the days of queenly Harriet Lane to the present “first lady” at the
White House affords an opportunity to note the different changes and
peculiar innovations inaugurated by those whom fate or accident has
called to wield the most powerful social scepter to be found upon
the face of the globe. The public need not be told that the wife of
our President has more real political power than Queen Victoria.
True, she does not ride “in state,” drawn by eight cream-colored
horses to open Parliament in person, but she waits carefully in an
ante-room, and when Cabinet sessions are over seizes upon the head
of any of the Departments, and then and there, like a Catharine or
Elizabeth, makes known her command. Mrs. Abraham Lincoln inaugurated
this excellent plan of doing business, because the exigencies of the
war wholly occupied the mind and time of the President, and it became
necessary for the “first lady” to look after the minor affairs of the
country at this particular date. To prove exactly what the writer
means, the case of the first Commissioner of Agriculture is called
up. Several crafty men put their heads together and decided to call
into being a “Bureau Of Agriculture.” Its different departments were
to be “run,” each one by its particular head, independent of the
other. It was to be a cluster of little kingdoms with a nominal head
that should be empty of ideas, possessing only one requisite, that
of managing Mrs. Lincoln and the appropriation of the public funds.
These shrewd men made the good old Quaker Newton believe that he was
among the greatest men of the universe, and while he was busy talking
“spiritualism” to our “first lady,” escorting her with his old time
chivalry and grace to the humble homes of the “mediums,” the head men
of his department were scattering the worthless seeds broadcast over
the country and making up those absurd reports which have brought
ridicule on one of the most important branches of the public service
down to the present time.
One of the most impressive and gorgeous receptions which the writer
ever attended was given by the President and Mrs. Lincoln toward the
last of this important term. The White House looked old, worn, and
dingy, for this preceded the golden splendor of the Grant regime, but
the brilliancy and magnificence was made up by the scarlet uniforms
of the Marine Band with the gilt buttons and shoulderstraps of the
brave defenders of the Union, who clustered about the capital in
those historic days. The same struggling tide of humanity inundated
the doors of the Executive Mansion, but at every turn a soldier was
stationed to keep the crowd within the limit of Mrs. Lincoln’s law.
Bayonets glittered over the daintily dressed heads and bare shoulders
of the beautifully dressed ladies who declared that “mob law” was now
inaugurated and “they should never visit the White House again, until
a change.” But if the guests felt insulted at the presence of the
bayonets what was their astonishment upon going into the “presence”
to find a genuine crown on Mrs. Lincoln’s head. It was made of gilt,
but looked precisely like those which are found on the heads of
those distinguished women about whom we read in Agnes Strickland’s
“Lives of the Queens of England.” The stones or gems were wanting,
but the tinsel and gilt were all there. There was only time allowed
to note that dear old Abraham looked down at the little “bobbing”
woman at his side as he might at a frolicsome kitten, then a cold
steel bayonet pressed the writer’s shoulder, while the military gruff
voice added: “Pass on! pass on!” Afterwards it was ascertained that
the “crown” was a harmless head-dress invented by a Philadelphia
milliner, and that Mr. Lincoln ridiculed it so severely that its
debut and withdrawal all took place the same night. It was Mrs.
Lincoln who arranged that a division of society should be made after
the guests have entered the White House. She had a door set apart
for the Judges of the Supreme Court, Senators, Army and Navy, and
foreign ministers. Members of Congress were herded with the common
people, and actually forced through the same door. When Mrs. Julia
Grant succeeded to the sceptre she realized that any distinction of
this kind would make any administration unpopular; so she decided
that all persons who entered the front door of the mansion were
entitled to the same social privilege, and all doors should be alike
to the guests. But to get over the difficulty and please royalty as
well as democracy, Mrs. Grant discovered a side door, a sort of sneak
entrance, where those who wished to avoid the crowd could pass in,
take up their positions in the rear of the “throne,” and glare upon
the struggling crowd of humanity as it passed by in single file.
With astonishment the writer learned by personal experience that Mrs.
Hayes has revived Mrs. Lincoln’s law as to the aristocracy of the
doors. Last Saturday for the first time at a public reception the
writer entered the White House. Seeing an immense crowd struggling to
go through one door, and kept back by the police, while at another in
close proximity only now and then a few were permitted to pass, upon
inquiry it was learned that a door was set apart for the privileged
few. As the hour was about to expire and it was found that if we
waited our “turn” with the crowd there would be no view of republican
royalty that day, at least, it was learned that a fat man in another
part of the mansion had the power to let even a common person slip
through the aristocratic door, and by means of that bribery which the
“minions of the press” know so well how to bestow, access was gained
the “presence” and a picture was hung on the walls of memory, to
last us as long as the soul floats down the great river of eternity.
In the same room the writer had gazed at a wonderful kaleidoscope.
Instead of bits of colored glass, it was men and women shifting about
in the hands of Time, beginning with the rare beauty and unstudied
grace of Harriet Lane as she stood by the side of President Buchanan,
followed by Mrs. Lincoln and her tinsel crown, succeeded by the
daughters of Andy Johnson, who said, “We are plain people from the
mountains of Tennessee; too much, we fear, is expected of us.” Then
Julia Dent Grant, who possesses the wonderful power of conciliating
all the distracting elements which help unite social and political
society.
It is a historic fact that the White House is modeled after the
palace of the Duke of Leister. This accounts for the lofty walls so
decorated and beautiful in frescoes that they resemble in intention,
if not in genius, the noble creations wrought by Raphael and Michael
Angelo. As the eye descends from the ceiling it rests upon the inlaid
floor, but this is covered with carpeting so thick that the tramp
of a regiment would be noiseless as phantom wings. Ebony furniture
with richest satin upholstering, candelabra which reach from floor
to mantel, holding waxen candles all ready to light, pictures on
the walls, huge baskets of flowers, with decorated pots of greenery
scattered everywhere. In a row, like school girls in a class, stood
the wives and daughters of the Cabinet officials, with Mrs. President
Hayes at the head. That it was strictly “official” was proved by the
order observed in their positions. Just as the departments are ranked
the women stood. State, then Treasury, War, Post Office, Interior
and Attorney-General. Mrs. Hayes may safely be called a “handsome
woman,” and there will none be found brave enough to dispute the
palm. A brunette of the purest type, with large, brilliant eyes that
convey the idea of surface but not depth--like a transparent window
that opens into space--a rather low, Greek forehead, over which is
banded that shining mass of satin hair. If the glossy coronet could
be improved by wave or bangs; but the dark, rich brunette complexion
forbids this modern fashion, and Mrs. Hayes is an artist in one
or more ways. Clad in rich, ruby satin and silk combination, the
corsage square and low, as Pompadour invented to call attention to
her charms, no fault can be found with Mrs. Hayes, for her dress
is as costly and showy as any worn by the celebrated beauties who
flourished in the Cabinet during the Grant reign. Mrs. Hayes has
invented a way to shake hands which ought to be known to the official
world, as it saves this useful member from crushing annihilation.
Never give your fingers to the crowd, and, instead of allowing your
own hand to be seized, grasp the unruly enemy by the hand as far as
the unfortunate thumb will permit you to go, one vigorous squeeze,
and the torment is over. All this is done on the same principle of a
collision at sea. It is the vessel that is hit that sustains all the
harm.
A plain, dignified, matronly woman stood next to Mrs. Hayes. A
lace cap--Quaker-like in its simplicity--rested on her snowy hair,
a self-trimmed black silk dress (for Mrs. Evarts has not wholly
discarded mourning for a beloved son) made one of the simplest
toilettes to be found in the crowded throng. A whole head and
shoulders above Mrs. Evarts stood Mrs. Secretary Sherman--one of
those creations which can be compared to the lilies of the field
in purity of style and stately grace--occupying the middle ground
between blonde and brunette, her tawny hair, with its natural wave
gathered in the low, Greek coil, without comb or ornament of any
kind. A simple black dress, relieved at the throat with illusion
ruchings, she seemed the personified embodiment of one of Tennyson’s
poems:
“Tall and divinely fair.”
Not a beautiful woman, but one created with so much harmony that
the whole mortal statue would have to be pulled apart to remedy
the defect. Mrs. Sherman would make a most admirable “first
lady”--the very best of all the candidates now in the field--for
in all the years of her husband’s official life at the capital her
unostentatious charity, her kindly deeds to the worthy and deserving,
have enshrined her as a patron saint in many a widow’s heart.
Imagine an English duchess who has inherited the rare beauty which
descends with hereditary rank. Why are the English nobility the
finest specimens of personal beauty? It is because its members leave
nothing undone to perfect the physical proportions of the race. Of
English origin, Mrs. Ramsey brings to the Cabinet any amount of that
material which this administration lacked most. It has already been
whispered by those who ought to know that Governor Ramsey was not
called to the war office because of his bloody record, but it was
made necessary by the deficiency in the social Cabinet, for while
a large number of these society leaders were equal to handshaking,
they were not quite strong enough to prevent masculine yawns between
the courses at official dinners. The coming of Mrs. Ramsey into the
field, even at this late day, if it does not win the battle, will
at least prevent a complete rout. Mrs. Ramsey’s long residence at
the capital, her superior intelligence and winning ways, is doing
much to retard the criticism which ended with the retirement of her
predecessor, for it is openly declared that Secretary McCrary was
hocus-pocused into a “jedge” because “Mrs. Hayes could stand it no
longer.”
Next to Mrs. Ramsey stood Mrs. Postmaster-General Key, who, in the
language of the Emperor Napoleon, would be pronounced the greatest
woman, as he told Madame de Stael “it is she who has the largest
number of children.” And yet Mrs. Key is robbed of her laurels, for
while she has only ten olive branches, Mrs. Evarts has eleven, or
did have when the Hon. William M. Evarts became Secretary of State.
Mrs. Key is large and substantial-looking, without any particular
genius in the style of dress, as her trying gown of red waist and
yellow sleeves sufficiently proved. It is only youth and beauty
that can wear theatrical costumes with becoming effect, but when a
middle-aged woman can be found to take the risk her courage should be
applauded and her wounds artistically dressed.
Just beyond Mrs. Key stood Miss Agatha Schurz, the eldest daughter
of the Secretary of the Interior, rather more than pleasing in form
and feature, but entirely destitute of that indescribable something
which makes her father one of the historical characters of his time.
The youthful girl who stood by the side of Miss Schurz might have
been the niece of Attorney-General Devens, but as there is no proof
on this point the subject is omitted.
It was Mrs. Grant who first invited other ladies to receive with
her, and in those primitive days it was often the wives of the army
officers. Mrs. General Babcock was almost always at her side. Mrs.
Grant was very “near-sighted,” and Mrs. Babcock had the faculty of
relieving any embarrassment which might come from this misfortune.
Ladies whose husbands had never been in public life, except in
the different professions, were seen by the side of Mrs. Grant or
artistically grouped a little way off. The receptions of Mrs. Grant
reminded the beholder of the picture of “Eugenie and her maids in
waiting.” True, Mrs. Grant did not possess the beauty of the charming
Spaniard, but her “suite” would compare favorably in dignity, beauty,
and grace with the same number of women found near any throne in
Europe. Mrs. Grant grouped her assistants as exquisite flowers of
different color and perfume are gathered in a bouquet, making a
tableau worth spreading on canvas. Mrs. Hayes stretches a straight
line, that reminds one of a Bible class in a Methodist meeting, or
would if it were not for the Pompadour corsage and canary-colored
sleeves, and yet all this is permissible in the strictly fashionable
churches of the day.
Is “society” improving at the capital? Alas, no! There are no social
centres where gifted men and accomplished women meet to exchange
original ideas. A few literary societies flourish, where a few
friends gather to listen to some worn-out “theme” and bitterly
complain of being “bored” afterwards. The brilliant men like
Webster, Clay and Calhoun, Ben Wade and Thad Stevens have no genuine
successors. Why? Because politics takes the place of statesmanship,
and our public men have to work so hard to keep their heads above the
muddy pool there is no time to gather and disseminate the rich fruit
of thought, consequently there is a short crop and the inevitable
famine.
OLIVIA.
VICE-PRESIDENT ARTHUR.
HOW HE WIELDS THE GAVEL OF THE PRESIDING OFFICER OF THE SENATE.
WASHINGTON, _April 1, 1880_.
It is a day of indescribable excitement in the Senate, vividly
recalling the stormy times of secession, Andy Johnson’s impeachment,
or the famous Electoral Commission. Standing-room on the floor or in
the galleries can nowhere be found. Even the vast lobbies are crowded
with a struggling mass of humanity, such as rarely gathers in the
national temple which glorifies Capitol Hill. A face new and strange
to the Washington public surveys the throng from the Vice-President’s
chair and taps with uncertain hand the official gavel. The private
secretary of the late Vice-President stands at his left to prompt him
as to the names of the Senators he is to recognize, for as yet he has
not had time to become familiar with their features or names. At his
right may be seen one of the trusty clerks of the Senate to make sure
that no official commission or omission shall follow. It is apparent
to all that only experience is necessary to make Vice-President
Arthur a model presiding officer. Except a little perplexity, there
is the ease and grace of a man instead of the noiseless machinery
which constitutes a well-preserved fossil. What the yellow, juicy,
rosy-checked peach, with the fur rubbed off, jolting to market, is to
the vegetable world, Vice-President Arthur sustains the same relation
to the fruit of humanity. There is something about his presence
suggestive of strawberries and cream, and yet this fact seems to be
completely ignored by the Senate, for the turbulence goes on just the
same. He sits in an attitude of grace worthy the painter’s brush or
the pen of the poet. Fully six feet in height, broad-shouldered, but
rounded and smoothed into curved lines which not only rival but excel
those of Cupid. A cold, haughty face is often seen, but warm, proud
features are rarely found; but here we have the exception. A high
forehead towers above the brown velvety eyes; a nose a little too
short for classic perfection; but a firm, manly mouth, with plenty of
decision stamped on it, with a width of jaw that means business in
any work it undertakes. Never since the days of Breckinridge has so
handsome a man wielded the Vice-President’s gavel, and whilst this
fact may have no significance in a political sense, in a social way
there is no estimating the heights to which it may aspire or depths
where it may be cast down. It is a great comfort to be able to rest
the vision on a diamond that has few, if any, flaws, and these not
perceptible except to the finest judges of the gems.
In a direct line, exactly opposite the Vice-President, may be seen
Senator Conkling, more winning in personal appearance than of yore.
The gorgeous tints or high colors of early manhood have been toned
down, softened, and spiritualized. Tranquillity is pictured on the
bosom of the river, but we all know the channel is running at the
same rate per minute and no time will be lost in its motion toward
the sea. Stronger than most men, stronger than women, it is the
inexorable law that the larger absorbs the smaller quantity. The kids
that would not be eaten must keep out of the way. He glances now
and then at Mahone, who sits only three chairs away, as a spoiled
child might at “puss in boots,” whilst this little man, apparently
all hair and claws, helps carry out the perfect illusion. Let us
look at this “balance of power,” as the other Confederate brigadiers
politely call him. At the first glance it seems altogether probable
that the hair has been snatched off seven-tenths of the Senate to
crown this one small man. His beard in length and density might be
mistaken for that of the Wandering Jew. He has obtained the clothes
of a much larger man, and they constitute a series of wrinkles from
shoulders to heels. He does not inspire the beholder that he is a
fraction of humanity, but that he is an uncanny contrivance, which,
if not opened with the greatest caution, will work irreparable damage
to those nearest concerned. There is neither joy nor comfort on the
face of the Republicans as they survey this new addition to their
ranks, while there is calm submission, if not positive elation, on
the Democratic side at the situation.
Don Cameron appears weary, as if tired with it all. A man must have a
peculiar organization to thrive in the Senatorial atmosphere. It is a
gladiator’s ring, where intellectual combat is the order of the day.
Woe to him that is not endowed with weapons of the keenest and most
polished kind. Though a Senator can pipe his slogan on a thousand
hills at home and carries a bonanza mine in each pocket, it will not
add a feather to his Senatorial strength. Men endowed with business
talent, even of the highest order, can find neither congenial nor
agreeable work in the Senate. Only a natural orator or debater like
Blaine or a great lawyer like Edmunds find their native element in
the stormy waters of the Senate; and even Blaine was far more at home
in the other wing of the Capitol, where his talents at all times
shone as a star of the first magnitude. It is no sign of the lack of
ability because a Senator does not rank high, but rather a lack of
the peculiar and exceedingly rare qualities which make Senatorial
success secure.
Of the new Senators Pennsylvania must be awarded the prize in point
of beauty, for Senator Mitchell bears away the palm without a
dissenting voice. In the grounds of one of the nabobs at Saratoga
there may be seen the statue of a Roman gladiator, such as lived in
the times of Nero. It is “stalwart” to the last degree. Imagine the
old statue Americanized--that is, toned down in its roughest corners,
smoothed away--a little less muscle, a little more nerve, daintier,
with a dash of Greek symmetry, and you see the handsome Mitchell of
Pennsylvania. His hair is abundant, his eyes a twinkling hazel that
rise and set with the arrival and departure of the dry goods in the
gallery, but with a modesty that is simply indescribable.
Conger, dear old Conger, is here, cooled down to the polite frigidity
which constantly pervades the Senate. He wears a white choker of such
elevated height that it grinds away at his ears in the same way that
a horrid glacier wears away the face of the mountain. A new suit of
the finest broadcloth, of satin sheen, conceals limbs of the Adonis
kind, though this last statement is more a matter of faith than
actual proof. That “horn” which the wicked Stilson Hutchins was so
fond of attacking with cruel squibs in the Washington _Post_ appears
to have gone where the woodbine creepeth, for it is heard of no more.
It is rumored in private circles at the Capitol that Senator Conger
is one of the most romantic and sentimental of men, and Governor
Foster declares that it is the only case on Congressional record
where a man is known to be madly infatuated with his own wife. When
Mrs. Conger would enter the gallery of the House it was immediately
known that Mr. Conger would soon attract all eyes by his graceful
motions and mellow “horn.” Some wretch of a Congressman would call
out: “Now, boys, we are in for it,” and there have been seen no such
scenes of suffering chivalry since Don Quixote attacked the windmills
in behalf of his beloved Dulcinea. But far be it from the head and
heart of the writer to mock at this pure and exalted flame. Rather
let us stand in the presence of this man with uncovered head who
brings to our aching vision a new Garden of Eden, when Adam was good
because there was but one Eve, and the serpent did the mischief.
In the gallery assigned the families of the Republican Senators sits
Katharine Chase Sprague--cold, stately, and statuesque as a lily,
or a bit of marble in human form. The heavily fringed waxen lids
fall over the sorrowful eyes--those large, dark almond orbs, such
as glorify the Orient. There are faces all around, but she seems as
much alone as Cleopatra in her barge floating down the dusky Nile. A
blue turban with a single bird’s wing for an ornament sits jauntily
on her auburn hair; not out of place, because youth, beauty, and
sweetness still linger in form and face. There is not the slightest
attempt at display in her simple toilet--a dark dress, severe in its
simplicity, a scarf of scarlet silk folded gracefully around her
throat. She has given no thought to her personal appearance, but has
come evidently to observe the intellectual combat which has drawn
together so large a percentage of the citizens of Washington. The
writer recalls the impeachment trial of Andy Johnson when “society”
appeared in the Senate galleries and when Katharine Chase Sprague
was the acknowledged queen. Her toilet is recalled for the readers
of _The Press_, and to-day it may be found recorded in the old files
of this paper, for the writer was one of the “staff correspondents”
at the time, whose duty it was to make “pen pictures” of the
day. A Parisian suit of royal purple velvet, perfect in all its
appointments. The detail escapes our memory, but the bonnet never
will. It was made in Paris to accompany the suit, and when placed
on her head it conveyed the idea of a single Marguerite. Imagine a
purple violet large enough to be placed on the head, the leaves bent
in bonnet shape. At the time the writer felt that her eyes rested
upon the most graceful, distinguished, and queenly woman that she had
ever seen in the Capitol or elsewhere on the face of the globe. The
writer has no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Sprague, but described
her then, as she does to-day, as she would a picture or a poem. When
it was published in the newspapers that she was engaged during the
Senate session sending notes to a Senator on the floor the writer sat
in the gallery, but saw no notes given to a page or delivered on
the floor. Year after year the writer has noticed this accomplished
woman sitting in the gallery from time to time, apparently deeply
interested in the debates, without the slightest levity or the
smallest departure from the most rigid decorum. In later years she
is rarely seen without one or more of her children. History is full
of martyred women who have been used to crush obnoxious men. When
Katharine Chase Sprague was the daughter of the Chief Justice and the
wife of a United States Senator she appeared in the social heavens
with the calmness and precision of a fixed star. Sunshine friends
have deserted her, but the star does not waver in its course. It
is the same haughty Katharine, despoiled of her throne, as true a
woman to-day as when surrounded by her fawning flatterers. It is the
flatterers of the Tuileries that have changed, and not the Empress
Eugenie.