mansion opened their portals to receive the gorgeous pageant that
inaugurates the President’s first official reception of the New
Year. Thoroughly renovated and partially refurnished, the old
historic building appears like an antiquated belle rejuvenated by
the modern accessories of the toilet. Oriental designs, artistically
arranged, give the surroundings a magnificence never attained since a
former White House mistress died. The Red Parlor, where the foreign
legations assembled previous to their presentation to the President,
has been recently furnished in modern style and with exquisite taste.
From the lofty windows fall cascades of ruby velvet and real lace.
The furniture is upholstered in ruby plush, and the prevailing tints
of the Persian rugs, which cover a large proportion of the floor,
have been chosen to harmonize with the ruby surroundings. Potted
plants, but not in profusion, were used to ornament the tall mantels
and pedestals purposely placed for their reception.
Another marked feature was the absence of the police until the
immense unofficial crowd began to pour through the corridor. Then the
necessity of keeping the living river within its proper bounds became
apparent to the crowd itself, and good nature and kind words for the
President were heard on every side.
A New Year’s reception at the White House forms a picture on the mind
never to be forgotten. Precisely at the hour appointed the foreign
legations began to assemble and in a brief time the Red Room was
filled to overflowing with representatives of the different civilized
nations of the globe. The gorgeous costumes worn by these people can
only be compared to the plumage of birds which infest the tropical
forests. The appearance of the English diplomat is among the most
subdued.
The French minister, M. Maxime Outrey, appeared in the usual court
dress which the French Republic has adopted. In the dim light
its hue could not be detected except that it was very dark, with
semi-military appearance. The pants were ornamented with a broad
gilt band up the side, with a limited quantity of gilt embroidery.
His chapeau, which he carried, looked like that worn by Napoleon
I. Monsieur Outrey seemed particularly engaged in playing oak to
the vine, for on his arm clung winsome Madame Outrey, clad in a
long-trained black velvet dress. When the old minister was balancing
his dignity before the red fez of Turkey, the madame, in the sweet
language of her native land, had asked after all the seraglios on the
banks of the Bosphorus. But the most charming face and figure which
shone in the diplomatic throng belonged to Miss Sackville-West, the
daughter of the new English minister. In the absence of her father
she appeared with one of the attaches of the legation. Imagine a
slight, girlish figure, yet perfect in development as a rose in full
bloom, with a face cast in the most aristocratic mould, low brow,
full, large, almond-shaped eyes, classic nose, the saucy, short
upper lip and wonderfully chiseled chin, all animated by the highest
grace of expression. If the haughty Victoria has ever looked upon
this dainty subject she will not bear too heavily on the lineage of
the Sackville-Wests. Miss West was clad in a heavy dark green satin
walking dress, with a simple Fanchon bonnet to match, and amidst all
the pomp and splendor her presence brought the same sweet emotions
which come to mind with an English daisy.
In picturesque effect imperial China glowed in the Red Room like
a fireplace in the dark. An imposing figure, clad in a blue satin
petticoat, surmounted by a cap, from which trailed gracefully that
which might have been clipped from Pegasus. It is said this Chinese
minister is of the highest rank ever sent out of his own country,
his person more fully representing the permanency, the fixity of
purpose, of his imperial master than any of his predecessors. Closely
following the mandarin comes South America--land of political turmoil
and earthquakes. All these ministers appear to be the descendants of
Cortez. A genuine Spanish grandee is represented by Señor Don Simon
Camancho, from Venezuela. He is unaccompanied, as Mrs. Camancho still
tarries in New York.
It is very hard to leave the Red Room with its striking figures for
pen portraits, but the “throne room” must be reached. You pass the
threshold which leads from red to blue. The first impression is
republican simplicity. An official of the State Department stands at
the left of President Arthur and presents the passing throng. The
dean of the diplomatic corps is the first to enter, followed very
closely by all that is official from other lands. Towering above
his associates stands President Arthur, in personal appearance and
attitude every inch a ruler, with all the stately courtesy of James
Buchanan, the native dignity and warmth of manner of Abraham Lincoln,
and a grace which is all his own. He was clad in a simple black
full-dress suit.
At the right of the President stood his new Secretary of State,
slender, attenuated, but spirituelle and refined. Near by is
Secretary Folger. Imagine a man of perfect proportion and exactly
the right size, with a face so classic that it might be carved, with
iron-gray hair, and this is Attorney-General Brewster.
A long line of ladies had been invited by President Arthur to help
him receive. The innovation of numbers was inaugurated by Mrs. Julia
Grant, when she presided at the White House. It is not known whether
Mrs. Grant meant to emulate Eugenie surrounded by her court, yet the
effect is somewhat the same. The leading lady who modestly stood at
the head is Mrs. Frelinghuysen, dressed in black silk, without the
slightest pretense of doing anything but her duty. How tired and
worn every feature of her face seemed, turned into an interrogation
point, which asked, what does it all amount to any way? Then came
the wife of the Attorney-General. Mrs. Brewster wore a royal robe of
ruby velvet. Another lovely face was that of the wife of the young
Secretary of War. Mrs. Lincoln wore Spanish lace over old gold satin.
Although the youngest of the cabinet circle, Mrs. Lincoln’s whole
childhood was associated with official society at the capital. Room
only for one more of the stars that compose President Arthur’s galaxy
of assistants--Mrs. Senator Logan, most queenly in appearance of all.
Slightly taller than the others, with a face lighted with flashing
black eyes and snowy hair rolled back in Martha Washington style,
with rosy cheeks and pearly teeth, a veritable picture of “roses in
the snow.” The saddest picture is Mrs. Blaine in the background,
bereft of her official crown, disappointment peeping out of her face
covertly, as the picket guard watches for the foe.
The Supreme Court marches by, but some of its members are absent.
Afterwards file by the veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic,
wearing a badge which indicates devotion to a cause. Now a cold, sad
wave comes down the long corridors following the gay throng which has
just passed. It is the Oldest Inhabitants Association--encased in the
frozen armor of age. There is a brush. A sigh that seems to breathe
from everything around. It is gone. The beautiful ladies who stood by
President Arthur are gone, because all that is “official” has drifted
by. There is a muffled sound--the crowd, the strangers, the citizens
of the District are coming. Policemen begin to appear, they are
strewn around as though a siege were about to begin, but President
Arthur shows not the least sign of weariness; he shakes every offered
hand. “Where are the ladies who were to receive with the President?”
is anxiously asked. “Gone to their own receptions,” is answered from
somewhere. A bit of a woman appears leading a little child. It is
such a tiny speck, but its sweet face peeps out from its fleecy hood
as an angel’s might from under the mist. There are no grand dames
around--only the people. President Arthur takes the little one in his
hands, then he lifts it high, and gives the humble little tot a kiss.
It was so exquisitely done that it seemed the work of inspiration.
With this incident the ceremonies came to a close, whilst the Marine
Band was playing its choicest airs, composed by its talented leader
to inaugurate the new year.
OLIVIA.
AT THE TRIAL OF GUITEAU.
ANECDOTES OF THE JUDGE, JURY, AND AUDIENCE.
WASHINGTON, _January 5, 1882_.
A strange tale comes floating down the surface of the centuries.
Its strange points assimilate with those associated with the
unique criminal trial of to-day. During the period that the Roman
inquisition was at the zenith of its power, a Catholic priest
invented an instrument of torture. It was in the shape of an iron
room, long and narrow, and with seven small windows looking toward
the rising sun. By means of noiseless machinery the space contracted
so that the wretched prisoner would see by the first light of
dawn that a window had disappeared. The torture of the infernal
machine could be lengthened or shortened according to the mercy of
the executioner. But on the last day, or rather night, the iron
bedstead would assume the form of a box, and as the sun appeared in
the east the muffled tones of a bell would fall on the ear of the
doomed, whilst the lid would fall, and after the clang there would
be heard the fastening of screws if insensibility had not previously
intervened. To prevent the existence of this instrument being known,
the Doge of Venice seized its unfortunate inventor and put him into
the machine, that everything connected with it should be destroyed,
even to the inventor. Just as the Catholic priest created an
instrument of torture and destruction, Guiteau has woven a web from
which there is no escape.
The mercy or weakness which Judge Cox is accused of exercising toward
the prisoner is the same sort of kindness which the executioner
had for the Catholic priest. The windows of the iron cage are a
little longer in disappearing. A thoughtful spectator watching the
countenance of Judge Cox will see that he carries all the weight
of responsibility which goes with the judicial ermine. Cool, calm,
inflexible, he seems to realize that his course in this celebrated
case will be put on record to stand as long as the archives of the
Republic. No opportunity has been given for the defense to obtain a
new trial; no chance for ill-timed sympathy to accuse him of want of
clemency or withholding that which is decreed the humblest citizen on
trial for his life. In this most trying position in which a man could
be placed, Judge Cox has filled all the requirements of the case in
a manner which unbiased, unprejudiced posterity will applaud.
Coming to the jury, taken altogether, a clearer-headed set of men
could not be found. If the writer was on trial for her life and
allowed the privilege to select a jury, a large proportion of those
now serving would be chosen for this painful and thankless duty. One
of the jurymen has had honors paid him accorded only to the most
distinguished men of the world. He has been met at the threshold of
the Winter Palace of the Czar of Russia, the great Nicholas, standing
with a silver salver in one hand, upon which was placed corn bread,
and a golden chair in the other, the seat of which was hollowed out
to hold salt. He has sat at the same table with the Emperor, amidst
all the splendor and pomp of the Russian court. This gentleman
(Mr. Heinline) was engineer of the monitor that carried Assistant
Secretary Fox, of the Navy, when he went to take President Lincoln’s
dispatches to the crowned heads of Europe during our late war. In
charge of this wonderful war craft, he received as much attention
and in one sense more than Mr. Fox, for the Czar, like his ancestor,
Peter the Great, had unbounded respect for the science of mechanics.
During the lifetime of the monitors only the highest talent was
employed to manage their machinery. Cool and brave must be the men
who went to sea in these iron pots, and who would not choose such a
juryman? And yet fate or accident has determined this man should
be one to bring his strength of mind to decide in the matter of the
assassin’s responsibility. It would make this article too long to
make sketches of the different jurymen, but all enjoy the respect
of those who know them best, so far as the writer has been able to
ascertain. Few men, whether their crimes have been heavy or light,
have been so fortunate as the assassin. No mortal hand was extended
to help Guiteau in the selection of a jury. To the credit of all the
citizens of the District, not a man was chosen that did not bewail
his fate and hope that something would prevent his selection. It was
claimed at the time that no jury could be impaneled because all had
expressed opinions as to the guilt of the prisoner; but whether the
assassin was insane or otherwise placed the trial in a different
light, and only the repulsion remained in the minds of the people of
the capital.
It is cruel slander on the women of the District when it is claimed
it is “the same old set” of theater-goers that have gone to the
Guiteau trial every day. A very few faces, less than a dozen, have
been daily attendants, but these are the suspected adventuresses
who come to Washington in advance of Congressmen to get the winter
nests well warmed. They stop at the leading hotels, where they behave
with that becoming modesty that secures them from molestation. When
the real work of the Congressional season begins they flit to the
different “boudoirs” in some of the most respectable quarters of
the city where carriages going and coming attract not the slightest
notice. The women wear “seal skin” and have all the attractive airs
of “official life.” Excitement they must have, and the Guiteau trial
is an excellent preliminary to the winter festivities.
It is this class of female adventuresses who dog the footsteps of
the virtuous Congressmen as well as the other kind. They even have
the “cheek” to attend private receptions uninvited, and claim to be
on intimate terms with those who compose our most refined circles
of “official society.” When these women are excepted it will be
found that the surging crowd that fills the court room is composed
of strangers visiting the national capital. Our ladies had a desire
to look once upon a man who could murder a President, but the desire
was gratified with one visit. A glance at the newspapers will prove
that this pardonable curiosity pervaded all ranks of the people. Even
clergymen have been seen in the small space allotted to spectators of
this criminal trial.
All the “star” actors or actresses who have appeared on the stage
in Washington since the trial began came to the court room--the
Florences, Mary Anderson, Lotta, and a troupe of lesser lights which
have escaped the writer’s memory. All seemed seeking to try to
solve the problem, whether the assassin is insane, and, with scarce
an exception, all believe, as did Frederick the Great of Prussia,
that cranks “are responsible.” When Frederick ruled his subjects
assassination became a familiar crime, while insanity became the
bridge which carried the criminals to safety; but the far-seeing,
irrepressible Emperor thought it would be a good plan to crush out
this kind of dangerous material by the extreme penalty of the law,
and the result was that fanaticism did not bloom out any more in
this kind of way. Whilst “experts,” or those who have had experience
in the management of insane people, can give their belief, that has
little to do with the actual and proper settlement of the question
as to the responsibility of the “crank.” An honest man or woman
who has been insane, yet restored to health, should be the ones to
decide this most important point. Shakespeare settled the subject
when he asked “Who can minister to a mind diseased?” Now, this most
superior of human beings did not dare to answer his own inquiry. If
the “experts” could take hold of a broken mind as the surgeons do of
a shattered limb, possibly they might cure it; but if a human soul by
some inscrutable means, like a ship at sea, finds its bottom covered
with barnacles, or a terrible rent in the hold, torn by a hidden
rock, only the Builder can plunge into the vast ocean of mystery and
mend the sinking wreck.
Taking the testimony of the “experts,” Dr. Gray seemed wisest and
best informed, and he was very careful not to commit himself. He
conscientiously let the jury know how very little we know about
insanity, but he did bear out the fact that a mind a little off
color, or what is vulgarly called a “crank,” for the want of a better
term, is not relieved of responsibility and should be punished for
crime committed the same as other criminals.
Notwithstanding the prisoner has been allowed better food and has had
the stimulant of excitement imparted by his trial, there is a change
gradually stealing over his features, which, rightly interpreted,
means despair. His naturally pale face has assumed a kind of ashen
hue which makes a sombre background for the lightning play of the
fierce passions with which he is continually interrupting the court.
There are no particular points to mark this man. He is like the great
masses of the human family who resemble each other almost as much as
do the leaves of the forest.
There is something very touching in the appearance of Mr. Scoville,
brother-in-law and counsel for the assassin. He seems to have
advanced ten years in age since the trial began. He has grown very
much thinner, and a painful, eager, anxious expression is stamped on
his otherwise kindly face. And the sister, who comes so regularly and
shares the odium and disgrace of the brother! It is said her husband
was very much averse to having anything to do with the trial, but
when so many lawyers refused he yielded to the earnest entreaties of
his wife. But instead of becoming an object of loathing to the ladies
of Washington, like her brother, the assassin, her womanly devotion
is appreciated. It is true she has not been crowned with laurel or
welcomed to hospitable boards, but woman’s heart at Washington beats
in sympathy with this sister, for no place can be so vile that it is
not purified and uplifted by the presence of the same spirit that
qualified Mary to become the mother of Jesus.
John W. Guiteau, the brother, has also won the respect of the
community. He is trying to make the public understand that only an
idiot or mad man would be guilty of the crime which a brother has
committed. He feels the disgrace so deep and burning that all facts
connected with the assassin’s life should come to light. Unlike his
sister, he has pity, but no affection, and if he can be made to
believe his brother is responsible, he, like Mr. Scoville, under the
same circumstances, will be among the first to approve the carrying
out of the extreme penalty of the law.
OLIVIA.
ARCTIC EXPEDITIONS.
CAPTAIN DE LONG’S DEPARTURE--THE POLARIS AND HER COMMANDER.
WASHINGTON, _January 7, 1882_.
Since the cablegrams of James Gordon Bennett to the authorities
at Washington, no further news has been received of the ill-fated
survivors of the _Jeannette_, who are now supposed to be traversing
the frozen waste of Northern Siberia in dog sledges to reach once
more a welcome home. Sad as the fate of all those who have undertaken
to penetrate the secrets which Nature keeps eternally locked in her
Arctic jaws, the moment a new expedition for the same purpose is
mentioned, the spirit of adventure stirs within the naval breast, and
more officers and men are found to offer their services than would
man a fleet.
When Commander De Long, of the _Jeannette_, drew the awful prize in
the lottery of Arctic exploration, his ambition rose to fever heat.
So much so that in a measure it dried away the tears of his almost
heart-broken wife, who felt the fate of Lady Franklin wrapping her
mind as a dead body swathed in a winding-sheet. Just before Commander
De Long left the capital, husband and wife decided to go to the White
House and receive the Executive prayers and blessings ere the doomed
vessel should unfurl her sails. Arriving at the proper morning hour,
they waited and waited until patience was gone, when a messenger
returned bringing the sad intelligence that “The President could not
be seen, but Mrs. Hayes would soon be at leisure.” Another period
of precious time passed, when the rustling of silk was heard in a
distant corridor, and at last a huge bouquet “hove” in sight, with a
remarkably smiling lady behind it. Without giving Captain De Long an
opportunity to get a word in edgewise, Mrs. Hayes seemed determined
to let the visitors know that she had mastered the situation and
knew all about it; but imagine the consternation of the brave naval
commander to find that he had been mistaken for a charlatan who had
invented what he believed to be a method of freezing out yellow fever
on board of ships irrespective of the vessel’s latitude.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hayes, her soul palpitating with devotion to her
fifty million loving subjects, “if you have only succeeded in ridding
the world of yellow fever.”
“Breakers ahead!” thought the embryo explorer, whilst the little wife
was struck dumb to think her captain, whose name was to be enrolled
with Franklin, Kane, Hall and others, and which will last in the
world’s archives so long as civilization remains on top, should be
the victim of a mistake. It is not known whether Commander De Long
piloted Mrs. Hayes from the tropical regions of the yellow fever to
the Arctic barriers of the North Pole, but it is certain that both
husband and wife left the Executive mansion wiser if not happier than
before.