOR COOKE.
WASHINGTON, _October 20, 1875_.