PRESIDENT PIERCE'S INAUGURATION
On the 4th of March, 1853, Franklin Pierce was inaugurated President
of the United States. This was an exciting day for me. My husband had
written articles for a Virginia paper which had won for him a place on
the editorial staff of the _Washington Union_, and was now in a position
to break a lance with my friends, Messrs. Gales and Seaton. Mr. Pierce
had liked his articles in the _Union_, and sought his acquaintance. A
friendship rapidly followed which was a happiness to us both. So when
some member of the staff of the Democratic organ must be consulted about
the inaugural address, the President had sent for my young husband and
had taken counsel with him.
I was delighted when I received an invitation from my good friends of
the Smithsonian Institution to join them in a pleasant room opening
on a balcony and overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, where we were to
have a collation and witness the parade. My husband's sixteen-year-old
sister, Fanny, was with me, and she was literally wild with delight.
The rest of the party were Mr. and Mrs. Spencer Baird, little Lucy
Baird, Mr. Gerard, and Mr. Turner. Little eight-year-old Lucy was the
belle of the occasion; so wise in scientific matters, knowing so much
about "specimens" and "extinct species" that we felt ourselves heavy
and ignorant beside her. "Come now, Lucy," said Mr. Turner, "I expect
you to take care of me on this occasion. These are painful scenes for
an Englishman. When you see the Continental troops coming, give me the
wink, and I'll slip away and stir the punch. Those are the fellows who
whipped the British!"
The elements frowned upon the change of administration. The sun was
blanketed with dark clouds, from which the snow fell thickly—not a
soft, enfolding snow, but snow driven by an angry wind. The crowd in
the avenue was immense; swelled by the presence of the largest number
of strangers ever before gathered at an Inauguration, the majority of
whom were members of the mighty army of office-seekers from the party
recently come into power. From the White House to the Capitol, windows,
balconies, and roofs were thronged; and the sidewalks of the avenue
were filled with a motley crowd of men, women, and children, foreigners,
government clerks, and negroes.
About twelve o'clock the boom of a great gun announced the moving of
the procession. The throng in the streets surged toward the gates of
the Capitol, and "lined up" on either side awaiting the arrival of the
cortège. Carriages filled with women and children, some of them with
the emblazoned panels of foreign ministers, passed rapidly in advance
of the cavalcade—the police actively engaged the while in keeping the
waiting crowd within bounds. Presently distant music was heard, and a
mighty cheer announced the near approach of the escort. Six marshals in
gay scarfs led the procession. Then came the "flying artillery," drawn
by fifty or more horses. An interval, and then platoons of soldiers of
diverse battalions filled square after square, and band after band of
martial music mingled with the cheers of the crowd.
We were all out now on the balcony, little Lucy keenly alert. Presently
she touched Mr. Turner on his arm and he fled! The Continentals were
passing.
Following these, in an open carriage drawn by four fine horses, came
our President: the youngest, handsomest President we had ever elected.
As he neared our balcony we stood up, waved and cheered, and threw him
flowers, and so winning in their enthusiasm were little Lucy (her mind
being now quite at rest about Mr. Turner) and my own young sister, that
the President rose and bared his head to us.
A platform had been erected over the steps of the east wing, and on it
was a table holding a Bible. The distinguished officials of the time
were seated around this table, and beneath it the crowd pushed and
scrambled and struggled for place within hearing. Instantly there was
silence. The slender, almost boyish figure of our President approached
the table, and with bared head under the falling snow stood for a moment
surveying the crowd.
His face was pale, and his countenance wore an expression of weary
sadness. When he took the oath he did not, as is the custom, use the
word "swear." Placing his left hand on the Bible without raising the
book, he raised his right and, looking upward, "affirmed" that, God
helping him, he would be faithful to his trust.
There were tears in his voice, but it was musical, and his enunciation
was clear and distinct.
Only two months before, his only child, a beautiful boy of thirteen, had
been killed in a railroad collision—killed before his parents' eyes! His
address began, "My countrymen! It is a relief to feel that no heart but
my own can know the personal regret and bitter sorrow over which I have
been borne to a position so suitable for others rather than desirable
for myself."
The public does not tolerate the intrusion of a man's personal joys
and griefs into his official life. However willing the world may be
to sympathize, it considers this indicative of a mind lacking fineness
and delicacy. To keep one's inner self in the background should be the
instinct, and is surely the policy, of every man and woman who aspires
to popularity.
There were many who quickly criticised this unfortunate sentence of the
President. The Whig journals sneered at it as "a trick of the orator to
awaken personal interest before proceeding to unfold his public policy."
But he had the sympathetic tears of many of his audience.
His address went on to discuss the annexation of Cuba—a dream which
lasted through many subsequent years. The Pearl of the Antilles was
ardently coveted as a pendant to our chain of states, but she will
never belong to us, unless as the result of more misfortune. The
President then pledged himself to the never dying Monroe Doctrine,
prayed appealingly for the preservation of our Union, and touched upon
the troubled questions which, despite all our wars and sufferings, are
not yet fully settled. And then, amid cheers and shouts and salvos of
artillery, he was driven to his new home, and it was all over.
Three days after the inauguration the Cabinet nominations were sent
to the Senate. Mr. Marcy was to be Secretary of State; Mr. Guthrie,
Secretary of the Treasury; Jefferson Davis, of War; James Dobbin,
of the Navy; Robert McClelland, of the Interior; James Campbell,
Postmaster-General; Caleb Cushing, Attorney-General—four men from the
North, three from the South. These, then, with their families, were
to lead the social life of Washington for four years. The Executive
Mansion, shrouded in gloom, could never become a social centre.
We had the honor of knowing well the three most distinguished of these
men, Mr. Marcy, Mr. Davis, and Mr. Cushing.
Mr. Marcy, the best-known member of the Cabinet, strong, honest, and an
adroit politician, was a man of rugged and abrupt manners, yet a great
favorite with the ladies. We at once became keenly interested in his
initial proceedings. He was sternly democratic in his ideas. Absorbing
as were the cares of his department, exciting and menacing as were the
questions of the hour, he inaugurated his official life by settling
matters of dress and etiquette—so far as they related to the presence of
American envoys at foreign courts. President Jackson had been supposed
to be democratic, but he was a bloated aristocrat beside Mr. Marcy.
Jackson had rejected the prescribed court dress,—embroidered cuffs and
cape, white breeches, gold knee-buckles, white silk stockings, gold
shoe-buckles, chapeau-bras, cockade, eagle, white feather, and sword.
Alackaday, that we should have lost all this bravery! Jackson decreed no
cape at all (such a friendly fashion to laden shoulders), no embroidery
except a gold star on the coat-collar,—but breeches and modest buckles,
a sword, a chapeau-bras with eagle and cockade.
Now why should Mr. Marcy make trouble by meddling with the cut of
the garments of our representatives abroad—at a time, too, when such
a number of serious questions were about to come before him; when
filibusters were at work, a war with Spain imminent, treaties to be made
with Mexico, and fishery questions to be settled with England? Simply,
I suppose, because great men all over the world have condescended
to prescribe in trifling matters—matters belonging to the chef, the
milliner, the arbiter of fleeting fashions. It would seem that the
greater the man the greater his appreciation of trifles. Everything
to him is important—from the signing of a treaty to the tying of a
shoestring.
The consequences of Mr. Marcy's meddling were far-reaching. On June 1,
1853, he issued a circular recommending that our representatives abroad
should, in order to show their devotion to republican institutions,
appear whenever practicable in the simple dress of an American citizen.
Our Minister at Berne found the court of Switzerland quite willing
to receive him in his citizen's dress. The Ministers at Turin and
Brussels reported they would have no difficulty in carrying out the
instructions of the State Department. The representative at Berlin was
at once informed that such action would be considered disrespectful.
The king of Sweden insisted on court dress at social functions. Mr.
August Belmont, at The Hague, received a cold permission from the king
to dress as he pleased—and it is recorded (as matter for gratitude on
the part of the American Minister) that after all, and notwithstanding,
the queen actually danced with him in his citizen's dress, and the king
condescended to shake him by the hand and to talk with him!
Mr. Mason, at the French court, could not face the music! He consulted
his wife, and together they agreed upon a compromise. He appeared in
an embroidered coat, sword, and cocked hat, and had the misfortune to
receive from Mr. Marcy a severe rebuke.
Mr. Buchanan, at the court of St. James, having no wife to consult,
thought long and anxiously on the subject. The question was still
unsettled at the opening of Parliament in February, 1854. Our Minister
did not attend,—he had "nothing to wear,"—whereupon "there was quite
a sensation in the House of Lords." "Indeed," he wrote to Mr. Marcy,
"I have found difficulty in preventing this incident from becoming a
subject of inquiry and remark in the House of Commons." Think of that!
At a time when England was on the eve of a war with Russia, all the
newspapers, court officials, House of Commons, exercised about the dress
of the American Minister! The _London Times_ stated that on a diplomatic
occasion "the American Minister sate unpleasantly conscious of his
singularity." The _London Chronicle_ blamed General Pierce's republican
ill manners, and the "American puppyism," and continued: "There is
not the least reason why her Majesty should be troubled to receive the
'gentleman in the black coat' from Yankee-land! He can say his say at
the Foreign Office, dine at a chop-house in King Street, sleep at the
old Hummums, and be off as he came, per liner, when his business is
done."
Poor Mr. Buchanan, sorely pressed, conceived the idea of costuming
himself like General Washington, and to that end examined Stuart's
portrait. He may even have gone so far as to indulge in a private
rehearsal—_queue_, powdered wig, and all; but he seems to have perceived
he would only make himself ridiculous; so he took his life in his hands
and—brave gentleman as he was—appeared at the queen's levee in the
dress of an American citizen; and she, true lady as she was, settled the
matter, for her court at least, by receiving him as she did all others.
Mr. Buchanan wrote to his niece, Miss Harriet Lane, "I wore a sword to
gratify those who yielded so much, and to distinguish me from the upper
court servants."
Mr. Soulé, at the court of Madrid, adopted the costume of Benjamin
Franklin at the court of Louis XVI—sword, chapeau, black velvet, and
much embroidery, looking, "with his black eyes, black looks, and pale
complexion, less like the philosopher whose costume he imitated than
the master of Ravenswood." There had been a lively discussion among the
Austrian and Mexican Ministers and the Countess of Montijo, the mother
of the Empress Eugénie and of the Duchess of Alba, whether or no he
should be rejected; but Mr. Soulé did not know this. The queen received
him, he wrote to Mr. Marcy, "with marked attention and courtesy."
There is no telling whether this simple deviation from the prescribed
court dress was not the real cause of Mr. Soulé's serious troubles
at court. It was the Duke of Alba who provided the spark which fired
the train of Spanish indignation against him and occasioned a quarrel
which resulted in two duels and strained relations which were never
reconciled.
It is always dangerous to infringe upon accepted rules of etiquette,
even in association with those who are themselves defiant of these
rules. I discovered that Mr. Marcy was very jealous of respect due to
himself, as well as to his government.
He was a prime favorite, as I have said, with the ladies—and with none
more than the charming family of "Father Ritchie," as we called one
of Washington's most esteemed citizens. Mr. Ritchie had been editor
for forty years of the _Richmond Enquirer_, which he had founded under
the auspices of Thomas Jefferson, and made one of the most influential
Democratic papers of the country. His home in Washington was noted for
elegant hospitality. He lived next door to Mr. Corcoran on Lafayette
Square, near St. John's Church. He had lovely daughters, and whenever
Mr. Marcy appeared in the salons of the town, one or more of these
ladies was sure to be with him.
It so happened that some of us were much interested in a poor,
worthy young man, who desired a position in the State Department. His
application had long ago been filed in the office and we were afraid
he had been forgotten. We longed to ask Mr. Marcy about it, but did not
know how we could manage to bring the subject to his notice.
"Let's make Ann Eliza ask him," suggested one. Now, Ann Eliza Ritchie
was a beauty, as fascinating a young creature as the Lord ever made,
irresistible alike to man and woman. She hesitated,—everybody was afraid
of Mr. Marcy—but goaded on by us, she ventured:—
"Oh, Mr. Marcy" (Virginia girls always begin with "Oh"), "Oh, Mr. Marcy!
They all want to know if you are going to appoint Mr. Randolph in your
department."
The lion turned. He did not growl, he simply roared: "_What_ do you
mean, madame? How _dare_ you take the bull by the horns in this unseemly
manner?"
And so no more of Ann Eliza Ritchie. And so no more of the rest of us.
We learned a lesson we never forgot; namely, not to meddle in Cabinet
affairs, but to content ourselves with the honor of amusing great
men,—in short, to know our place and keep it.
Mr. Jefferson Davis had been an eminent public man long before the
presidency of Mr. Pierce. He was a graduate of West Point. He had been
an officer in the Indian wars. He was in the House of Representatives
at the age of thirty-seven. John Quincy Adams heard his maiden speech
and said: "That young man is no ordinary man. He will make his mark yet,
mind me." His devotion to reading and study amounted to a passion. He
had served as a colonel in the Mexican War. It was said of him that "his
brilliant movement at Buena Vista carried the day, and that his tactical
conception was worthy of a Cæsar or a Napoleon."[2]
He was afterward a member for four years of the United States Senate,
and although defeated in a gubernatorial contest in Mississippi, he
rose rapidly in the esteem of the people of his own section; and now,
at the age of forty-five, he was the "leader of the Southern people,
and successor of John C. Calhoun." He was leader a few years later in
the Battle of the Giants, fought so bitterly in Mr. Buchanan's time.
Of Mr. Caleb Cushing I knew less than I did of Mr. Davis and Mr.
Marcy. He had great learning, great ability, wide experience in public
life. He has been described as a "scholar, author, lawyer, statesman,
diplomatist, general, and judge." He was one of the rare class of men
who are precocious in childhood and youth, and who go intellectually
from strength to strength as long as they live. He was graduated from
Harvard when only seventeen years of age. He was a most attractive man
in manner and address, and a fascinating public speaker. He could quote
the "Iliad" from beginning to end, and could speak to each one of the
foreign ambassadors in his own tongue.
Mr. Cushing sent an editorial nearly every day to the _Washington
Union_, of which my husband was associate editor. No compliment upon
his own articles which my husband ever received was more gratefully
appreciated than one from Mr. Cushing. A serious difference of
opinion had arisen with the senior editor, because of a paper upon
the Anglo-Russian war, in which my husband warmly advocated the side
of Russia. He declined retracting his words (which were copied and
translated abroad), and finally gave up his position on the paper rather
than express sentiments other than his own. Mr. Cushing applauded
him, and bade him stand fearlessly by an argument, "unanswered and
unanswerable."
Shortly after this Mr. Pierce appointed my husband special Minister to
Greece. I longed to go with him to Athens, but my mother's health was
frail, and I felt I could not leave her. So I returned to my home in
Virginia with my children, and their father went on his mission alone.
When it was accomplished, the Pierce administration was drawing to a
close.
My temporary home was near Charlottesville, and thither, on his way
South, came the President to spend a day and to visit Monticello, the
home of the Father of Democracy. He wrote to me, inviting me to spend
the evening with him and a few friends at his hotel. We had a delightful
evening. He told me all I wished to know of the exile far away in
Greece, expressed warm friendship for him and his, and presented me with
two gorgeous volumes, bound sumptuously in green morocco, and inscribed,
from my "friend Franklin Pierce," in his own fine handwriting. I played
at his request, he sitting the while beside the piano. I selected
Henselt's "L'Elisire d'Amour" and "La Gondola," to the great delight
of the President. The other day I read, from the pen of some irreverent
critic, of the "lilting puerilities of the innocuous Henselt." All the
same, these puerilities pleased the President, and will charm the world
until the end of time.
I feel that I have said too little of Mr. Pierce in this sketch of
the men we knew. I cannot hope to convey an adequate conception of
his captivating voice and manner. Surely its source was in genuine
kindness of heart. I knew nothing of him as a politician. It was urged
against him that he was extremely partial to the South. I know the
South honored and loved him always. It was said that "Franklin Pierce
could not say 'No'"—a weakness which doubtless caused him a world of
trouble in his political relations, but to which he may have owed
something of the indescribable charm for which he was conspicuous.
Mr. Seward, his political opponent, wrote to his wife: "The President
has a _very_ winning way in his manners." I can fully understand the
beautiful friendship between him and Nathaniel Hawthorne. How exquisite
the answer of the author when chidden because he had dedicated a book
to the President, after the latter had become unpopular: "Unpopular, is
he? If he is so exceedingly unpopular that his name is enough to sink
the volume, there is so much the more need that an old friend should
stand by him."
Hawthorne had then arrived at the height of his own popularity, while
his friend, on account of his fancied Southern sympathies, had lost the
friendship of his own people. A bitter lot for a sensitive patriot, who
had done his best! "An angel can no more!"
My residence in Washington during the Pierce administration was too
short to afford me more than a brief glimpse of the social life of the
city, but I keenly enjoyed that glimpse. I had the good fortune to find
favor, as I have said, with the old residents, and also with the Hon.
W. W. Corcoran, at whose house the best of the old and new could always
be found.
There I met many distinguished people. I remember especially General
Winfield Scott, Sam Houston, and Washington Irving. General Scott,
grand, imposing, and ceremonious, never failed to tell everybody that
he had been groomsman for my husband's father—he had been born in
Petersburg, Virginia. He addressed all young women as "fair lady." He
was a great hero and a splendid old fellow in every particular, and he
never for a moment forgot his heroism and his splendor. People called
him "vain." So great a man could not be accused of vanity—"the food of
fools." He had a reasonable pride in what he had achieved, but his was
certainly not the kind of pride that apes humility.
As for old Sam Houston, he had had romance enough in his past life for
a dozen heroes. He had lived many years among the Indians, had fought
in many wars, had achieved the independence of Texas—what had he not
done? Now he was Senator from Texas, very popular, and rather impatient,
one might judge, of the confinement and restraints of his position. It
was amusing to see the little pages of the Senate Chamber providing him
with small bundles of soft pine sticks, which he would smuggle into his
desk with a rather shamefaced expression. Doubled up over this desk, his
face almost covered with his hanging eyebrows and iron-gray whiskers, he
occupied himself in whittling sticks as a safety-valve for unrest while
listening to the long speeches, lasting sometimes until midnight. He
would prove afterward in his brilliant conversation that he had not lost
a word. Sometimes the pine under his knife would take shape in little
crosses, amulets, etc. He was known, now and then, to draw from the
pocket of his tiger-skin vest an exquisitely carved heart and present
it to some young lady whose beauty attracted him.
Then there was Washington Irving,—an old man with but a few years to
live. He died before the end of the next administration. One would never
think him old,—so keen and alert was he,—but for his trick of suddenly
falling asleep for a minute or two in the middle of a conversation.
A whisper, "Sh-h-h," would pass from one to another, "Mr. Irving is
asleep;" and in a moment he would wake up, rub his hands, and exclaim,
"Well, as we were saying," taking up the conversation just where he had
left it.
My little sister worshipped Mr. Irving. "Only let me see him," she
pleaded; "only let me touch the hand that wrote the 'Sketch Book.'"
I repeated this when I introduced her, and he said: "Ah, yes, yes! I
know! I have heard all that before—many times before. And just as I am
getting happy over it, here comes a young fellow, some whipper-snapper
who never wrote a line, and [mimicking] it's 'Good evening, Mr. Irving,
I am glad to have met you.'"
It happened that my sister had not heard. She was already distraite.
Her favorite friend had appeared, and she at once echoed, "Good
evening, Mr. Irving, I am glad to have met you," to the old gentleman's
infinite delight and amusement. I was proud to have had even a word with
"America's most celebrated writer: exquisite in courtesy and fidelity
and of lofty purity of character." He died in 1859—the heart which had
ached so long for the death of an early love failing him suddenly at
"Sleepy Hollow," his home on the Hudson. His country scarcely noticed
his death! That country, crazed on the subject of slavery, was writing
columns on columns about John Brown.
One morning, when I was passing the corner of Fifteenth Street, below
President Square, my steps were arrested by a large crowd which had
assembled in front of the bank of Corcoran & Riggs. "Dear me," I
thought, "has the bank failed?" But the green blinds of the plain
two-storied building were all open, and presently through the opening
door, escorted by Mr. Riggs himself, came a slight little maid in a
Connemara cloak and hood. Mr. Riggs put her in a waiting carriage,
slammed the door, and, with a look which said plainly to the waiting
crowd, "No more this time," reëntered the house.
The little lady was Adelina Patti—just sixteen—and Mr. Riggs's guest
during the few days she spent in Washington on her way to meet Southern
engagements. Congressmen tendered her a complimentary benefit, and she
sang in a small hall, supported by a few local musicians. She stood
before us in a simple muslin slip, her dark hair bound with a narrow
blue velvet ribbon,—a Scottish "snood,"—and never, in all her brilliant
life, was she more appreciated, more admired.
I could remember a time of musical dearth in Virginia, relieved only
by rare occasions when the dimly lighted concert rooms would be filled
by eager listeners to wandering minstrels: the Hutchinson family, Anna
Bishop, the Orpheans, Parodi, and Amalia Patti. After a while Strakosch
appeared with an infant phenomenon. She looked precisely like a French
doll, with her little round face, pink cheeks, and big black eyes,
dressed in short frocks of rose-color or blue silk. But she sang like a
linnet on a bough; and it was comical to see her in her duets inclining
her small head toward her contralto, after the manner of other divas.
This was the ten-year-old Adelina Patti!
"What does she keep in her throat?" asked a little girl near her own
age—adding comfortably, "Never mind, we will find out when she dies!"
Maurice Strakosch accompanied her on a square piano placed upon the
floor, the platform being often too narrow to admit it. He played,
frequently turning his face to the audience, nodding and smiling, as if
to say:—
"See this little marvel I have discovered! Is she not a darling?"
The midget had an uncertain temper in those days. Travelling once in
the same car with a lady who took her fancy, she found an opportunity
to free her mind of her opinion of her troupe: Amalia was jealous
of her; Amalia would shake and pinch her behind the scenes if the
audience applauded her; Strakosch was utterly horrid—just observe his
great hands! Not for worlds would she sing for him were it not for the
sugar-plums!
At the end of the journey Strakosch approached the little girl and held
out his hand to take her to her sister.
"I am not going with you," said Adelina, "I am going home with this
lady."
"Ah, but impossible!" said Strakosch.
"I will!" said the small rebel. "You know I always do things when I say
'I will.'"
"Why not?" said the lady (she was Mrs. Glasgow, the lovely mother of
Ellen Glasgow, the authoress). "Why not? Let her come with me! I will
take good care of her."
Strakosch shrugged his shoulders. A scene was imminent. "If I consent,
Adelina," he said at last, "will you be sure to be ready when I come
for you for rehearsal? Will you be sure to sing?"
"Will _you_ be sure to bring me back?"
"Sure—I promise."
"How much candy?" was the next excited question.
"A whole pound."
"No—not enough!"
"Two pounds," said Strakosch, glancing around to satisfy himself that
the scene attracted admirers and possible concert goers.
"Not enough," persisted Adelina, shaking her head.
"A hatful!" cried Strakosch, and won the day.
Mrs. Glasgow devoted herself to the little girl for the four days of her
stay. On the last evening she invited ten or fifteen child neighbors to
a dolls' party with Adelina Patti. At the end of the evening she said:
"Now, Adelina, these little girls have been very kind to you. They have
brought you lovely flowers—I wish you to sing one little song for them."
A shrewd look possessed the tiny face. "_Sing—for—them!_ Sing without
money! Mais non! J'ai toujours beaucoup des fleurs."
She disappeared for a while from public view. I saw her no more
until her visit to Washington. Later, if I may anticipate, during Mr.
Buchanan's administration, she made her début in "Lucia di Lammermoor."
People fought for seats and boxes. Three rival beauties secured the
three best—tiny, comfortless stalls—at ninety dollars each. It was
something to see Miss Harriet Lane, Mrs. John R. Thompson, and Mrs.
Stephen A. Douglas in those three boxes! Each was filled with beautiful
women, and the Cabinet officers and Senators stood behind.
"What is all this about?" asked Judge Douglas, the "Little Giant."
"The opera follows Scott's 'Bride of Lammermoor,'" I gently suggested.
"Whose bride was she? Where did she live?" asked the mighty man, the
famous Senator who came so near being President.
"I doubt whether she lived at all," I told him. "She is a creature of
pure imagination, I'm afraid."
"Oh!" said the Senator, contemptuously, and gave no more attention to
the stage nor to the divine artist upon it.
As I had come to Washington from Virginia, where everybody's
great-grandfather knew my great-grandfather, where the rules of
etiquette were only those of courtesy and good breeding, I had many a
troubled moment in my early Washington life, lest I should transgress
some law of precedence, etc. I wisely took counsel with one of my
"old residents," and she gave me a few simple rules whereby the young
chaperon of a very young girl might be guided: "My dear," said this
lady, "My dear, you know you cannot always have your husband to attend
you. It will be altogether proper for you to go with your sister to
morning and afternoon receptions. When you arrive, send for the host or
the master of ceremonies, and he will take you in and present you. Of
course, your husband will take you to balls; if he is busy, you simply
cannot go! I think you would do well to make a rule _never_, under any
circumstances, to drive in men's carriages. There are so many foreigners
here, you must be careful. They never bring their own court manners to
Washington. They take their cue from the people they meet. If you are
high and haughty, they will be high and haughty. If you are genially
civil but reserved, they will be so. If you talk personalities in a free
and easy way, they will spring some audacious piece of scandal on you,
and the Lord only knows where they'll end."
Now, it so happened that I had just received a request from a Frenchman
who had brought letters, to be allowed to escort Madame and Mademoiselle
to a fête in Georgetown. We were to drive through the avenue of
blossoming crab-apples, and rendezvous at a spring for a picnic. I
forget the name of our hostess, but she had arranged a gay festival,
including music and dancing on the green. I had accepted this invitation
and the escort of M. Raoul, and received a note from him asking at what
hour he should have the honor, etc., and I immediately ran home and
wrote that "Madame would be happy to see M. Raoul _à trois heures_"—and
that Madame asked the privilege of using her own horses, etc. I made
haste to engage an open carriage and congratulated myself on my clever
management.
The afternoon was delicious. Monsieur appeared on the moment, and
we waited for my carriage. The gay equipages of other members of the
party drove up and waited for us. Presently, rattling down the street,
came an old ramshackle "night-hawk," bearing the mud-and-dust scars
of many journeys, the seats ragged and tarnished, raw-boned horses,
with rat-eaten manes and tails, harness tied with rope,—the only
redeeming feature the old negro on the box, who, despite his humiliating
_entourage_, had the air of a gentleman.
What could I do? There was nothing to be done!
Monsieur handed me in without moving a muscle of his face, handed in
my sister, entered himself, and spoke no word during the drive. He
conducted us gravely to the place of rendezvous, silently and gravely
walked around the grounds with us, silently and gravely brought us home
again.
I grew hot and cold by turns, and almost shed tears of mortification. I
made no apology—what could I say? Arriving at my own door, I turned and
invited my escort to enter. He raised his hat and, with an air of the
deepest dejection, dashed with something very like sarcastic humility,
said he trusted Madame had enjoyed the afternoon—thanked her for the
honor done himself—and only regretted the disappointment of the French
Minister, the Count de Sartiges, at not having been allowed to serve
Madame with his own state coach, which had been placed at his disposal
for Madame's pleasure!
As he turned away my chagrin was such I came near forgetting to give my
coachman his little "tip."
I began, "Oh, Uncle, how _could_ you?" when he interrupted: "Now,
Mistis, don't you say nothin'. I knowed dis ole fune'al hack warn't
fittin' for you, but der warn't nar another kerridge in de stable. De
boss say, 'Go 'long, Jerry, an' git 'er dar!'—an' I done done it! An'
I done fotch 'er back, too!"
I never saw M. Raoul afterward. There's no use crying over spilt
milk, or broken eggs, or French monsieurs, or even French counts and
Ministers. I soon left for Virginia, and to be relieved of the dread of
meeting M. Raoul softened my regret at leaving Washington.