A CELEBRATED SOCIAL EVENT
Early in the season of 1857–’8, our friend Mrs. Senator Gwin announced
her intention of giving a ball which should eclipse every gathering of
the kind that had ever been seen in Washington. Just what its character
was to be was not yet decided; but, after numerous conferences with her
friends in which many and various suggestions were weighed, the
advocates for the fancy ball prevailed over those in favour of a
masquerade, to which, indeed, Senator Gwin himself was averse, and these
carried the day.
Surely no hostess ever more happily realised her ambitions! When the
function was formally announced, all Washington was agog. For the
ensuing weeks men as well as women were busy consulting costumers,
ransacking the private collections in the capital, and conning precious
volumes of coloured engravings in a zealous search for original and
accurate costuming. Only the Senators who were to be present were exempt
from this anticipatory excitement, for Senator Gwin, declaring that
nothing was more dignified for members of this body than their usual
garb, refused to appear in an assumed one, and so set the example for
his colleagues.
As the time approached, expectation ran high. Those who were to attend
were busy rehearsing their characters and urging the dressmakers and
costumers to the perfect completion of their tasks, while those who were
debarred deplored their misfortune. I recall a pathetic lament from my
friend Lieutenant Henry Myers, who was obliged to leave on the United
States ship _Marion_ on the fourth of April (the ball was to occur on
the ninth), in which he bemoaned the deprivations of a naval officer’s
life, and especially his inability to attend the coming entertainment.
When the evening of the ball arrived there was a flutter in every
boudoir in Washington, in which preparation for the great event was
accelerated by the pleasurable nervousness of maid and mistress. Mrs.
Gwin’s costume, and those of other leading Washingtonians, it was known,
had been selected in New York, and rumours were rife on the elegant
surprises that were to be sprung upon the eventful occasion.
With Senator Clay and me that winter were three charming cousins, the
Misses Comer, Hilliard and Withers. They impersonated, respectively, a
gypsy fortune-teller, a Constantinople girl, and “Titania”; and, to
begin at the last (as a woman may do if she will), a wonderful “Titania”
the tiny Miss Withers was, robed in innumerable spangled tulle
petticoats that floated as she danced, her gauze wings quivering like
those of a butterfly, and her unusually small feet glistening no less
brilliantly with spangles.
“Miss Withers, yon tiny fairy,” wrote Major de Havilland, who in his
“Metrical Glance at the Fancy Ball” immortalised the evening, “as
‘Titania’ caused many a Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Miss Hilliard, whose
beauty was well set off in a costly and picturesque costume of the East,
owed her triumph of the evening to the kindness of Mrs. Joseph Holt, who
had bought the costume (which she generously placed at my cousin’s
disposal) during a tour of the Orient. So attractive was my cousin’s
charming array, and so correct in all its details, that as she entered
Mrs. Gwin’s ballroom, a party of Turkish onlookers, seeing the familiar
garb, broke into applause.
Miss Comer, in a brilliant gown that was plentifully covered with
playing-cards, carried also a convenient pack of the same, with which
she told fortunes in a mystifying manner, for I had coached her
carefully in all the secrets of the day. I must admit she proved a
clever pupil, for she used her knowledge well whenever an opportunity
presented, to the confusion of many whose private weaknesses she most
tormentingly exposed.
My chosen character was an unusual one, being none other than that
remarkable figure created by Mr. Shillaber, Aunt Ruthy Partington. It
was the one character assumed during that memorable evening, by one of
my sex, in which age and personal attractions were sacrificed ruthlessly
for its more complete delineation.
I was not the only one anxious to impersonate the quaint lady from
Beanville, over whose grammatical _faux pas_ all America was amusing
itself. Ben Perley Poore no sooner heard of my selection of this
character than he begged me to yield to him, but I was not to be
deterred, having committed to heart the whole of Mrs. Partington’s
homely wit. Moreover, I had already, the previous summer, experimented
with the character while at Red Sweet Springs, where a fancy ball had
been given with much success, and I was resolved to repeat the amusing
experience at Mrs. Gwin’s ball.
Finding me inexorable, Mr. Poore at last desisted and chose another
character, that of Major Jack Downing. He made a dashing figure, too,
and we an amusing pair, as, at the “heel of the morning,” we galloped
wildly over Mrs. Gwin’s wonderfully waxed floors. The galop, I may add
in passing, was but just introduced in Washington, and its popularity
was wonderful.
If I dwell on that evening with particular satisfaction, the onus of
such egotism must be laid at the door of my flattering friends; for even
now, when nearly twoscore years and ten have passed, those who remain of
that merry assemblage of long ago recall it with a smile and a tender
recollection. “I can see you now, in my mind’s eye,” wrote General
George Wallace Jones, in 1894; “how you vexed and tortured dear old
President Buchanan at Doctor and Mrs. Gwin’s famous fancy party! You
were that night the observed of all observers!” And still more recently
another, recalling the scene, said, “The orchestra stopped, for the
dancers lagged, laughing convulsively at dear Aunt Ruthy!”
Nor would I seem to undervalue by omitting the tribute in verse paid me
by the musical Major de Havilland:
“Mark how the grace that gilds an honoured name,
Gives a strange zest to that loquacious dame
Whose ready tongue and easy blundering wit
Provoke fresh uproar at each happy hit!
Note how her humour into strange grimace
Tempts the smooth meekness of yon Quaker’s face.[13]
· · · · ·
But—denser grows the crowd round Partington;
’T’were vain to try to name them one by one.”[14]
It was not without some trepidation of spirit that I surrendered myself
into the hands of a professional maker-up of theatrical folk and saw him
lay in the shadows and wrinkles necessary to the character, and adjust
my front piece of grey hair into position; and, as my conception of the
quaint Mrs. Partington was that of a kindly soul, I counselled the
attendant—a Hungarian attaché of the local theatre—to make good-natured
vertical wrinkles over my brow, and not horizontal ones, which indicate
the cynical and harsh character.
My disguise was soon so perfect that my friend Mrs. L. Q. C. Lamar, who
came in shortly after the ordeal of making-up was over, utterly failed
to recognise me in the country woman before her. She looked about the
room with a slight reserve aroused by finding herself thus in the
presence of a stranger, and asked of Emily, “Where is Mrs. Clay?” At
this my cousins burst into merry laughter, in which Mrs. Lamar joined
when assured of my identity.
Thus convinced of the success of my costume, I was glad to comply with a
request that came by messenger from Miss Lane, for our party to go to
the White House on our way to Mrs. Gwin’s, to show her our “pretty
dresses,” a point of etiquette intervening to prevent the Lady of the
White House from attending the great ball of a private citizen.
Forthwith we drove to the Executive Mansion, where we were carried _sans
cérémonie_ to Miss Lane’s apartments. Here Mrs. Partington found herself
in the presence of her first audience. Miss Lane and the President
apparently were much amused at her verdancy, and, after a few initiative
malapropisms, some pirouettes by “Titania” and our maid from the Orient,
done to the shuffling of our little fortune-teller’s cards, we departed,
our zest stimulated, for the Gwin residence.
My very first conquest as Mrs. Partington, as I recall it now, was of
Mrs. Representative Pendleton, whom I met on the stairs. She was
radiantly beautiful as the “Star-Spangled Banner,” symbolising the poem
by which her father, Francis Scott Key, immortalised himself. As we met,
her face broke into a smile of delicious surprise.
“How inimitable!” she cried. “Who is it? No! you shan’t pass till you
tell me!” And when I laughingly informed her in Aunt Ruthy’s own
vernacular, she exclaimed: “What! Mrs. Clay? Why! there isn’t a vestige
of my friend left!”
My costume was ingeniously devised. It consisted of a plain black alpaca
dress and black satin apron; stockings as blue as a certain pair of
indigos I have previously described, and large, loose-fitting buskin
shoes. Over my soft grey front piece I wore a high-crowned cap, which,
finished with a prim ruff, set closely around the face. On the top was a
diminutive bow of narrowest ribbon, while ties of similarly economical
width secured it under the chin. My disguise was further completed by a
pair of stone-cutter’s glasses with nickel rims, which entirely
concealed my eyes. A white kerchief was drawn primly over my shoulders,
and was secured by a huge medallion pin, in which was encased the
likeness, as large as the palm of my hand, of “my poor Paul.”
On my arm I carried a reticule in which were various herbs, elecampane
and catnip, and other homely remedies, and a handkerchief in brilliant
colours on which was printed with fearless and emphatic type the
Declaration of Independence. This bit of “stage property” was used
ostentatiously betimes, especially when Aunt Ruthy’s tears were called
forth by some sad allusion to her lost “Paul.” In my apron pocket was an
antique snuff-box which had been presented to me, as I afterward told
Senator Seward, by the Governor of Rhode Island, “a lover of the
Kawnstitution, Sir.”
But, that nothing might be lacking, behind me trotted my boy “Ike,” dear
little “Jimmy” Sandidge (son of the member from Louisiana), aged ten,
who for days, in the secrecy of my parlour, I had drilled in the aid he
was to lend me. He was a wonderful little second, and the fidelity to
truth in his make-up was so amusing that I came near to losing him at
the very outset. His ostentatiously darned stockings and patched
breeches, long since outgrown, were a surprising sight in the great
parlours of our host, and Senator Gwin, seeing the little urchin who, he
thought, had strayed in from the street, took him by the shoulder and
was about to lead him out when some one called to him, “Look out,
Senator! You’ll be getting yourself into trouble! That’s Aunt Ruthy’s
boy, Ike!”
Mrs. Partington was not the only Yankee character among that throng of
princes and queens, and dames of high degree, for Mr. Eugene Baylor, of
Louisiana, impersonated a figure as amusing—that of “Hezekiah Swipes,”
of Vermont. He entered into his part with a zest as great as my own, and
kept “a-whittlin’ and a-whittlin’ jes’ as if he was ter hum!” For
myself, I enjoyed a peculiar exhilaration in the thought that, despite
my amusing dress, the belles of the capital (and many were radiant
beauties, too) gave way before Aunt Ruthy and her nonsense. As I
observed this my zeal increased, and not even Senator Clay, who feared
my gay spirits would react and cause me to become exhausted, could
prevail upon me to yield a serious word or one out of my character
throughout the festal night. If I paid for it, as I did, by several
days’ retirement, I did not regret it, since the evening itself went off
so happily.
Mrs. Gwin, as the Queen of Louis Quatorze, a regal lady, stood receiving
her guests with President Buchanan beside her as Aunt Ruthy entered,
knitting industriously, but stopping ever and anon to pick up a stitch
which the glory of her surroundings caused her to drop. Approaching my
hostess and her companion, I first made my greetings to Mrs. Gwin, with
comments on her “invite,” and wondered, looking up at the windows, if
she “had enough venerators to take off the execrations of that large
assemblage”; but, when she presented Mrs. Partington to the President,
“Lor!” exclaimed that lady, “Air you ralely ‘Old Buck’? I’ve often heern
tell o’ Old Buck up in Beanville, but I don’t see no horns!”
“No, Madam,” gravely responded the President, assuming for the nonce the
cynic, “I’m not a married man!”
It was at this memorable function that Lord Napier (who appeared in the
character of Mr. Hammond, the first British Minister to the United
States) paid his great tribute to Mrs. Pendleton. Her appearance on that
occasion was lovely. She was robed in a white satin gown made dancing
length, over which were rare lace flounces. A golden eagle with wings
outstretched covered her corsage, and from her left shoulder floated a
long tricolour sash on which, in silver letters, were the words “_E
Pluribus Unum_.” A crown of thirteen flashing stars was set upon her
well-poised head, and a more charming interpretation in dress of the
national emblem could scarcely have been devised.
Ah! but that was a remarkable throng! My memory, as I recall that night,
seems like a long chain, of which, if I strike but a single link, the
entire length rattles! Beautiful Thérèse Chalfant Pugh as “Night”—what a
vision she was, and what a companion picture Mrs. Douglas, who, as
“Aurora,” was radiant in the pale tints of the morning! There were mimic
Marchionesses, and Kings of England and France and Prussia; White Ladies
of Avenel and Dukes of Buckingham, Maids of Athens and Saragossa,
gypsies and fairies, milkmaids, and even a buxom barmaid; Antipholus
himself and the Priestess Norma, Pierrots and Follies, peasants and
Highland chiefs moving in heterogeneous fashion in the great ballrooms.
Barton Key, as an English hunter, clad in white satin breeks,
cherry-velvet jacket, and jaunty cap, with lemon-coloured high-top
boots, and a silver bugle (upon which he blew from time to time) hung
across his breast, was a conspicuous figure in that splendid happy
assemblage, and Mlle. de Montillon was a picture in the Polish character
costume in which her mother had appeared when she danced in a Polonaise
before the Empress at the Tuilleries.
Sir William Gore Ouseley, the “Knight of the Mysterious Mission,”
attracted general attention in his character of Knight Commander of the
Bath. The Baroness de Staeckl and Miss Cass were models of elegance as
French Court beauties, and Mrs. Jefferson Davis as Mme. de Staël dealt
in caustic repartee as became her part, delivered now in French and
again in broken English, to the annihilation of all who had the temerity
to cross swords with her.
Among the guests “our furrin relations” were numerously represented, and
I remember well the burst of laughter which greeted Mrs. Partington when
she asked Lady Napier, with a confidential and sympathetic air, “whether
the Queen had got safely over her last encroachment.” Incidentally she
added some good advice on the bringing up of children, illustrating its
efficacy by pointing to Ike, whom _she_ “was teaching religiously both
the lethargy and the cataplasm!”
My memories of Mrs. Gwin’s ball would be incomplete did I not mention
two or more of Aunt Ruthy’s escapades during the evening. The rumour of
my intended impersonation had aroused in the breast of a certain
Baltimorean youth the determination to disturb, “to break up Mrs. Clay’s
composure.” I heard of the young man’s intention through some friend
early in the evening, and my mother-wit, keyed as it was to a pitch of
alertness, promptly aided me to the overthrow of the venturesome hero.
He came garbed as a newsboy, and, nature having provided him with lusty
lungs, he made amusing announcements as to the attractions of his wares,
at the most unexpected moments. Under his arm he carried a bundle of
papers which he hawked about in a most professional manner. At an
unfortunate moment he walked hurriedly by as if on his rounds, and
stopping beside me he called out confidently, “_Baltimore Sun!_ Have a
‘_Sun_,’ Madam?”
[Illustration:
MRS. JEFFERSON DAVIS
of Mississippi
]
“Tut, tut! Man!” said Mrs. Partington, horrified. “How dare you ask such
a question of a virtuous female widow woman?” Then bursting into sobs
and covering her eyes with the broad text of the “Declaration of
Independence,” she cried, “What would my poor Paul think of that?” To
the hilarious laughter of those who had gathered about us, the routed
hero retreated hastily, and, for the remainder of the evening,
restrained by a wholesome caution, he gave Aunt Ruthy a wide berth.
Such kind greetings as came to this unsophisticated visitor to the ball!
“You’re the sweetest-looking old thing!” exclaimed “Lushe” Lamar before
he had penetrated my disguise. “I’d just like to buss you!”
I had an amusing _rencontre_ with Senator Seward that evening. That this
pronounced Northerner had made numerous efforts in the past to meet me I
was well aware; but my Southern sentiments were wholly disapproving of
him, and I had resisted even my kinder-hearted husband’s plea, and had
steadily refused to permit him to be introduced to me. “Not even to save
the Nation could I be induced to eat his bread, to drink his wine, to
enter his domicile, to _speak_ to him!” I once impetuously declared,
when the question came up in private of attending some function which
the Northern Senator was projecting.
At Mrs. Gwin’s ball, however, I noticed Mr. Seward hovering in my
neighbourhood, and I was not surprised when he, “who could scrape any
angle to attain an end,” as my cousin Miss Comer said so aptly, finding
none brave enough to present him, took advantage of my temporary merging
into Mr. Shillaber’s character, and presented himself to “Mrs.
Partington.” He was very courteous, if a little uncertain of his
welcome, as he approached me, and said, “Aunt Ruthy, can’t I, too, have
the pleasure of welcoming you to the Federal City? May I have a pinch of
snuff with you?” It was here that Mrs. Partington reminded him that the
donor of her snuff-box “loved the Kawnstitewtion.” I gave him the snuff
and with it a number of Partingtonian shots about his opinions
concerning “Slave Oligawky,” which were fearless even if “funny,” as the
Senator seemed to find them, and I passed on. This was my first and only
meeting with Mr. Seward.[15]
I was so exhilarated at the success of my rôle that I had scarce seen
our cousins during the evening (I am sure they thought me an ideal
chaperone), though I caught an occasional glimpse of the gauzy-winged
“Titania,” and once I saw the equally tiny Miss Comer go whirling down
the room in a wild galop with the tall Lieutenant Scarlett, of Her
Majesty’s Guards, who was conspicuous in a uniform as rubescent as his
patronymic. And I recall seeing an amusing little bit of human nature in
connection with our hostess, which showed how even the giving of this
superb entertainment could not disturb Mrs. Gwin’s perfect oversight of
her household.
The “wee sma’ hours” had come, and I had just finished complimenting my
hostess on her “cold hash and _cider_,” when the butler stepped up to
her and, in discreet pantomime, announced that the wine had given out.
Then she, Queen for the nonce of the most magnificent of the Bourbons,
did step aside and, lifting her stiff moiré skirt and its costly train
of cherry satin (quilled with white, it was), did extract from some
secret pocket the key to the wine cellar, and pass it right royally to
her menial. This functionary shortly afterward returned and rendered it
again to her, when, by the same deft manipulation of her rich
petticoats, the implement was replaced in its repository, and the Queen
once more emerged to look upon her merrymakers.
For years Mrs. Gwin’s fancy ball has remained one of the most brilliant
episodes in the annals of ante-bellum days in the capital. For weeks
after its occurrence the local photograph and daguerreotype galleries
were thronged with patrons who wished to be portrayed in the costumes
they had worn upon the great occasion; and a few days after the ball,
supposing I would be among that number, Mr. Shillaber sent me a request
for my likeness, adding that he “would immortalise me.” But, flushed
with my own success, and grown daring by reason of it, I replied that,
being _hors de combat_, I could not respond as he wished. I thanked him
for his proffer, however, and reminded him that the public had
anticipated him, and that by their verdict I had already immortalised
myself!