upturned faces.” A dash of bronze reflects the last representation
of African blood on the floor of the United States Senate. In the
Darwinian political aggression the weaker must give way to the
survival of the fittest, and the feebler race will be heard no more.
Among the dusky faces in the “men’s gallery” may be seen Pinchback of
Louisiana, excluded from the floor where Patterson of South Carolina
stands. Pinchback tried to obtain a position with other distinguished
men on the floor, but was remanded to the gallery among the scores
of black men that compose the dark cloud that is always to be seen
sou’west just above the Senators’ heads. It angered him beyond
conception. Fierce passion flamed on his burning cheek and darted in
lightning glances from his keen black eyes. Could he have invoked
the power to turn himself into a huge stiletto he would have buried
himself to the hilt in the Senate breast. Oh! the blessed relief of
responsibility! His Creator made him, endowed him with the elements
of fearful wrath, subjected him to scorn, because his white soul
is wrapped up in a yellow covering! Peace, be still, sorely tried
and beloved brother, in whose veins mingle the blood of the haughty
Anglo-Saxon with that of another race. The body perishes, but the
soul circles on forever and forever.
OLIVIA.
KATE CHASE SPRAGUE.
A DINNER WITH THE QUEEN OF AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY.
WASHINGTON, _April 15, 1880_.
During the penitence of Lent, and all the succeeding time which
Congress honors the capital with its presence, society of the
fashionable form assumes a bleached or faded appearance. In a great
measure this is brought about by the absence of the swallow-tail
and white-necktie element. The assemblings are largely feminine, of
necessity, from the fact that Congress, about to depart, is wholly
engrossed with its “unfinished business.” So the courtly dinner of
state and the official reception is superseded by the aristocratic
lunch and “high teas.” At these purely exclusive gatherings may
occasionally be found musty old relics of the Army and Navy on the
retired list, whose records and shoulderstraps are fast perishing
with official mildew and dry rot; or perhaps a supreme or district
judge, for enough of this masculine seasoning should be found at
least to flavor the social pot. But it frequently happens these
lunches are attended by women alone, the hostess intending to bring
together only those who are supposed to be agreeable to each other,
at least so far as it is possible to bring these repellent atoms
into a compact mass, and oh! how delightful! Our ancestors used to
call the same kind of meetings “schools for scandal,” for no two or
more women ever did come together beyond the hearing of masculine
ears without by the merest accident a secret would be told; and in
Washington, where every spot is sacred to the death of some poor
secret, it is unnecessary to follow this delicate subject to an
ignominious end.
All the readers of the _Journal_ are invited in fancy to a high-toned
lunch at Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague’s, at her beautiful home in the
West End. Mrs. Sprague has said to the correspondents that she has
no objection to newspaper comment if it treats her justly and in
the spirit of courtesy; so her lunch is described for not only the
above reason, but because no woman in Washington excels her as lady
“to the manner born,” or can surpass her in those graces which make
her the reigning queen in her own home. If fortune has deserted her
in a great measure, all the unique, costly, and superb trappings
are here. A few terrapin, a few bottles of champagne are all that
is necessary to bring the old millionaire days back, unless it be
the presence of the young war governor of Rhode Island (God bless
him). We shall never forget the day that he came to the capital,
dusty and travel-worn, with his thousand men which he had equipped
and brought to President Lincoln in person. The capital was cut off
from the North by both railroad and telegraph, and the rebel hosts
were gathering in Alexandria, as we thought, to burn and sack the
city. Governor Sprague did not go to a hotel, but camped in the
market-place with his men. The first time the writer saw Governor
Sprague he was drinking water from a tincup and eating baker’s bread
and cold meat with his regiment; and, when we realized that this
royal prince of finance was willing to sleep on the ground and drink
from the tincup to preserve the Union, an adoration was born which
neither time nor misfortune can chill.
But, coming out from the sanctuary of sacred memories to the
lunch, for, after all, it is with to-day we must deal, for the
past is just as remote as the future. It is 12 o’clock, high noon.
An elegant table may be seen in the center of one of the most
perfect dining-rooms at the national capital. There is much in the
surroundings to recall to the cultured mind thoughts of the royal
as well as republican days of sunny France. Some ancient Gobelin
tapestry, handed down from the palace when it was occupied by Queen
Marie Antoinette, is suspended from the walls, whose threads may yet
hold her imprisoned sighs. Beautiful screens, works of highest art,
extend or shorten the space according to the caprice of the fair
mistress. Exquisite paintings adorn the wall; elaborate service of
silver and gold ornament the sideboard; a Parisian clock measures the
time in musical chimes; Persian rugs conceal the polished, inlaid
floor. Without exception it is the daintiest spot to partake of an
innocent bowl of crackers and milk to be found in all Washington.
Upon the table is first laid a thick heavy cloth, made expressly
for the purpose to deaden all sound in case a knife or spoon meet
an accident; though a dozen forks should fall they would not be
heard except for their own dashing. The sound-cloth is now covered
by Irish damask, soft and sheeny as satin; and around it clusters
eight perfect chairs. These seats are chosen for ease quite as much
as beauty, because the sitting will last all the way from three to
eight hours. Flowers alone occupy the center of the table, and these
are so artistically arranged that each guest is visible to every
other. On the table before each chair may be seen two knives of
different sizes, and a pair of forks, dessert and teaspoons, sherry
and champagne glasses, and a thimble-sized gold salt cellar. An
elaborate castor, on the sideboard, furnishes pepper, celery-flour
and all other condiments; but these are served in good time, at the
exact moment wanted, by the white-gloved, machine-like Ethiopian, who
understands a glance from the Princess’s eye and does not have to be
regulated by means of the English language.
The mistress leads the way and takes her stand at the head of the
table, with her ebony assistant at her right. The guest who is to sit
in the most honored place is called and seated by the waiter, the
next place is filled in the same way, and this is continued until the
circle is completed. This consumes but a few moments of time, the
right people are brought side by side, and in such a way as to prove
the remarkable tact of the fair hostess, and all confusion has been
avoided. After all, this lunch turns out to be a dinner in disguise,
for the first course consists of French bouillon, which is only a
very rich and nutritious beef tea. The Hoosier housewife who is bold
and aggressive enough to attempt a Kate Chase Sprague lunch must look
out that no fat swims on the top of the bouillon, for the fat had
much better be in the fire, as its presence indicates plebeianism.
Nothing can be found too handsome and costly in which to serve this
beef tea. If there are no golden bowls in the house, the next best
are such as are found in the Sprague mansion. These wonderful gems
have been brought on the backs of mules over the Ural mountains from
the heart of Persia. It is declared by some that these bowls are
made of the dust of broken garnets, gathered by the emerald hunters
when they are in quest of gems in the great Himalaya range. They are
manufactured expressly for the palace of the Shah; but during the
greenback regency a few found their way to the table of an exalted
official, and in this way have become heirlooms in a distinguished
family. These Persian bowls have never been insulted by coming in
contact with beans, or even Potomac oysters. Only clover-fed beeves,
of the amiable short-horn variety, slaughtered on the Jewish plan,
and treated by a skillful French cook, are permitted to be introduced
to these jeweled caskets. During the sipping of this delectable stew,
which must be as noiseless as a cat licks cream, the Shah of Persia,
his advent as a literary character, his strong points of wickedness
as a man are discussed, as well as the mineral and vegetable
possibilities of the venerable but distant kingdom. Even old Haroun
Al Raschid and his disguises come in. No chance for the conversation
to languish whilst the Persian bowls are on the table. The bouillon
is kindly assisted by different kinds of dainty crackers, “Havenner’s
cream” being the favorite, with French bread. But one must be very
careful, whilst toying with the spoon, not to sip too much beef tea,
else the space which might be filled with more eatable matter is all
taken up.
The Persian bowls are gone! Ah! who would believe it? one-half
hour--or as long as it takes a Buckeye or Hoosier to eat an average
dinner. So the next course is hurried on. This consists of oyster
patties, served on plates, each one different, each a hand-painted
portrait by a skillful French artist, and manufactured at the
Sèvres porcelain works, near Paris. All are costly enough to hang
as pictures and works of art on the wall. A commonplace Washington
society woman is eating her pattie from the honored head of dear old
Lafayette. Another scans the face of Napoleon I, and finds a striking
resemblance to Congressman Blinks, from the Michigan district, if
he would only clear out the brush of his whiskers and mow down the
tall grass of his moustache. Sherry, clear as limpid amber and
colored like a meerschaum pipe, has kept company all the time with
the Persian bowl as well as the medallion plates. These plates were
purchased from one of the sales of royal pottery brought about by the
decay of a branch of one of the reigning families of the old world.
The next course of sweet breads is brought in on plates designed
by the hostess as a present to the late Chief Justice of the
United States--a love offering from a most devoted daughter to
an illustrious sire. It was made without regard to cost, at the
celebrated pottery near Paris, at the same time and place a set was
being made for the Prince of Wales. No two plates are alike, but
each one is embellished with a gorgeous bouquet. The violet and
early gentian, the sweet but humble wild flowers trodden under foot
in the hoyden days of girlhood, away off in the old Ohio home, have
been caught and stamped in this imperishable form from the idolator
to the idol. What pictures of the old home-life are called up like
fast-dissolving phantoms, but as genuine creations in the invisible
world as the exquisite works of art before the mortal vision. The
white, waxen eye-lid of the fair hostess droops until the long silken
fringe sweeps the cheek. The spirit of hush! be quiet, falls upon
the guest, which the hostess alone knows how to remove. The gulf is
visible, like a hideous skull at a feast, between the days of the
young millionaire wife, designing gifts for the Chief Justice, and
the cold bereavements and change of fickle fortune of to-day.
Begone, dull care, with the sweet-bread course! Thy sweetness is
bitter and unsavory! The first of the season! Virginia mountain lamb
with green peas from Florida. The mountain lamb is served on another
“work of art,” all different, no two plates alike, and this one is
pictured with a single flower. It is a royal pink just culled from
the parent stem and thrown carelessly down. One feels like picking
it up just for one sniff at the perfume before it is smothered in
Southern peas. Now comes champagne, clear and beaded, resembling
the fluid in all probability in which Cleopatra dissolved the
pearls. A course now follows which is a cross between a custard and
charlotte russe--an infinitesimal ocean of cream between banks of
snowy paste. After this more meat, vegetables, salads on different
bits of porcelain with a history, until the ices and fruits are
reached. These are served on daintiest of majolica ware or odd bits
of crockery, fished from all the uncanny quarters of the globe.
Only think of being pinned to one spot from three to eight hours,
forced to be civil and polite at least, if not working for the title
of “agreeable diner-out.” Oh, for the blessed privilege, if one must
be so tortured, to get as uproariously drunk as did the great Daniel
Webster, with the privilege of rolling under the table like him to
snore it off. All the nations of the earth who have spent hours
eating and guzzling at table have come to that point where decline
begins. England’s roast beef and ale, and sensual time at the table
has culminated in Ireland’s horrors and Beaconsfield’s fall. The
President’s salary was doubled on account of these dyspeptic state
dinners. Congress should at once make a law placing the social
expectations of official life on precisely the same basis as that
of the private citizen. This is a Republic. We employ our officials
to do certain work for which we pay them. They should be made to
understand they are servants, and not masters.
A large lobby is engaged to get Congress to build a new White House,
because the present one is not large enough “to entertain.” Could we
build a house large enough for this purpose, for why should the few
be invited and the great mass of voters left out in the cold? Each
State is asked to build houses and furnish them for their Senators
in order that these gentlemen may “entertain.” Who will pay for the
oyster patties, the porcelain and champagne when the great new White
House dots Meridian Hill, and the States enter into competition for
the grandeur of the Senatorial castle? The human body should be
cared for because it is the finest created physical object to be
seen by the light of the blessed sun, besides being a receptacle of
the different sizes of soul as they come imported; but, as a nation,
we should not permit in the care of this mortal mould that kind of
legislation which begins in spider webs and ends in chains.
When Lucy Hayes moved into the White House she tried hard to reform
the precedents, but Secretary Evarts was too much for her. He painted
the Russian bear howling because the minister from that barbarous
frozen land might, without wine, get a cake of ice in his stomach,
and then what would the Czar say? Prince Alexis came to Washington
to attend the inauguration, walked up and down Pennsylvania avenue
with two bull pups at his side, because Secretary Evarts, or any
other human being (except royalty), were thought not good enough
to be there. Dogs were preferred to Secretary Evarts; but it may
be possible that Alexis could put the proper estimate on the State
Department, and at the same time do justice to the bull pups.
The American people should not feel aggrieved, or pull a single
feather from the tail of the national eagle because the government
at Washington has been fearfully “snubbed.” When the Prince of
Wales was in this country he planted a tree at Mount Vernon, and
was as sorrowful as Mark Twain at the tomb of Adam; but Alexis
came over and gave us a taste of the genuine Romanoff flavor. But
this could be borne, because we could have called out the Army and
Navy and charged on the bull pups, but instead of managing in this
way, Secretary Evarts took possession of the kitchen of the White
House, forced Lucy Hayes to stultify her convictions, and instead
of making the Executive Mansion the reflection of the purity and
wisdom of a Christian, sensible, high-toned woman, he brought the
wornout bestiality of monarchical Europe as represented by its agents
here, and made our administration conform to it. Is it a wonder the
bull pups take precedence? Nations, like individuals, must respect
themselves. When another good woman like Lucy Webb Hayes, united to
a great one, such as Queen Elizabeth or Empress Catherine, finds
herself wife of the President of the United States, our impotent
and costly plenipotentiary foreign missions will be abolished.
Established as long ago as feudalism was in its cradle, when it was
necessary to have spies in every court of Europe to bolster up each
despotic dynasty, what sympathy, or how can a Republic consistently
approve such positions?
Let us have a sprinkling of honest commercial consuls wherever
they are needed on the earth’s surface; pay them a generous living
salary, and the instant they are found coquetting with “fees,” cut
off their official heads. The Augean stables cleaned by Hercules
needed purification no more than our white-gloved, daintily-perfumed
State Department. When it is remembered that the handful of men sent
out from their respective governments to attend to business, who
are dignified with the sounding title “foreign legations,” are only
polite to our officials, but “snub” all the sovereign people, are
the ones who, while they sneer at us, set all our fashions, dictate
our manners, steal our rich American girls, and, through Secretary
Evarts, order champagne at the White House. This would be unbearable
except for the bull pups that were imported to supersede Secretary
Evarts. This proves that every cloud hath a silver lining; for the
pups were as white as the glistening ice of the Neva.
The _Journal_ comes now regular; I am very much pleased with it.
It is what I call a live paper. Hon. Edward McPherson, late of the
Philadelphia _Press_, was at my house the other evening, and he said
it was the best paper published in the West. I was very glad to hear
him say so, because he has excellent judgment, and it is a great
honor to be connected with an able newspaper.
OLIVIA.
LACK OF A LEADER.
SOCIETY WITHOUT A RULING SPIRIT TO TAKE THE INITIATIVE.
WASHINGTON, _February 18, 1881_.
It takes the most exquisite kind of courage to paint truthful views
of life as it is pictured on the social boards at Washington. If
the well-known society writers would furnish the newspapers with
faithful kaleidoscopes of the “day’s doings” they would be banished
or, like Othello, they would “find their occupation gone.” It is the
small sins of “high life” which weaken the constitution of society;
lack of moral courage, love of finery, gilt and glitter, envy and
jealousy, and the enjoyment of slander. When the most beautiful and
accomplished leader at the capital became the shining mark at which
the quivering arrows of condemnation were hurled, have any of the
women who used to bask in the sunshine of her queenly hospitality
said one word in her defense? One would suppose that after years
of smiling and caressing this monster of society, after lavishing
tens of thousands of dollars upon it, one brave, strong utterance,
one loving word might come back in return. Where are the women
who have smirked and basked in the shadows of the dead and dying
administrations? What niche will their minds fill in history? We have
railroad kings and bonanza emperors and money grabbers in place of
statesmen, by the score; but where are the drawing rooms such as Lady
Blessington’s, or the famous salon of Madame de Stael, which has an
existence to-day far more substantial than the daily receptions at
the capital. Instead of cultivating their minds the “society women”
at Washington are expending the last show of vitality in the adorning
of their bodies. Flitting from one “palatial mansion” to another,
from “sunny morn to dewy eve,” these human butterflies make no more
impression on the world at large than the moths which they so much
resemble. Whilst as a general rule the society women have politicians
for husbands, it does not always follow that all the politicians have
“society” wives. Such accomplished women as Mrs. George F. Edmunds,
of Vermont, or Mrs. Thomas F. Bayard, of Delaware, will always be
found, and, like the men at the pumps, will keep the old worm-eaten
hulk of Washington society from going to the bottom.
Since the retirement of the superb Katharine Chase Sprague “society,”
in a blundering way, manages to get along without an acknowledged
“head.” If the beautiful and accomplished woman is found, the immense
wealth is lacking, for no woman can be a successful “leader” unless
she has beauty, brains, and money. To a great extent beauty can be
spared, because its loss can be made up by the artistic skill which
the brain power will utilize. Just as a general must have the sinews
of war to carry on a vigorous campaign, a society leader must be
thoroughly equipped, for if the means to accomplish a certain result
are somewhat different the end amounts to just about the same. The
coming of the bonanza wives is watched with the most intense anxiety.
The question is asked: “Has she the qualities to command or will
inefficiency and cowardice consign her to the ranks?” A member of
Congress was regretting his inability to be present at the Art Club
reception. He said he “had reason to believe that in such an assembly
he could find a relief or change from the political treadmill where
he was forced to be at his post every day.” When his attention was
called to the stately card receptions of almost every night, he
replied: “I hate them; there is nothing there but clothes.” These
were the words from no brain-distorted, dyspeptic Bostonian, but a
Western man, in the full sap of existence, who would naturally be
supposed to cling to the woman who could show the handsomest amount
of shoulder to the square inch. Both General Garfield and Senator
Blaine have declared that relief comes to the tired, over-worked
brain by changing the train of thought, and not by dabbling in
inanity. This proves that the doll’s occupation is gone. The woman
of the nineteenth century must shake from her dormant brain the dust
of ages and develop her power in precisely the same ratio as man
makes the most of his. Almighty God has made the orbit of the sexes
parallel, but they can never intersect.
All that which comes under the head of “formal ceremony” at the
capital, such as state dinners at the White House, are faithful
copies of foreign courts, or rather the tattered fragments of the
manners of old baronial time under William the Conqueror, when the
feudal chiefs were served first and their retainers were permitted
to scramble on the floor for the bones. It is true the bones are
not thrown under the White House table, for the world grows neater
in its old age; but should a President entertain Victoria at dinner
“etiquette” or the spirit of the old barbarians declares the
President must be helped first. Instead of the American gentleman
at his own table, where the example of private life should be the
model for the public manners of a Republic, we have just enough of
the old leaven of monarchy working that any child can smell the odor
after a short stay in Washington. Nothing more terrible socially can
be conceived than one of these cold, formal state dinners at the
White House. It is not a company made up of breathing, living men
and women, but is the masculine bones of the awful Department of
State, with the feminine anatomy clutched for a brief hour from the
highest judicial ermine. It is the ponderous Treasury Department,
with its legs crossed under the Presidential mahogany. In preceding
administrations the victims were allowed to drown their sorrows in
wine, and by the time the fifth or sixth course came ’round the War
and Navy Departments were prepared for the most desperate action
on sea or shore. Only from twelve to nineteen inches table room is
allowed a guest, and the steward of the White House, instead of the
tailor, decides on the breadth of the anatomy. To the great credit of
the State of New York it has been found that Secretary Evarts could
be wedged in between a couple of Supreme Judges without diminishing
the size of the table in the least, but he refuses to be a third
party to this kind of an alliance, because there is no precedence of
the kind to be found in the archives of the State Department.