the White House during the administration of General Grant, it is
invariably found that language most vivid and eloquent is used alike
by friend and foe. The admirers find everything to order for highest
praise, whilst the enemy finds nothing too dark and threatening with
which to paint the pen pictures. By figures taken from authentic
sources, it is shown that the expenses incurred for supporting the
White House, irrespective of the President’s salary, was increased
$27,550 per year on the average under General Grant in excess of
the amount consumed under Abraham Lincoln. This vast yearly sum
was not used for decorative purposes, unless the military staff
with its brass buttons may be considered that way. General Badeau
was the historian whose duty it was to save the sands of history,
act as chief custodian of the Presidential literary preserves,
and at the same time keep all poachers away. Military rule was as
rigidly enforced as in the tented field. It not only surrounded the
President, but wrapped the whole household in its starry fold.
It seems but yesterday since the writer stormed this peculiar citadel
to gain an audience with “the first lady of the land.” After passing
the skirmish line of messengers and doorkeepers, the first real lion
encountered was General Dent. This gentleman has often been described
as made of “fuss and feathers,” a “military martinet,” but the writer
found only a genial, pleasant gentleman. Most of his military life
had been spent on the frontier, and what seemed “fuss” was only
the embarrassment which came from being transplanted from almost
obscurity to one of the most trying subordinate positions at the
White House. He was not only high chamberlain, head usher, but also
brother-in-law to the President, and this last position made him the
target for more witty newspaper paragraphs than any other member of
the Presidential household.
“Want to see Mrs. Grant, do you? What for, just to pay your respects?”
“Not altogether for that, though the respects will be included.”
“Newspaper woman! eh?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Grant wants to be written up in the newspapers.
She ain’t that kind of a woman.”
“I beg your pardon, General! I shall take no advantages of Mrs.
Grant’s courtesy or kindness, but the people will wish to know
something of the ‘lady of the White House,’ and how can I make up one
of the ‘pictures’ unless I am permitted to dip my pen at the fountain
head?”
“Can’t you see her at her receptions? I think she sees ladies
Saturday afternoons.”
“I never describe dress. I want to tell the people something about
the woman inside the clothes.”
“I shall have to turn you over to General Badeau!”
At this moment a bell was touched and a lackey, minus the military
buttons, appeared.
“Show this lady to General Badeau’s room.”
Over the tufted carpet, through vestibule and broad hall, until the
right door was reached. A smart knock, which was answered by “Come
in!”
The man with the military buttons looked up from the mass of papers
at which he appeared to be at work, and the servant at my side simply
said:
“I am requested by General Dent to show this lady to your room.”
The servant immediately disappeared through the open door. General
Badeau glanced at the writer from head to foot, his eyes instantly
reverted to the papers, and his mouth, which had never opened,
seemed fastened like those of the sphinx. The situation to the
writer became extremely painful, not knowing whether to retreat or
advance; but in an instant it was decided to stand firm without
flinching a muscle, and await the enemy’s fire. At this moment
General Badeau’s assistant kindly inquired if the lady would “have
a seat?” The seat was occupied and the foreign sphinx kept at work
on his papers. In the meantime the photograph of this foreigner was
burned into the writer’s brain. Short and thick set, with the animal
neck of a gladiator squatted upon his square shoulders, every visible
point about the man indicating his peasant origin, the grim, gray
complexion, the small, dead, steel-blue eye and neutral color of
hair, a nose which had just escaped a hook, and a mouth which nature
denied lips, but left it an ugly slit in the face, like a wound which
could not be made to heal.
The embarrassment became almost unendurable, the silence horrible,
but the writer sat with folded hands “determined to fight it out
on that line if it took all summer.” As a cannon swings on the
gun-carriage, the bore of this military arrangement was brought to
bear upon the countenance of the writer.
“Did you wish to speak to me?”
“No, sir; I came to the White House to see Mrs. Grant. General Dent
has consigned me to your care. What are you going to do with me?”
“You wish to see Mrs. Grant? That is not so easy a matter. Would you
allow me to know the nature of your business? We do not allow Mrs.
Grant to be subjected to annoyance.”
“I have not the slightest intention to annoy Mrs. Grant. I have no
favors to ask, or axes to grind. I should never have ventured over
the threshold of the White House had I understood military law. I
was accustomed to meet Andy Johnson as though he were still an
unpretending citizen of the Republic; and Mrs. Patterson allows the
intimacy of a personal friend.”
“What shall I call your name?”
A card was handed the General and he read aloud “Mrs. Emily Briggs.”
“Allow me to say a word,” said General Badeau’s assistant. “If I
am not mistaken, I think this is ‘Olivia,’ correspondent of the
Philadelphia _Press_ and other prominent newspapers.”
The writer bowed in simple recognition. The General raised his
eyebrows with another supercilious glance at the writer’s person, and
without the slightest notice of the interruption simply answered, “In
that case I shall have to turn you over to General Porter.”
Some more footfalls over the tufted floors and the office of General
Porter was reached, but the change was like that of the living
skeleton into the fat woman and mud into polished marble; of charcoal
into diamonds.
General Porter was standing in the council chamber which leads to
the room where the immortal eye sees the invisible throne. It is the
executive headquarters; where may be found during business hours the
American citizen who sways the sceptre over all that is superbly
important on the Western Continent. General Porter stood, the central
figure of a group of young officers, all handsome enough for a
tableau scene in a church charitable performance, with a grace of
manner which seemed meant purposely to obliterate the remembrance of
the ferocity of former experience. General Porter inquired how could
he serve the lady “who had honored him with a call?” The business
made known, “Certainly,” said General Porter, “I feel at liberty to
say that Mrs. Grant will be pleased to see you. Possibly she may not
be engaged at present.” A messenger was despatched and soon returned
with an answer. “I must show you the way myself,” said General
Porter, “and if you have not met Mrs. Grant I must introduce you
myself.”
And this “open sesame” was never changed during the eight years that
General Grant occupied the White House. Owing to some difficulty with
her eyes, Mrs. Grant was obliged to have a private secretary attend
to her letters and assist her in any work which would be impaired
by defective vision, and having married into the army a soldier
secretary was preferred to one of her own sex, who might in the
beginning prove to be a perfectly seaworthy vessel, but after all,
without any warning, spring a leak.
During these days a gentleman in New York made up his mind that
he would publish a book with the high-sounding title, “The Ladies
of the White House from Washington to Grant.” The writer was sent
a communication, asking for a paper on these subjects to contain
personal reminiscences, etc. Under this stimulant the author of the
forthcoming papers called upon General Dent to make inquiry about the
early life of his sister. On his recollections the incidents were
put together, but before they were mailed Mrs. Grant’s presence was
sought, the manuscript spread out for reading and correction. Mrs.
Grant listened with a most amused expression on her face. At the
conclusion she remarked, “Did brother Fred tell you all that?”
“He did, Mrs. Grant?”
“Then brother Fred does not know me! Let me tell you about Fred.
You know I am a Southern woman, was born and brought up on a
plantation. Our brothers were much older than we three sisters, and
as soon as they were old enough father sent them away to school. We
had a governess at home. Our mother directed our education, took
a deep interest in everything we learned, just as I believe every
mother should who has daughters. When the boys used to come home
at vacations we used to hide our dolls and playthings, for the
boys would break them up. Brother Fred finished his education at a
military school, and was sent away to the frontier on duty, and has
had such a hard life that I prevailed on Mr. Grant to let him come
and be near father and the rest of us for a little time. Father will
not be with us but a few days longer. Now, don’t send that manuscript
away, because it is not my true life. This brother knew nothing about
me the years when he was away.”
The book was never published, possibly because some of the papers
never reached New York.
After Eugenie was deposed from the throne of fashion as well as that
of the empire of France, _The Press_ requested that the writer should
ascertain where the ladies of the capital would look for future
models. The subject was one of interest, because Madame Demorest was
trying to set up the golden calf in the great emporium of New York.
“I think,” said Mrs. Grant, “that the American ladies are capable of
inventing their own fashions. How this is to be brought about I don’t
exactly know, but I am quite sure I shall never set the fashions. Mr.
Grant is a poor man. Ask the ladies of the Cabinet. Mrs. Fish has
remarkable good sense.”
Another time the writer had heard Mrs. Grant lament her inability
to use the eight sewing machines which had been sent from different
sources to the White House; what to do with all the patchwork quilts
wrought by humble hands.
“I do not feel it is right to give them away, but where can they be
stored? Only last week Mr. Grant had a leather picture sent all the
way from Oregon. Senator Williams presented it in person. There is no
place for it on the walls. I am sure I never saw a leather picture
before. To keep it from being harmed I have had to put it under the
bed.”
A very warm friendship existed between Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Wilson,
the wife of the Senator of that name from Massachusetts. Mrs. Wilson
was one of the noblest and most angelic of characters. A soldier who
had been one of the staff officers of General Banks had excited her
deepest sympathy. He had been dangerously wounded in five different
battles and his case was on record in the surgeon-general’s office
as a marvel that under the circumstances the man could exist. Mrs.
Wilson took his case in hand for advancement in some direction and
reported the case to Mrs. Grant.
“There is nothing I would not do to help the soldier,” said the
President’s wife, “if it lay within my power, if my word or my
efforts would effect it, but I made a resolution that no circumstance
should arise which would induce me to ask Mr. Grant for an office.
Isn’t Mr. Wilson one of the pillars of the Senate? Mr. Grant is
worried all day. There must be one place where he can have quiet.”
This last incident the writer relates as written down from the lips
of the late Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson said at the time: “Mrs. Grant is
right, and I mean to let Henry alone after this.”
When the only daughter (Miss Nellie) attended school like other young
girls of a dozen years of age, the afternoon came and her lesson was
unlearned. The carriage came to the door for the incipient young
lady, but the teacher dismissed it with the request that it should
return at the end of a half hour. The half hour came and glided
away with the lesson still unlearned. The carriage came again and
was dismissed. At the end of the second half hour the lesson was
committed, and Miss Nellie was permitted to go. The next day at the
usual hour the young lady arrived, accompanied by her mother. The
teacher began to fear she had lost her most cherished pupil, but Mrs.
Grant came to thank her for performing her duty.
“Teach her,” said Mrs. Grant, “that she is only plain, simple Nellie
Grant, subject to the same rules which govern all the scholars. This
course will have my sincere approbation.”
Through the wife of Rev. J. P. Newman, the pastor of the church which
the General and Mrs. Grant loved so well, the writer learned of the
unostentatious charity, the benevolent deeds which this pure-minded
woman has kept from the world. Mrs. Newman said: “This material
should be used after Mrs. Grant has gone, when loving friends can
speak of these truths without wounding her delicacy.” But how can a
paper be made up for publication of Mrs. Grant’s life in the White
House and leave out the key to one of the most perfect and lovely of
womanly characters. From the historic days of Martha Washington no
woman called to this highest social position has wielded the sceptre
with more dignity, good sense and grace. Amidst the clashings of
the female cabinet, which in every sense of the word has as much
significance as its counterpart, as the result is often the loss
of an official head, Mrs. Grant was as serene as Victoria on her
throne--not sustained by birth and traditionary precedent, but upheld
by the noble qualities which makes the American woman in her highest
perfection the peer and often the superior of every reigning queen on
the earth’s surface.
OLIVIA.
THE GREAT REAPER.
GATHERS A NUMBER OF THE BEAUX AND BELLES.
WASHINGTON, _December 31, 1876_.
Within the space of three brief years society at the capital has
entirely changed in tone and character. The great drawing-rooms that
were thrown open to receive guests from all parts of the civilized
world are now closed forever, whilst a new set of people are pressing
forward to blaze in the social sky as stars of the first magnitude.
Glancing at the banquet halls, deserted, one sees with astonishment
the path cut by the reaper Death. It requires no stretch of the
imagination to call to mind the grand old home of the “West End”
so long occupied by Admiral and Mrs. Powell (the latter lately
deceased), where all that was most cultivated and refined in what
is known as “Washington society” gathered to do honor to this late
American queen. Mrs. Powell was the peer of Dolly Madison, the bosom
friend of Mrs. Polk and Mrs. Tyler, and her remarkable vivacity and
piquant wit lost none of its charm in advancing years. This made her
old age just as attractive to youth as to people in the full bloom of
life. So it may be truthfully said that this society belle never saw
her scepter waning. It is true that only the ladies connected with
the Army and Navy have the opportunity to officially perpetuate their
reign. Our Republican court is so constructed that no matter how much
a woman’s success may prove to be, like her husband, she must “step
down and out,” sacrificed on the guillotine of “rotation in office.”
The closing of the Steele mansion, which became for a great many
years the “headquarters” of elegant hospitality, was caused by the
death of both Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Steele within ten days of each
other.
Mrs. Wise, the daughter of Edward Everett, made her home most
attractive to the elite of the capital, for, in addition to
inheriting to a large degree much of the talent enjoyed by her gifted
father, a long residence abroad had given her the advantage of every
social acquirement. But she, too, has joined the “innumerable throng.”
Capt. Carlisle Patterson, late head of the Coast Survey, was a
gentleman whose hospitality was boundless, so much so that his
fortune at his death was found to have melted away. But whilst he
lived what a grand good time he had.
The Myer mansion, for so many years occupied by the English legation,
but purchased by the late head of the Signal Bureau, was closed by
the last summons of its master. During his life this fairy dwelling,
with its works of art, was thrown open and enjoyed by those who feel
they “ne’er shall look upon its like again.” No doubt finer houses
will be built, and the Bonanza kings will import the ancient ruins of
Greece and Rome, but every year our receptions are growing colder,
and our “drawing rooms” resemble those held in the monarchical
palaces of the Old World.
Coming back to the closed habitations, the homes of Justices Hunt and
Swayne pass before the mind’s eye--the first closed by affliction,
the latter by death. And long will linger in the minds of our
old residents the unostentatious hospitality of the late George
W. Riggs, banker, and whose “business house” was felt to be the
safest in Washington, though avaricious. Mr. Riggs was known to be
clean-handed, and he inspired the public to believe that his bank was
as solid as the foundation of the earth.
And who will forget the kingly hospitality of our late Mayor Wallach,
so superbly assisted by his accomplished wife? The death of the
ex-mayor, followed so soon by the death of Mrs. Wallach’s father,
closes this mansion indefinitely.
Coming to the houses occupied by what is termed in Washington
“official society,” deserted within the time specified, memory
recalls the costly dwelling occupied and owned by the late Senator
Chandler. “Old Zach,” as he was familiarly called, had no taste for
society proper, but he had great respect for his wife’s feelings,
and when she gave the order that he should stand in the proper place
with his huge hands encased in white kid gloves and welcome the
coming guest it was done with the same vim and audacity with which
he would conduct a campaign. One grasp of his solid palm would put
the visitor at ease, if the ardor could be made to last through the
cooling process of passing the gauntlet of the handsome hostess. Mrs.
Chandler conducted society matters on the Victoria plan, everything
perfect, superb and grand, but the thermometers always indicated the
freezing point, unless “dear old Zach” was around to warm matters up
and infuse a little life and spirit.
Senator Carpenter, with all his faults--the mould was broken when he
went away--on the floor of the Senate could be a statesman, but in
society he had all the rollicking abandon of a school boy. Who can
forget the charming Carpenter home, the little spinning-wheel in the
parlor, at which sat the sole daughter of the house, with the flax
slipping through her slender fingers? Ah, pretty tableaux! Gone,
never to return!
Nailed to the stony turret of the celebrated Shepherd mansion floats
the yellow flag of the Orient. Within its rocky battlements may be
found that which represents in the highest sense Imperial China.
The solid walls around this legation must remind the occupants of
the famous one of their native country. It is very painful to those
who have basked in the prodigality of the Shepherd hospitality to
find them gone, and the magnificence usurped by Eastern pagans--one
hundred thousand dollars’ worth of furniture, carpets and “silken
hangings.” It would take the space of a column to describe this
modern dwelling from cellar to turret, and leave out the terrapin,
white grasses and champagne. “Boss Shepherd,” rather Alexander
the Second, just now is in eclipse. We can afford to wait until
“Batipolas” has been well stirred up, then the Shepherd will return
to his flock, who, it is said, were once well sheared. But in the
meantime our wool will grow, and if we must have a king give us one
of the Shepherd kind.
From one of the most elegant and superbly furnished Washington homes
the “Bryans” departed, to form new associations in far-off Colorado.
At the Bryan fireside used to gather the most distinguished people
known in science, literature and art. The only daughter of the
house is one of Healy’s most promising pupils, and it is safe to
say that Miss Bryan is the finest portrait painter of either sex of
her own age in this country. This compliment is not paid her by the
writer, who is unable to judge upon so important a point, but it is
the decision of men who have studied art, both at home and abroad.
The only son, a very young man, is already a successful lawyer,
and serving his adopted State in her legislature. These instances
are given to show that children reared at the capital amidst the
surroundings of the most luxurious wealth need not necessarily be
spoiled.
The closing of the “Kilbourne mansion” and the departure of the wife
and two beautiful daughters to foreign lands, which happened in the
interim, like the flitting of the Bryans, created a loss which has by
no means been repaired. “The Kilbournes” have returned, but not to
the classic home which grew stone by stone under the supervising eye
of its late artistic mistress. Beneath its hospitable roof, evening
after evening, were gathered the elite of the foreign legations,
with members of the Army and Navy and others most distinguished in
the world of literature and art. A landscape painter of no mean
ability, and a writer such as would secure her a position on any of
our leading newspapers, Mrs. Kilbourne made her elegant home the most
attractive to journalists beyond any other at the national capital.
Whilst death has been so busy with our own people, the diplomatic
circle has not been spared. Count Lita, the “society man” of the
French legation, has passed away, and his place remains vacant. Count
Lita owed his position to the relations which his sister-in-law
sustains to the present King of Italy, the husband of the beautiful
Queen Margharita. Instead of keeping quiet upon such a delicate
point, it was a matter of great pride with the late count. It seems
the sister-in-law looks after what might otherwise be an obscure
and impoverished family. Whenever the newspaper correspondents have
touched upon the theme “foreign legations,” we are reprimanded by the
officials of the State Department and given to understand that these
people are not a part of our body politic, but is that a reason why
they should be permitted to be social slivers in our flesh? The late
Russian minister, who got into debt at Newport, and then yelled for
the Russian flag to protect him from his milk woman and the butter
man, came to Washington and Mrs. Russian Minister asked why she was
so neglected socially by American women. She was told that American
ladies would not call upon the “lady of the White House” if it was
public belief that she was living with the President without the
marriage ceremony being performed. Mrs. Minister straightened up,
saying, “I am illegitimate, my husband is illegitimate, our children
are illegitimate. Now, what are you Americans going to do about it?
Is it any of your business?” She was informed that American women
would not accept the situation socially if the Czar should issue a
ukase, so she gathered up her “illegitimates” and has disappeared,
whilst the imperial dominion of the Czar at Washington is unbroken by
woman’s voice, except the little pipers of the small attachés.