THE RELAXATIONS OF CONGRESSIONAL FOLK
In that period of social activity it was no uncommon thing for society
women to find themselves completely exhausted ere bedtime arrived. Often
so tired was I that I have declared I couldn’t have wiggled an antennae
had I numbered anything so absurd and minute among my members! For my
quicker recuperation, after a day spent in the making of calls, or in
entertainment, with, it may be, an hour or two in the Senate gallery, in
preparation for the evening’s pleasure, my invaluable maid, Emily (for
whom my husband paid $1,600), was wont to get out my “shocking-box” (for
so she termed the electrical apparatus upon which I often depended),
and, to a full charge of the magical current and a half-hour’s nap
before dinner, I was indebted for many a happy evening.
Amid the round of dinners, and dances, and receptions, to which
Congressional circles are necessarily compelled, the pleasures of the
theatre were only occasionally to be enjoyed. Nor were the great artists
of that day always to be heard at the capital, and resident theatre and
musiclovers not infrequently made excursions to Baltimore, Philadelphia,
or New York, in order to hear to advantage some particularly noted star.
Before our advent in the capital it had been my good fortune, while
travelling in the North, to hear Grisi and Mario, the lovely Bozio, and
Jenny Lind, the incomparable Swede, whose concerts at Castle Garden were
such epoch-marking events to musiclovers in America. I remember that one
estimate of the audience present on the occasion of my hearing the
last-named cantatrice was placed at ten thousand. Whether or not this
number was approximately correct I do not know, but seats and aisles in
the great hall were densely packed, and gentlemen in evening dress came
with camp-stools under their arms, in the hope of finding an opportunity
to place them, during a lull in the programme, where they might rest for
a moment.
The wild enthusiasm of the vast crowds, the simplicity of the singer who
elicited it, have been recorded by many an abler pen. Suffice to say
that none have borne, I think, for a longer time, a clearer remembrance
of that triumphant evening. When, at the end of the programme the fair,
modest songstress came out, music in hand, to win her crowning triumph
in the rendering of a familiar melody, the beauty of her marvellous art
rose superior to the amusement which her broken English might have
aroused, and men and women wept freely and unashamed as she sang.
“Mid bleasures and balaces,
Do we may roam,” etc.
It was by way of a flight from the capital that Senator Clay and I and a
few congenial friends were enabled to hear Parepa Rosa and Forrest; and
Julia Dean, in “Ingomar,” drew us to the metropolis, as did Agnes
Robertson, who set the town wild in the “Siege of Sebastopol.”
[Illustration:
JENNY LIND
From a photograph made about 1851
]
I remember very well my first impression of Broadway, which designation
seemed to me a downright misnomer; for its narrowness, after the great
width of Pennsylvania Avenue, was at once striking and absurd to the
visitor from the capital. Upon one of my visits to New York my attention
was caught by a most unusual sight. It was an immense equipage, glowing
and gaudy under the sun as one of Mrs. Jarley’s vans. It was drawn by
six prancing steeds, all gaily caparisoned, while in the huge structure
(a young house, “all but”——) were women in gaudy costumes. A band of
musicians were concealed within, and these gave out some lively melodies
as the vehicle dashed gaily by the Astor House (then the popular
_up-town_ hotel), attracting general attention as it passed. Thinking a
circus had come to town, I made inquiry, when I learned to my amusement
that the gorgeous cavalcade was but an ingenious advertisement of the
new Sewing Machine!
Charlotte Cushman, giving her unapproachable “Meg Merrilies” in
Washington, stirred the city to its depths. Her histrionism was
splendid, and her conversation in private proved no less remarkable and
delightful. “I could listen to her all day,” wrote a friend in a brief
note. “I envy her her genius, and would willingly take her ugliness for
it! What is beauty compared with such genius!”
A most amusing metrical farce, “Pocahontas,” was given during the winter
of ’7–58, which set all Washington a-laughing. In the cast were Mrs.
Gilbert, and Brougham, the comedian and author. Two of the ridiculous
couplets come back to me, and, as if it were yesterday, revive the
amusing scenes in which they were spoken.
Mrs. Gilbert’s rôle was that of a Yankee schoolma’am, whose continual
effort it was to make her naughty young Indian charges behave
themselves. “Young ladies!” she cried, with that inimitable austerity
behind which one always feels the actress’s consciousness of the “fun of
the thing” which she is dissembling,
“Young Ladies! Stand with your feet right square!
Miss Pocahontas! just _look_ at your hair!”
and as she wandered off, a top-knot of feathers waving over her head,
her wand, with which she had been drilling her dusky maidens, held
firmly in hand, she cut a pigeonwing that brought forth a perfect shout
of laughter from the audience.
This troupe appeared just after the Brooks-Sumner encounter, of which
the capital talked still excitedly, and the comedian did not hesitate to
introduce a mild local allusion which was generally understood. Breaking
in upon her as Pocahontas wept, between ear-splitting cries of woe at
the bier of Captain Smith, he called out impatiently,
“What’s all this noise? Be done! Be done!
D’you think you are in Washington?”
Mr. Thackeray’s lecture on poetry was a red-letter occasion, and the
simplicity of that great man of letters as he recited “Lord Lovel” and
“Barbara Allen” was long afterward a criterion by which others were
judged. Notable soloists now and then appeared at the capital, among
them Ap Thomas, the great Welsh harpist, and Bochsa, as great a
performer, whose concerts gained so much in interest by the singing of
the romantic French woman, Mme. Anna Bishop. Her rendering of “On the
Banks of the Gaudalquiver” made her a great favourite and gave the song
a vogue. That musical prodigy, Blind Tom, also made his appearance in
ante-bellum Washington, and I was one of several ladies of the capital
invited by Miss Lane to hear him play at the White House. Among the
guests on that occasion were Miss Phillips of Alabama and her cousin
Miss Cohen of South Carolina, who were brilliant amateur players with a
local reputation. They were the daughter and niece, respectively, of
Mrs. Eugenia Phillips, who, less than two years afterward, was
imprisoned by the Federal authorities for alleged assistance to the
newly formed Confederate Government.
At the invitation of Miss Lane, the Misses Phillips and Cohen took their
places at the piano and performed a brilliant and intricate duet, during
which Blind Tom’s face twitched with what, it must be confessed, were
horrible grimaces. He was evidently greatly excited by the music he was
listening to, and was eager to reproduce it. As the piece was concluded,
he shuffled about nervously. Seeing his excitement, one of the pianistes
volunteered to play with him and took her seat at the instrument.
Desiring to test him, however, in the second rendering, the lady
cleverly, as she supposed, elided a page of the composition; when,
drawing himself back angrily, this remarkable idiot exclaimed
indignantly, “You cheat me! You cheat me!”
While a visit to the dentist, be he never so famous, may hardly be
regarded as among the recreations of Congressional folk, yet a trip to
Dr. Maynard, the fashionable operator of that day, was certainly among
the luxuries of the time; as costly, for example, as a trip to New York,
to hear sweet Jenny Lind. Dr. Maynard was distinctively one of
Washington’s famous characters. He was not only the expert dentist of
his day, being as great an element in life at the capital as was Dr.
Evans in Paris, but he was also the inventor of the world-renowned
three-barrelled rifle known as the Maynard. His office was like an
arsenal, every inch of wall-space being taken up with glittering arms.
A peculiarity of Dr. Maynard was his dislike for the odour of the
geranium, from which he shrank as from some deadly poison. Upon the
occasion of one necessary visit to him, unaware of this eccentricity, I
wore a sprig of that blossom upon my corsage. As I entered the office
the doctor detected it.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Clay,” he said at once, “I must ask you to remove that
geranium!” I was astonished, but of course the offending flower was at
once detached and discarded; but so sensitive were the olfactories of
the doctor, that before he could begin his operating, I was obliged to
bury the spot on which the blossom had lain under several folds of
napkin.
Dr. Maynard was exceedingly fond of sleight of hand, and on one occasion
bought for his children an outfit which Heller had owned. In after years
the Czar of Russia made tempting offers to this celebrated dentist, with
a view to inducing him to take up his residence in St. Petersburg, but
his Imperial allurements were unavailing, and Dr. Maynard returned again
to his own orbit.
A feature of weekly recurrence, and one to which all Washington and
every visitor thronged, was the concert of the Marine Band, given within
the White House grounds on the green slope back of the Executive Mansion
overlooking the Potomac. Strolling among the multitude, I remember often
to have seen Miss Cutts, in the simplest of white muslin gowns, but
conspicuous for her beauty wherever she passed. Here military uniforms
glistened or glowed, as the case might be, among a crowd of black-coated
sight-seers, and one was likely to meet with the President or his
Cabinet, mingling democratically with the crowd of smiling citizens.
At one of these concerts a provincial visitor was observed to linger in
the vicinity of the President, whom it was obvious he recognised.
Presently, in an accession of sudden courage, he approached Mr. Pierce,
and, uncovering his head respectfully, said, “Mr. President, can’t I go
through your fine house? I’ve heard so much about it that I’d give a
great deal to see it.”
“Why, my dear sir!” responded the President, kindly, “that is not my
house. It’s the people’s house. You shall certainly go through it if you
wish!” and, calling an attendant, he instructed him to take the grateful
stranger through the White House.
The recounting of that episode revives the recollection of another which
took place in the time of President Buchanan, and which was the subject
of discussion for full many a day after its occurrence. It was on the
occasion of an annual visit of the redmen, always a rather exciting
event in the capital.
The delegations which came to Washington in the winters of ’4–58
numbered several hundred. They camped in a square in the Barracks,
where, with almost naked bodies, scalps at belt and tomahawks in hand,
they were viewed daily by crowds of curious folk as they beat their
monotonous drums, danced, or threw their tomahawks dexterously in air.
Here and there one redskin, more fortunate than the rest, was wrapped in
a gaudy blanket, and many were decked out with large earrings and huge
feather-duster head-dresses. A single chain only separated the savages
from the assembled spectators, who were often thrown into somewhat of a
panic by the sullen or belligerent behaviour of the former. When in this
mood, the surest means of conciliating the Indians was to pass over the
barrier (which some spectator was sure to do) some whisky, whereupon
their sullenness immediately would give place to an amiable desire to
display their prowess by twirling the tomahawk, or in the dance.
To see the copper-hued sons of the Far West, clad in buckskin and
moccasins, paint and feathers, stalking about the East Room of the White
House at any time was a spectacle not easily to be forgotten; but, upon
the occasion of which I write, and at which I was present, a scene took
place, the character of which became so spirited that many of the ladies
became frightened and rose hurriedly to withdraw. A number of chiefs
were present, accompanied by their interpreter, Mr. Garrett, of Alabama,
and many of them had expressed their pleasure at seeing the President.
They desired peace and good-will to be continued; they wished for
agricultural implements for the advancement of husbandry among their
tribes; and grist mills, that their squaws no longer need grind their
corn between stones to make “sofky” (and the spokesman illustrated the
process by a circular motion of the hand). In fact, they wished to smoke
the Calumet pipe of peace with their white brothers.
Thus far their discourse was most comfortable and pleasing to our white
man’s _amour propre_; but, ere the last warrior had ceased his placating
speech, the dusky form of a younger redskin sprang from the floor,
where, with the others of the delegation, he had been squatting. He was
lithe and graceful as Longfellow’s dream of Hiawatha. The muscles of his
upper body, bare of all drapery, glistened like burnished metal. His
gesticulations were fierce and imperative, his voice strangely
thrilling.
“These walls and these halls belong to the redmen!” he cried. “The very
ground on which they stand is ours! You have stolen it from us and I am
for war, that the wrongs of my people may be righted!”
Here his motions became so violent and threatening that many of the
ladies, alarmed, rose up instinctively, as I have said, as if they would
fly the room; but our dear old Mr. Buchanan, with admirable diplomacy,
replied in most kindly manner, bidding the interpreter assure the
spirited young brave that the White House was his possession in common
with all the people of the Great Spirit, and that he did but welcome his
red brothers to their own on behalf of the country. This was the gist of
his speech, which calmed the excitement of the savage, and relieved the
apprehension of the ladies about.
A conspicuous member of the delegation of ’4–55 was the old chief
Apothleohola, who was brought to see me by the interpreter Garrett. His
accumulated wealth was said to be $80,000, and he had a farm in the
West, it was added, which was worked entirely by negroes. Apothleohola
was a patriarch of his tribe, some eighty years of age, but erect and
powerful still. His face on the occasion of his afternoon visit to me
was gaudy with paint, and he was wrapped in a brilliant red blanket,
around which was a black border; but despite his gay attire there was
about him an air of weariness and even sadness.
[Illustration:
JAMES BUCHANAN
President of the United States, 1857–61
]
While I was still a child I had seen this now aged warrior. At that
time, five thousand Cherokees and Choctaws, passing west to their new
reservations beyond the Mississippi, had rested in Tuscaloosa, where
they camped for several weeks. The occasion was a notable one. All the
city turned out to see the Indian youths dash through the streets on
their ponies. They were superb horsemen and their animals were as
remarkable. Many of the latter, for a consideration, were left in the
hands of the emulous white youth of the town. Along the river banks,
too, carriages stood, crowded with sight-seers watching the squaws as
they tossed their young children into the stream that they might learn
to swim. Very picturesque were the roomy vehicles of that day as they
grouped themselves along the leafy shore of the Black Warrior, their
capacity tested to the fullest by the belles of the little city, arrayed
in dainty muslins, and bonneted in the sweet fashions of the time.
During that encampment a redman was set upon by some quarrelsome
rowdies, and in the altercation was killed. Fearing the vengeance of the
allied tribes about them, the miscreants disembowelled their victim,
and, filling the cavity with rocks, sank the body in the river. The
Indians, missing their companion, and suspecting some evil had befallen
him, appealed to Governor C. C. Clay, who immediately uttered a
proclamation for the recovery of the body. In a few days the crime and
its perpetrators were discovered, and justice was meted out to them. By
this prompt act Governor Clay, to whose wisdom is accredited by
historians the repression of the Indian troubles in Alabama in 1835–’7,
won the good-will of the savages, among whom was the great warrior,
Apothleohola.
It was at ex-Governor Clay’s request I sent for the now aged brave. He
gravely inclined his head when I asked him whether he remembered the
Governor. I told him my father wished to know whether the chief Nea
Mathla still lived and if the brave Apothleohola was happy in his
western home. His sadness deepened as he answered, slowly, “Me happy,
some!”
Before the close of his visit, Mr. Garrett, the interpreter, asked me if
I would not talk Indian to his charge. “You must know some!” he urged,
“having been brought up in an Indian country!”
I knew three or four words, as it happened, and these I pronounced, to
the great chief’s amusement; for, pointing his finger at me he said,
with a half-smile, “She talk Creek!”
A few days after this memorable call, I happened into the house of
Harper & Mitchell, then a famous drygoods emporium in the capital, just
as the old warrior was beginning to bargain, and I had the pleasure and
entertainment of assisting him to select two crêpe shawls which he
purchased for his daughters at one hundred dollars apiece!
It was my good fortune to witness the arrival of the Japanese Embassy,
which was the outcome of Commodore Perry’s expedition to the Orient. The
horticulturist of the party, Dr. Morrow, of South Carolina, was a
frequent visitor to my parlours, and upon his return from the East
regaled me with many amusing stories of his Eastern experiences. A
special object of his visit to Japan was to obtain, if possible, some
specimens of the world-famous rice of that country, with which to
experiment in the United States. Until that period our native rice was
inferior; but, despite every effort made and inducement offered, our
Government had been unable to obtain even a kernel of the unhusked rice
which would germinate.
During his stay in the Orient, Dr. Morrow made numberless futile
attempts to supply himself with even a stealthy pocketful of the
precious grain, and in one instance, he told us, remembering how
Professor Henry had introduced millet seed by planting so little as a
single seed that fell from the wrappings of a mummy,[11] he had offered
a purse of gold to a native for a single grain; but the Japanese only
shook his head, declining the proposition, and drew his finger
significantly across his throat to indicate his probable fate if he were
to become party to such commerce.
On the arrival of the Japanese embassy in Washington, to the doctor’s
delight, it was found that among the presents sent by the picturesque
Emperor of Japan to the President of the United States was a hogshead of
rice. Alas! the doctor’s hopes were again dashed when the case was
opened, for the wily donors had carefully sifted their gift, and, though
minutely examined, there was not in all the myriad grains a single
kernel in which the germinal vesicle was still intact!
The arrival of the browned Asiatics was made a gala occasion in the
capital. Half the town repaired to the Barracks to witness the
debarkation of the strange and gorgeously apparelled voyagers from the
gaily decorated vessel. Their usually yellow skins, now, after a long
sea-trip, were burned to the colour of copper; and not stranger to our
eyes would have been the sight of Paul du Chaillu’s newly discovered
gorillas, than were these Orientals as they descended the flag-bedecked
gangplanks and passed out through a corridor formed of eager people,
crowding curiously to gaze at them. Some of the Japanese had acquired a
little English during the journey to America, and, as friendly shouts of
“Welcome to America” greeted them, they nodded cordially to the people,
shaking hands here and there as they passed along, and saying, to our
great amusement, “How de!”
Dr. Morrow had brought a gift to me from the East, a scarf of crêpe,
delicate as the blossom of the mountain laurel, the texture being very
similar to that of the petals of that bloom, and, to do honour to the
occasion, I wore it conspicuously draped over my corsage. Observing this
drapery, one of the strangers, his oily face wreathed in smiles, his
well-pomatumed top-knot meantime giving out under the heat of a
scorching sun a peculiar and never-to-be-forgotten odour, advanced
toward me as our party called their welcome, and, pointing to my
beautiful trophy, said, “Me lakee! me lakee!” Then, parting his silken
robe over his breast, he pulled out a bit of an undergarment (the
character of which it required no shrewdness to surmise) which proved
identical in weave with my lovely scarf! Holding the bit of crêpe out
toward us, the Oriental smiled complacently, as if in this discovery we
had established a kind of preliminary international _entente cordiale_!
This same pomatum upon which I have remarked was a source of great
chagrin to the proprietor of Willard’s Hotel, who, after the departure
of his Oriental visitors, found several coats of paint and a general
repapering to be necessary ere the pristine purity of atmosphere which
had characterised that hostelry could again be depended upon not to
offend the delicate olfactories of American guests.
During the stay of this embassy, its members attracted universal
attention as they strolled about the streets or drawing-rooms which
opened for their entertainment. Their garments were marvellously rich
and massed with elaborate ornamentation in glistening silks and gold
thread. They carried innumerable paper handkerchiefs tucked away
somewhere in their capacious sleeves, the chief purpose of these filmy
things seeming to be the removal of superfluous oil from the foreheads
of their yellow owners. A happy circumstance; for, having once so
served, the little squares were dropped forthwith wherever the Oriental
happened to be standing, whether in street or parlour, and the Asiatic
dignitary passed on innocently, ignorant alike of his social and
hygienic shortcoming.
It was no uncommon thing during the sojourn of these strangers at the
capital, to see some distinguished Senator or Cabinet Minister stoop at
the sight of one of these gauzy trifles (looking quite like the
_mouchoir_ of some fastidious woman) and pick it up, only to throw it
from him in disgust a moment later. He was fortunate when his error
passed unseen by his confrères; for the Japanese handkerchief joke went
the round of the capital, and the victim of such misplaced gallantry was
sure to be the laughing-stock of his fellows if caught in the act.
The most popular member of this notable commission was an Oriental who
was nicknamed “Tommy.” He had scarce arrived when he capitulated to the
charms of the American lady; in fact, he became so devoted to them that,
it was said, he had no sooner returned to Japan than he paid the price
of his devotion by the forfeit of his head in a basket!