covered with the china dishes ordered by Mrs. Hayes the effect
is paralyzing to sensitive nerves. No chance is given the poetic
imagination to revel in ambrosial sips and taste the heavenly
manna. If your soul is soaring to empyrean heights, you are dragged
earthward by seeing pictured on the plates the ugly refuse of the
dainties with which you are supposed to be tickling your palate. When
one swallows an oyster, who wants to be reminded of the huge, ugly
shell, a faint suggestion of a coffin? Who desires to see a shining,
scaly fish, with its pink gills already to pulsate, and be made to
remember that the fish died that you might roll one little sweet
morsel under your tongue? Who can bear to be reminded when tasting
a sweet, fresh new-laid egg, that looks as if it might have fallen
from the sky, that an ungainly old hen scratching for worms was the
origin of that egg? The pictures taken from the ruins of Pompeii and
Herculaneum may be more sensual, but in no sense can they be called
more earthly or barbaric. All things beautiful should be spiritually
suggestive. If the new White House china was the property of private
life incalculable mischief might be the result, but the crafty
Cabinet ministers and aged Supreme Judges have outlived delicate
and lasting impressions, and after the first slight shock no serious
trouble will be apt to follow; but it would be well to let Lucretia
Garfield know that if the “pitchers go to the well once too often”
or a grand collision of plates and platters should take place, such
a calamity would be accepted by the nation like the late war--a sore
trial at the time but in the long run a blessing in disguise.
If it takes so many scratches of the pen to get over the celebrated
china “designed by the highest artistic talent at home,” how shall
we manage to get the reader through the three hours that it takes
to manage the great state gastronomic feast? It is best told in the
language of one of the guests:
“I was led out by Secretary Evarts. I don’t think he would have
selected me if he could have been allowed his choice. You have to go
in the order of the Cabinet. Three hours so close to the great New
York criminal lawyer! I thought I should faint! I cast my eyes down
the table at my husband; he was below me on the other side of the
table and he looked ‘blue.’ I was just thinking what he could find
to say to the strange women on each side of him, for he never talks
to me, when I would be interrupted by one of Evarts’ questions that
would make me feel that I was on the witness stand. I can talk fast
sometimes, but I felt if I spoke except to answer him it would be
sure to be wrong, and I would disgrace the Cabinet. I managed to get
through some way and afterwards found out that I was liable to be
taken into state dinners by Secretary Evarts as long as we were in
the Cabinet. I tried to prevail on my husband to resign, to which he
agreed as soon as some other good place could be found for him.”
The Cabinet dinners are modeled on the same plan as the state
dinners, and the misery endured is in proportion to its size and
duration. The torture consequent upon the formal dinners made a hero
and a place in history for dear old Sam Ward. Of course, his dinners
were as much above those of the White House as Sam exceeded the
steward in brilliancy of conception of dainty cuisine. Sam’s culinary
reputation rests on a ham boiled with three red clover heads, and
when put into the oven to “brown” it was treated to a baptism of
champagne. The three heads of red clover have been proved to be
a fraud. Nothing was ever served on Sam’s table that was half as
delicious as himself. He is familiar with nine different languages,
three of which he spoke with all the fluency of his mother tongue.
He has been seen to put his arm around a foreign minister with all
the grace and affection with which a lover embraces his sweetheart.
Is it strange that this man became an idol to the public men whose
constitutions were impaired by the dyspeptic dinners of “high
society?” Extremes meet, and overfeeding is far more disastrous in
its remote results than a mild course of starvation. Sam Ward managed
that his guests should never be satiated. The oyster patties, like a
little woman, would be so perfect, though small, that the next course
would be anxiously awaited. “Two dessert spoonfuls of soup with a
thimbleful of choicest sherry, that is my foundation for a dinner,”
says the immortal Sam. Only people of ability were permitted to
gather around his board, and it was the brilliant conversation more
than the viands that made it appear “a feast fit for the gods.” If a
dinner was to be given to the Spanish minister the proper number of
agreeable people who speak Spanish could always be found for a small
party. Could anything be more grateful to a stranger in a strange
land than to hear his home language spoken by his host with the ease
and fluency of a native; to have the conversation adroitly turned
to the subjects which lie nearest to the Spanish heart; to drink
the blood of the grape brought all the way from Castile or Arragon?
Is it a wonder with Sam’s arm around his diplomatic waist that he
would feel as did Mungo Park in Africa when he heard the negro woman
singing at the foot of the tree that sheltered him:
“No wife to catch him fish and grind him corn”?
When one of the foreigners died it is said that he left Sam Ward
a fortune. If his cuisine was not always perfect the host himself
made up the imperfection. He had the power to throw his guests out
of their shells and by this means adding any amount of heat to the
social atmosphere. The last time Sam Ward was seen he was marching
across the Capitol Rotunda, his short, full arm around another man’s
waist, looking as much like a fat Philadelphia capon as Charlie
O’Neill. His round, chubby, boyish face and duck legs bore not the
slightest resemblance to the lobby. He is the brother of Julia Ward
Howe, the author of the battle hymn of the Republic. The same kind
of spiritual essence that enters this poem made the dinners famous,
but let no man attempt the same high art. The solitary vase has been
broken, but the odor is left and clings to it still.
OLIVIA.
BEN HILL AND ROSCOE CONKLING.
MANNERISMS OF THESE FAMOUS SENATORS AND A NUMBER OF THEIR COLLEAGUES.
WASHINGTON, _May 14, 1881_.
Over the great public squares is spread a royal carpet of greenest
verdure. Miles and miles of trees occupying the city “parking” are
flaunting their tender leaves in the dazzling sunshine; the fruit
trees are a mass of powdery blossom, whilst violets and lilacs fill
the market space with delicious perfume. The cold North blast has
ceased to blow, and from the sunny South comes the dallying wind,
laden with the breath of magnolia and orange blossom; but a cloud
which has no silver lining envelopes the National Capitol--lo! as
an iron shroud. No precedent in history arises to permit us to
judge the future by the past. Within the memory of the writer armed
legions with glittering bayonets slept upon the cushioned seats of
the Senate chamber, whilst the gallant Colonel Ellsworth, of Zouave
fame, spread his soldier’s blanket on the floor. A war as bitter and
unrelenting is being fought, but the cold sharp steel is invisible.
It is the same old fight which shook the Middle Ages from center to
circumference when the sovereign of millions threw down the gauntlet
to his feudal chiefs. Senator Conkling could not have sustained his
opposition to the President for a single day if the battle of New
York did not include every State in the Union. It was the charge
of little Rhody on the “big N.” It was to decide whether the two
stalwart Senators, like Anthony and Burnside, weighing more than
one hundred and eighty pounds each, were not able to look after the
political welfare of a State so small that it almost requires a
microscope to find it on the map. Conkling was the great general,
stationed in the rear, planning the campaign. Men of the Dawes
calibre conduct active operations in the field. To amuse the public
firing is kept up between the Democrats and Republicans, but the real
war, which means death to one or the other of the combatants, is
between the Senate and the White House.
To get a thorough understanding of the machine politician he must be
judged entirely by his acts, as a personal acquaintance warps the
judgment and destroys what might be a first-class opinion, because
the feelings are called into play. Beginning with the pages, who
skip and flit like butterflies on the Senate floor, all unite in
the worship of Senator Conkling. He never has to clap his hands to
bring a page, for the moment he begins work that would require the
service two or three of these lynx-eyed dots are at his elbow, all
anxious for the honor to serve him. The writer asked a bright little
page why the boys were so willing to do his bidding. He replied: “He
never said a cross word to a page in his life. He says: ‘My little
man, will you do this kindness for me?’ Then we all run!” Just what
the sunshine is to the physical world this something which goes from
every man and woman in a greater or less degree is what acts upon
humanity. It is not love, because it is devoid of passion. It is a
force that cannot be estimated or measured and it is given to only a
very few in any age. The great Napoleon possessed it in the largest
degree of any man in modern times.
A tall Texan comes from the “Lone Star” State and is seen in all
the prominent places in Washington. Once observed, he cannot be
forgotten, for he is of giant proportions. Colossal is the word, for
every limb and feature has been adjusted to the proper scale, as if
designed by Randolph Rogers or Vinnie Ream-Hoxie. Handsome is a word
not strong enough for justice, but is used because Richard Grant
White or the Chicago _Tribune_ has invented nothing better. The
tall Texan was prowling about the Capitol, and whether by accident
or design, the writer knows not, the Texan and Senator came together
in the dark shadows of the lobby which leads to the Marble Room. An
intense, anxious expression lighted up the features of the Texan as
he neared the New York Senator. As they came in close contact Senator
Conkling raised his arm, placed his hand around the man’s waist and
lifted it to the lofty shoulder, and whilst he drew the colossal
figure towards him looked up into his face and said, “You would not
ask me to do that.” No quiver of disappointment was visible. The two
politicians had met. Size had nothing to do with it. Matter went down
before mind and the Darwinian theory was vindicated.
Notable among the men who were prominent in the House are those who
migrated to the Senate wing and find themselves frozen stiff in
their seats and motionless as so many dead flies. If by accident
their bloodless lips are unsealed one day they only live to regret
it the next. Conger, whose “horn” is in danger of being forgotten,
sits glued to one spot and helps make an admirable picture for the
galleries. Daintiest of snowy linen covers a breast which is known to
conceal the most ecstatic emotions, whilst the costliest broadcloth
serves the purpose of drapery. All that he requires is the addition
of spices to make him a mummy that would far eclipse those of
Egyptian magic.
Don Cameron sits in his seat, and if he were a woman he would be
called “interesting.” In other words, he may be summed up as pale,
sad, and extremely nervous. The iron crown which he inherited from
his tough old Highland father is too heavy for tender temples and
weaker brain. The people of Pennsylvania can afford to bide their
time, for when the Winnebago Chief is gathered to his fathers
Cameronism is wiped off the face of the State as clean as though
it were a wheatfield in the path of the tornado; but if the old
Keystone is not represented by brains in the National Senate she has
beauty, and the poet sings, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It
is not necessary for Senator Mitchell to make himself felt--he should
be seen, and then no fault can be found.
The Senate is like an immense cave and unless a man has an intellect
like a calcium light there is no chance for him; the tallow dips
sputter for a moment, make themselves ridiculous, then go out in the
icy gloom. Except for the warriors, both Union and Confederate, the
live element would be entirely wanting. The “Tall Sycamore of the
Wabash” will never let himself be forgotten, and he reminds one of an
oasis in the Senate desert--land of the delicious date and towering
palm.
Most winning, dearest to the heart of woman, are the Senate knights
of the “lost cause.” There is a deference and courtly grace which
they bestow on the so-called weaker sex which the cold Northman may
counterfeit, but never succeed as an original. Whilst the men of
colder latitude approach woman as though she were made out of the
same kind of stuff as themselves, the Southerner makes her feel that
she stands on a higher mark in the ascending scale and that if she
is not quite “winged” she is almost an angel. Even Hon. Ben Hill
can so deftly manage a woman that she cannot tell whether she is
being pummeled or caressed, as our one solitary interview with this
illustrious statesman will prove. In an article which was published
some months ago in _The Times_, when a pen picture was being painted
of the lobby, a paragraph was inserted which said, “The queen paused
in her triumphal march to speak with Senator Hill.” In vain the
writer pleaded that a Senator was not to blame because the “queen”
had seized him. He declared that he had been “maligned” for the
reason that he avoided all women the day he made speeches, therefore
it could not be true. Again the writer pleaded that he was no more to
blame for his seizure by the queen of the lobby than a big sunflower
when a bumblebee pitches into its heart. His head could not be
reached by argument nor his heart by petition. He said the article
had been copied in a Georgia paper and used against him in the
campaign; at the same time he artlessly confessed his love for his
wife and his loathing for the “queen of the lobby.” If that Georgia
editor has a soul will he publish our heartfelt desire to cleanse
any spot which we have unintentionally cast on the Senator’s record?
These Southern men are singularly clean-handed where so many fall.
They put the pure woman on a pedestal and worship her, and if there
are any bad ones they are carried off to their lairs and devoured and
nobody hears of them any more.
OLIVIA.
PRESIDENT GARFIELD’S CABINET DAY.
MEMBERS OF THE OFFICIAL FAMILY--A SOLDIER’S DISAPPOINTMENT.
WASHINGTON, _August 22, 1881_.
A long residence in Washington proves the sad fact that “court life”
at the capital of a Republic is precisely the same as in a monarchy,
except in the change of its duration. As the time to accomplish
results is so very brief the odious process becomes more patent and
less care is taken to hide all the art and skill practiced by the
parasites who surround the Executive and who change his nature in
a very brief time unless, like “Old Hickory” or Abraham Lincoln,
he cannot be veneered by his surroundings because the identity is
too strong. When a citizen enters the White House as the political
head of the nation he never hears another familiar word. From the
august Secretary of State to the scullion in the kitchen, it is “Mr.
President.” Not only the inclination downward of the head with the
bending muscles of the knees, but even the voices of the old friends
become humble in tone and deferential in spirit. Cringing servants
in the shape of Congressmen--in fact, all other mortals who have
favors to crave--creep and crawl before the face of majesty. By and
by the strong and designing of either sex elbow all the rest away,
and form a cordon around the Executive, coloring all in the shape
of everything which reaches his ears and eyes until he is no longer
himself and is as blind as a bat hung to the walls of the Mammoth
Cave.
In proof of the above assertion the writer will give the readers of
_The Times_ a description of the last day at the White House before
the attempt was made upon President Garfield’s life. It was Friday,
the last “Cabinet day” in the annals of this administration. It was
the first day of July, hot and sultry beyond description. The breeze
which swept through the open doors of the mansion came like the
breath from an open oven. The spray from the fountain turned into
vapor in its ascending flight and reminded the beholder of boiling
geysers in a volcanic plain. Inside the White House a crowd had
congregated to improve the opportunity of the last chance before
the President should depart on his summer tour. Both branches of
Congress, Army and Navy, governors of States and Territories, with
the odds and ends of humanity all unknown to fame, were collected in
an indescribable, whirling kaleidoscope. At times the stairs leading
to the “throne room” would be turned into a cataract, but instead
of animalcules in the water it was humanity in the air. The stairs
once free from the descending mass would be instantly filled with the
same kind of material in an upward flight, to remain until hope was
dead, and the first result would be enacted again. It was understood
that the President would see the people between the hours of 10 and
12, although it was “Cabinet day.” But, alas, the “people” meant the
Cabinet officers, for not content with seeing their chief at the 12
o’clock council, it appeared that each had a little private business
of his own. At 10 o’clock, or rather five minutes after, the coupe of
the Treasury Department deposited Secretary Windom, apparently fresh
from the hands of his laundress, faultlessly attired in thinnest
of summer covering, on the Executive porch. The fragrance of a
perfumed bath still clung to his handsome person and nothing could
be compared to it but heaven’s own dew clinging to a morning-glory.
With mischief dancing in his hazel eyes and a wave of his fragrant
hand to the little woman whose duty it is to press his official name
between leaves of lavender, he disappeared. Then came Lincoln--“Bob”
the people call him, not tall like his late father, but stalwart of
limb and broad of shoulder, a strong, handsome face, which lights
up with the same expression which we all remember who had the honor
of standing in the presence of Abraham Lincoln. A moment and he
is gone. And now comes Postmaster-General James, looking neither
to the right nor the left, with his eyes bent, as usual, in one
direction. Built on the narrow-gauge plan, long, slim, shallow and
slender, ophidian and dazzling, one listens for the death-dealing
rattle. Cold chills begin to creep along the great nerve centers.
He glides up the stairs. Thank heaven, he has gone. A moment later
and a prominent governor says: “Garfield never knows what that man
is bringing about.” Stand aside! He’s little, but how he can sting!
It is MacVeigh--a Scottish chief. The tartan plaid, bare legs and
pibroch are invisible. Round, dense and compact as a bullet, with the
characteristics of Scotland which mark him as surely as the furze
that each season adorns the heather. American-born generations may
stand between him and his ancestors, but he is no more changed than
an English walnut would be transplanted to the Western continent.
Square, heavy-rigged, sitting low in the water, bearing down under
full sail, determined to reach the port in time--this is Secretary
Kirkwood. His clothes are thin and fleecy, but more sheepy-looking
than cloud-like. He perspires! One is reminded of great drops of
rain pattering on a shingled roof, only the noise must exist in the
imagination. Homely and plain as a crooked apple tree, and yet the
very shade where it would be delightful to linger. Only a rough
shell, containing the sweetest of kernels. After 11! The clock hands
point to the hour of 12. A moving tableau enters the broad corridor
from a side door. Secretary Blaine is the central figure. On his
right walks Sir Edward Thornton, in full court dress, dazzling in
decorations and gold lace. He has come to take formal leave of the
President, as he has been called home by his Queen. On the left of
the Secretary walks his eldest daughter, proudly--Miss Alice Blaine.
She is clad in pure white, unrelieved by color. A broad-brimmed
chip hat on the back of her head frames her oval brunette face, and
with her youth and grace she is a striking addition to the picture.
Secretary Blaine looks troubled and worried. The shadows have grown
darker under his eyes, while the other portions of his face are far
more pallid than of yore. His step is less elastic, but the heat must
be considered. The doors close and the curtain falls.
It should have been mentioned before that the officials who guard the
front doors of the White House have the power to assign people to
different rooms in the order which may seem to them best. Those whom
they consider of most consequence are permitted to go up the stairs,
whilst the “rabbles,” so called from want of honorary prefixes to
their names, must remain below. This is applicable to Cabinet day.
When the fortunate arrive up stairs the winnowing process goes on
again. The highest privilege is to be permitted to enter the room or
headquarters of Mr. J. Stanley Brown, a youth of 22 summers, whose
velvet cheeks, destitute of hirsute ornament or manly decoration, is
sufficient evidence of his guileless innocence and his willingness
to obey the will of others. Mr. Rose, who had been the President’s
private secretary for years when he was a Congressman, was found to
have opinions of his own, and it did not suit those who have matters
in hand to have that kind of material to manage.
Whilst Dr. Bliss has shown the country that he does not believe in
having too many doctors around, Swaim and Rockwell are the men who
keep guard at the chamber door of the President and will not permit
a friendly face to pass. As proof the following fact is given to the
readers of _The Times_: When Mrs. Garfield visited New York, before
her late illness, she invited her warm personal friend, Miss Ransom,
to accompany her. The two intended to visit the art galleries
together. Mrs. Garfield wished to have Miss Ransom’s opinion on
a picture of Alexander Hamilton that had lately been resurrected
and come to light, after lying for many years among the rubbish.
Mrs. Rockwell also went along. When the names of the august female
Presidential party were made up to be given to the press Colonel
Rockwell instructed the correspondent to leave out Miss Ransom’s
name, saying that “no names must be mentioned but Mrs. Garfield
and Mrs. Rockwell.” All the old trusted friends of the Garfields
are thrust aside, whilst Swaim and Rockwell guard the doors. The
isolation and cruelty towards the President is not the work of the
doctors, for they are only intent on killing off each other, and if
the country could be relieved of this surplus material the nation
would have cause to rejoice.
But coming back to the White House, among those permitted to wait
up stairs was the gallant Colonel Buell, who had come to Washington
after an eighteen months’ campaign in the field after the murdering
Victoria and his savage band. He waited until the Cabinet meeting
was over, and it was well on to 4 o’clock. “Better on an Indian
trail in the wilderness than the trail of a President, if this is
the experience,” he said. Did President Garfield know that this
brave, gallant soldier awaited audience at his door? The writer
believes not. Did the soldier depart with his face crisped with
disappointment? He did. Who saw the President? One woman of all
the women who hung around like the lost souls around the gates of
Paradise. This was Mrs. General Morgan L. Smith, the woman who began
a suit in the New York courts for $25,000 damages for refusing
to pay her for giving a decision of the Supreme Court in advance
of its being known through the regular news channel. Mrs. Morgan
Smith informed the writer that her interview with the President was
perfectly satisfactory. The joy stamped on her beautiful face was
sufficient proof. The soldier walked sad and dejected away, but from
the window of the Executive Mansion a woman’s eyes filled with tears
followed his retreating footsteps; and from the holiest depths of her
heart ascended the prayer that God would shield and protect him, and
give his brave soul and strong arm the strength to protect the lone
settlers from the murderous savages that infest our remote frontier.
OLIVIA.
A NEW YEAR RECEPTION.
THE DIPLOMATS AND THE PUBLIC PAY THEIR RESPECTS TO PRESIDENT ARTHUR.
WASHINGTON, _January 2, 1882_.