SOCIAL LIFE DURING BUCHANAN'S ADMINISTRATION
We attended Dr. Gurley's church and found that the President also had
taken a seat in that church. Our own was near the door, and for many
Sundays before I knew him, I was interested in seeing him enter the
church and walk briskly up to his pew near the pulpit (while the bell
was ringing), buttoned in his broadcloth coat, wearing no overcoat in
the coldest weather. Immediately after the benediction he would walk
rapidly down the aisle, the congregation standing until he passed. Miss
Lane attended St. John's Church, and the President was accompanied only
by his secretary, Mr. Buchanan Henry. After I knew him quite well, I
always spoke to him when he passed me near the door and I sometimes
ventured, "A good sermon, Mr. President!" he never failing to reply,
"Too long, Madam, too long."
I was leading a very happy domestic life, busy with my little boys
and my housekeeping, proud of my self-constituted office as my
Congressman's private secretary, much exercised in sending documents,
seeds, and cuttings (we were introducing tea-culture in Virginia) to
his constituents, when I was called to order by our dear old friend,
Mr. Dudley Mann, an old politician, diplomat, and "society man."
"Madam, did you come to Washington to live in your own house and write
letters to farmers?"
"What better could I do?"
"The President does not agree with you. He admires your husband and
wonders why you were not at the Levee. He has asked me to see that you
come to the next one."
"I shall be on a committee that night," said my Congressman, hastily,—he
was usually on a committee when a reception was to the fore.
"I will take her myself," said Mr. Mann. "Now, wear a pretty evening
dress of silk or velvet. Can it be lavender? And I will call precisely
at nine."
I appreciated the honor of Mr. Mann's escort, and, wishing to please
him, procured the lavender silk. Our evening gowns were cut straight
across the neck, and finished with a bertha of lace. The full skirt
was distended over a large hoop. An elaborate headdress of flowers or
marabout feathers was _de rigueur_ for a levee, which, however, demanded
simpler attire than a ball or a dinner. Our white gloves were short
and were finished at the wrist with a fall of lace three or four inches
wide, and a band of ribbon and rosette.
Mr. Mann approved my attire and gave me a very good time. The crowd was
great and the amplitude and length of the ladies' robes filled me with
anxiety.
"Dear Mr. Mann," I said, "pray be careful not to tread on the trains."
"My child," he answered, "I haven't lifted my feet for twenty years!"
The President detained us for a few courteous words, and we were passed
on to Miss Lane, standing, not beside him, but in a group with other
ladies. Thence we found our way to the East Room, and a great many
ladies and gentlemen were introduced to me, as I stood on the arm of my
courtly escort.
Such a number of cards came to us after this that the housekeeping, the
writing, the little boys, the seeds, and the tea-culture in Virginia
were likely to suffer.
The reign of the "afternoon tea" was not yet—at least not in Washington;
but entertainments included morning receptions, evening receptions,
dinners, musicales, children's parties, old-fashioned evening parties
with music and supper, and splendid balls. So many of these were crowded
into a season that we often attended three balls in one evening.
The first time I dined with the President I made early and elaborate
preparation. When the great day arrived, all my paraphernalia, rosetted
slippers, gloves, fan, dress, and wrap were duly laid out on my bed and
sofa. In the evening I seated myself at a dressing table and submitted
my head to François' hands. The evening coiffure was elaborate and
troublesome. The hair in front was stiffened with bandoline, and formed
into sleek, smooth bandeaux, framing the face. Behind, all the hair was
tightly tied, low at the nape of the neck, then divided into two parts,
and each woven with many strands into a wide braid. These were curved
from ear to ear to form a basket, and within the basket were roses, or
pond-lilies, or violets, with long trailing vines floating behind.
François was a very agreeable talker. He had dressed Rachel's hair and
was leisurely giving a charming lecture on Rachel's art. Suddenly my
husband burst in: "The carriage is at the door! Hurry, hurry! We've only
ten minutes to reach the White House."
I literally leaped into my gown, had no time for flowers or jewels,
snatched up my gloves, left everything else, and ran! We entered the
green room just as Mr. Buchanan Henry was arranging the guests for
dinner. Luckily I was low down on his list.
I was miserably heated, and very uncomfortable lest I should not be able
to conceal my Congress gaiters, having had no time to change them. My
gloves were on, but not buttoned. To add to my misfortunes I found I
was to be taken in by a Southern Congressman who was already—well, not
exactly himself. To my horror he winked at Miss Lane when he drank wine
with her. When a side dish was handed, he said audibly: "Now look here,
Joe! Is that the same old thing you gave me here last year? Because
if it is, I don't want any of it." After we returned to the parlor I
confided my miseries to the lady who had been placed next him at dinner,
and she reassured me: "Oh, that's nothing! Such things happen here any
day—nobody notices these people from the rural districts."
This was worse than the ramshackle carriage. Could I bear to be classed
with "people from the rural districts?" I was never a moment late
afterward.
Dinners at the White House were much less elaborate in their
appointments than were dinners at the homes of the wealthy Cabinet
officers and Senators. Mr. Buchanan set an example of Republican
simplicity. Few flowers were placed in the drawing rooms. In the centre
of the Blue Room there was a divan surrounding a stand of potted plants
and surmounted by a small palm. The dinner table was not ornamented
with flowers, nor were bouquets at the covers. A long plateau, a mirror
edged with a hunting scene (gilt figures in high relief), extended down
the middle, and from the centre and at the two ends rose epergnes with
small crystal dishes for bonbons and cakes.
One evening the President said to me, "Madam, what is this small shrub
I find always placed before me?"
"If the berries were white, Mr. President, it would be _Ardisia alba_."
"Ah," he answered, "I am all right! My berries are red—I have '_Ardisia
rufa_!' Miss Harriet has the _alba_!"
There were no other floral decorations on the table.
I once ventured to send the President a Virginia ham, with particular
directions for cooking it. It was to be soaked, boiled gently three or
four hours, suffered to get cold in its own juices, and then toasted.
This would seem simple enough, but the executive cook disdained it,
perhaps for the reason that it was so simple. The dish, a shapeless,
jellylike mass, was placed before the President. He took his knife
and fork in hand to honor the dish by carving it himself, looked at
it helplessly, and called out—"Take it away! Take it away! Oh, Miss
Harriet! You are a poor housekeeper! Not even a Virginia lady can teach
you."
The glass dishes of the epergne contained wonderful "French
kisses"—two-inch squares of crystallized sugar wrapped in silver paper,
and elaborately decorated with lace and artificial flowers. I was
very proud at one dinner when the President said to me, "Madam, I am
sending you a souvenir for your little daughter," and a waiter handed
me one of those gorgeous affairs. He had questioned me about my boys,
and I had told him of my daughter Gordon, eight years old, who lived
with her grandmother. "You must bring her to see Miss Harriet," he had
said—which, in due season, I did; an event, with its crowning glory of a
checked silk dress, white hat and feather, which she proudly remembers
to this day. Having been duly presented at court, the little lady
was much "in society" and accompanied me to many brilliant afternoon
functions.
She was a thoughtful listener to the talk in her father's library, and
once when an old politician spoke sadly of a possible rupture of the
United States, surprised and delighted him by slipping her hand in his
and saying, "Never mind! _United_ will spell _Untied_ just as well"—a
little _mot_ which was remembered and repeated long afterwards.
Mr. Buchanan's kind notice of her is gratefully recollected. It was said
that he was influenced by the Southern Senators and Representatives. I
only know he was most kind to us, and I refuse to believe we were of
consequence enough to make this kindness a matter of policy. I would
fain think he really liked us, really desired to add to our happiness.
It cannot be said that his niece, Miss Harriet Lane, although
universally admired, was a popular woman. She lacked magnetism. She
followed a prescribed rule of manner from which she never deviated, no
matter with whom she was thrown. This was, perhaps, fortunate. Always
courteous, always in place, silent whenever it was possible to be
silent, watchful, and careful, she made no enemies, was betrayed into
no entangling alliances, and was involved in no contretemps of any kind.
She was very handsome, a fair, blue-eyed, self-contained young woman.
She was dignified—as indeed all women had to be, in gesture at least,
when they wore great hoops! The "curtsy" was a perilous duty. "How
does she do it? She never makes a cheese of herself," said one, looking
on at a morning reception. Miss Lane's courtesy was the perfection of
deference and grace. And she had exquisite taste in dress. She never
wore many ornaments, many flowers, nor the billows of ruffles then in
fashion. I remember her in white tulle, with a wreath of clematis; in
soft brown or blue silk; in much white muslin, dotted and plain, with
blue ribbons run in puffs on skirt and bodice.
She was very affable and agreeable, in an unemotional way—the proper
manner, of course, for her. I imagine no one could take a liberty with
her then, but I risked the experiment some years ago when we spent
a summer together at Bar Harbor. A handsome widow, with silver hair,
she was even more _distingué_ than she had been in the White House. I
recalled, to her genuine amusement, two incidents of her life there.
When she took her place as mistress of the Executive Mansion, the
President had given her but one rule for her conduct: never under any
circumstances to accept a present. "Think of my feelings," she had said
to me, "when the lovely lacquered boxes and tables the Japanese Embassy
brought me were turned from the door, to say nothing of the music-boxes
and these fascinating sewing-machines they have just invented."
A party was once made up for a visit to Mount Vernon. Mr. Augustus
Schell of New York accompanied Miss Lane. He was a fine-looking fellow
and very much in love with her. As they walked along the banks of
the Potomac, she picked up a handful of colored pebbles. Mr. Schell
requested them of her and put them in his pocket. He took them to
Tiffany, had them beautifully polished, set with diamonds, and linked
together in a bracelet, and sent them as "a souvenir of Mount Vernon"
to Miss Lane for a Christmas gift.
She carried them for a week in her pocket, trying to get her own consent
to give them up. The more she looked at them the better she liked them.
One day the President was in fine spirits. He liked to rally her about
Lord Lyons, which she did not fancy overmuch. But this time she humored
him, and at last ventured to say, "Uncle Buchanan, if I have a few
pretty pebbles given me, you do not object to my accepting them?"
"Oh, no, Miss Harriet! Keep your pebbles! Keep your pebbles," he
exclaimed, in high good humor.
"You know," Miss Lane said, in telling me the story at the time,
"diamonds are pebbles."
There was an impression that she never condescended to the rôle of a
coquette, but I could testify to the contrary.
Mr. Porcher Miles, Congressman from South Carolina, was one of her train
of devoted admirers. He accompanied me once to an evening reception at
the White House. Miss Lane stood in front of the flower-trimmed divan
in the Blue Room. Mr. Miles and I paid our respects, lingered awhile,
and, having other engagements, sent for our carriage.
As we stood at the door waiting, he talked of Miss Lane's beauty and
charm—"Look at her where she stands! Is she not the personification of
a high-bred lady from head to foot?"
Miss Lane perceived we were talking about her,—and while she gave
her right hand to the arriving guests she passed her left behind her
and plucked a spray of mignonette. We saw her beckon a servant, who
immediately found us, and gave the flowers to Mr. Miles, "with Miss
Lane's compliments."
I repeated these two little stories to her when her head was
silvered,—less by age than by sorrow,—and awoke one of those rare
moonlight smiles which her friends remember so well.
No one who observed Mr. Buchanan could fail to perceive the rapid change
in him after he became President. Having committed himself to the policy
of rotation in office, he was overwhelmed with the persistence of place
hunters. "They give me no time to say my prayers," he complained. They
exhausted him in listening to their petty interests at a time when the
most important problems that ever confronted the head of the nation
clamored for his consideration.
Toward the last, when the older men almost gave up hope, his only prayer
was that the catastrophe of conflict might not come in his day. He
cannot be blamed above others for hesitation, vacillation. The problems
were too mighty for one man's wisdom, too mighty for the collective
wisdom of many.
Lord and Lady Napier were interesting members of Washington society.
They occupied the house built by Admiral Porter on H Street, near
Fourteenth, now the residence of the French Embassy. They had succeeded
Mr. Crampton, and were themselves succeeded in 1859 by Lord Lyons—so
we had three British Ministers within a few years. Lord and Lady Napier
gave delightful entertainments—dinners, musicales, receptions, evening
parties. My Lady was more admired than were any of her predecessors. She
was lovely in person, gentle, cultivated, most affable and approachable.
At her receptions, and even at her balls, her sons, charming boys of
ten and twelve, were always present to help her receive her guests.
Everything she did, everything she said, seemed wisest, virtuousest,
discreetest, best. We have had no representative from the court of St.
James who did so much for the entertainment of our own people as Lord
and Lady Napier.
They gave a splendid ball in 1858 in honor of the queen's birthday.
Lady Napier was superb in a tiara of diamonds and emeralds. Lord
Napier and all the foreign Ministers shone forth in all the splendor
of court dress; and everybody must concede—Mr. Marcy to the contrary
notwithstanding—that the glitter of gold lace and gems, the distinction
of orders, the imperial stars and decorations, do add to the interest
of such an occasion. They mean much. They mean honor achieved, services
recognized.
A recording Jenkins of this ball dilates upon the elegance of the
supper, "this vista of gold and silver plate and the more than epicurean
daintiness of the delicacies, the age and vintage of the wines."
The most interesting ball of the season was that given by the Senators
and Representatives to Lord and Lady Napier just before they returned
to England.
We were early arrivals at this ball, because we wished to see the
sanded floor of the ball room, representing in colors St. George and
the Dragon, before it should be effaced by the dancers.
Lord and Lady Napier were seated on a dais at the head of the room, and
we passed in review before them. Lady Napier was attired in rich white
satin, embroidered with pearls, with a close "Juliet cap" of pearls
on her hair. No lofty throne could make her less gracious than was her
wont.
Dion Boucicault gave me his arm at the door, and after our obeisance
walked around the room to show me the portraits and paintings. On
the right of Lord and Lady Napier was a full-length portrait of
young Victoria in her ermine robe and crown, and on the left, one of
Washington. "Alas, alas," said Mr. Boucicault, "that so great a man
should have been painted with cramp in his fingers!" My escort was
altogether charming. I discovered he was "putting in time" with me,
for presently here came little Agnes Robertson, just from the theatre,
where she had been playing in the "Siege of Lucknow," and I lost Mr.
Boucicault! He married her soon afterward. And _afterward_! Ah, well!
That is none of the business of this story.
When we entered the banquet hall, Lady Napier's exclamations were
enthusiastic. "Look, George," she cried, "there is the knight and
his dragon again—all in sugar! And here are the English arms and—oh,
George! here are our own arms!" Gautier had excelled himself. There were
glittering haystacks of spun sugar; wonderful Roman chariots, drawn by
swans, and driven by Cupids; pyramids of costly bonbons; dolphins in a
sea of rock candy; and ices in every form from a pair of turtle doves
to a pillared temple. Gautier spread all his tables in this fashion,
the grosser dishes of game, terrapin, and canvasback being served from
a buffet.
Washington suppers in the fifties were superb. One wondered if we might
not some day return to the feasts of the Roman emperors, the tables of
cedar and ivory incrusted with jewels, the movable ceilings representing
the celestial spheres, the showers of violets and roses which rained
down on the guests in the intervals between the courses of peacocks'
brains and nightingales' tongues, the trumpets which greeted the
appearance of the stuffed peacocks with spread plumage. Time has really
changed our supper fashions less than we imagine. Music, delicate wines,
confectionery in fanciful forms, silver dishes, flowers, perfumed water
for the fingers, were all fashionable in the fourteenth century. We
smile to read of the flocks of living birds and the stuffed fowls that
adorned the boards of the Neapolitan kings. But it has not been many
years since, at a banquet given in New York to Ex-President Cleveland
by the Manhattan Club, a tank was placed in the middle of the table
where living terrapins crawled about and were thoughtful spectators of
the fate of the _terrapin à la Maryland_. And at intervals around the
board, stuffed pheasants contemplated the flight of the _faisan rôti_
down Democratic throats. Benedetti Salutati in 1476 never did better
than this. And, compared with these ancients and moderns, M. Gautier was
extremely refined, and only a bit anachronistic with his Roman chariots,
Cupids, and swans.
People were wont to remark upon the atmosphere the lovely Lady Napier
seemed to bring with her everywhere. Those who were admitted into her
_sanctum sanctorum_, her little boudoir, fancied they could explain it.
Upon her table was much silver marked with her coronet and initials, and
beside these was a rosewood book rack containing half a dozen volumes—a
Bible, a "Treatise on Practical Religion," "The Mount of Olivet,"
"Paradise of the Christian Soul," "The Christian Year," "Child's
Catechism," "Life of Dean Ramsey." These were the pure waters from
which Lady Napier drank daily. "Ninia Napier" was written in a delicate
Italian hand on the fly-leaf of each volume.
My acquaintance with Lord Napier was slight. Judge Douglas introduced
him to me at a ball. He stood some seconds without speaking. At last he
raised his cold blue eyes and asked, "Have you been long at this place?"
I answered, "No, my Lord!" Ten words had passed between us, with which
he seemed to be satisfied. But Lady Napier I knew well. She returned
all visits, and mine among the rest.
England and Russia had been at war, and peace had recently been
concluded. Of all the foreign Ministers I knew best the English and
Russian. Baron Stoëckle, then the Russian Envoy, and Baron Bodisco, his
predecessor (I am not sure about the "Baron"), I knew very well, and I
cordially liked their wives. This does not imply that their wives, both
American, liked each other.
Madame Bodisco, laden with diamonds, looked with disfavor upon Madame
Stoëckle, young, blue-eyed, and in simple attire. The latter was from
Massachusetts; the former had been a beautiful Georgetown girl, whom
the baron, passing her father's orchard, had spied in a blossoming apple
tree, and to whom he had forthwith lost his Russian and baronial heart.
Madame Bodisco was an enthusiastic Southern sympathizer. At Madame
Stoëckle's own table, after she had related an amusing anecdote, Madame
Bodisco whispered to me, "Will you listen to that Yankee woman with her
'_says she's_' and '_says I's_'!"
Of course politics, in this seething time, were never alluded to in any
company, least of all in the presence of our foreign envoys. It required
skill; but we kept the talk upon "literature and flowers," the birds
and fishes of different lands, anything, everything, except the topic
of all-consuming interest. But at one of Baron Stoëckle's very genial
dinners, one of us, to test his ingenuity, said: "Come now, Baron! Here
we are, Republican and Democrat! Show your colors! Where do you belong?"
"Alas, dear lady," said the wily diplomat, "I am an orphan! I belong
nowhere! I am an _Old-Line Whig_." This party had just become extinct.
One of the exciting events during the Buchanan administration was the
arrival in Washington of the first embassy from Japan—the Japan which
for hundreds of years had been governed by the dominant idea: "to
preserve unchanged the condition of the native intelligence" and to
"prevent the introduction of new ideas." The government had maintained
a rigid policy of isolation, "living like frogs in a well," until 1853,
when they were rudely awakened from their dream of peace and security
by Commodore Perry sailing into the harbor of Yokohama with a squadron
of United States war vessels. By dignity, resolution, argument, and
promise, he extorted a treaty in 1854—and thus Japan entered the family
of nations.
We had much curiosity about the Japanese. We read Perry's "Expedition"
with keen interest, and were delighted with the prospect of receiving
the embassy from the new land. Arrangements were made for a series of
entertainments, invitations were already issued—one to the White House
to witness the presentation of credentials and the reception of the
President.
At last we heard that the strangers had landed and would soon arrive.
I was in the gallery of the Senate Chamber with an intimate friend.
We were doubtful about going out with the crowd of citizens to meet
the Japanese, and were hoping that the Senate and House would adjourn.
Presently a member rose and said: "Mr. President, the first Ambassadors
from the venerable country of Japan are about to arrive. I move the
Senate do now adjourn to meet and welcome the Japanese."
Immediately another Senator was on his feet, not to second the motion,
but to say sharply, "Mr. President, I humbly trust the Senate of the
United States of America will not adjourn for every show that comes
along." That settled it. My friend and I hurried to our carriage, and
meeting the cortège, turned just in time to drive side by side with the
first landau containing the Ambassadors.
Our progress was slow and often interrupted—and we had abundant time
to observe the two dignitaries close beside us in the first carriage.
They sat, fanning themselves, without looking to right or left. The
one next me was extremely wrinkled and withered—doubtless the greater
man—and he was so wooden, so destitute of expression that I—oh, this
is _much_ worse than the episode of the ramshackle hack! How can I
confess that I "lost my head." The old creature, with his wrinkled,
yellow face, turban, short gown, and petticoats looked so very like my
old mulatto mammy, the darling of my childhood, that—I leaned over and
put my pearl-handled fan on his knee, motioning to him to give me his
in exchange. The old gentleman looked startled for an instant, but he
soon understood, and I became the first possessor of a Japanese fan.
But then a strange thing happened! I was suddenly overwhelmed with
confusion and sank back beside my companion, pulling her parasol well
over my face. "Was it so dreadful?" I implored. "I'm afraid it was,"
said she. "Hide your fan from the others. We will never tell." Presently
she added, thoughtfully, "I wonder what your Aunt Mary would say?" I
did not wonder. I knew perfectly well what my Aunt Mary would say.
All of which goes to prove that it was lucky my husband had not taken
his wife to Greece, and had not accepted the mission to Persia which
was offered him. He had a wife, unfortunately, who might on provocation
lose her head.
The next morning we repaired to the White House to help receive the
Japanese Embassy. Mr. Buchanan would have done well to select his guests
with regard to their slimness. The East Room was packed. Ranging on
either side according to our rank, the Congressmen found themselves near
the wall. We mounted our smallest representative, Mr. Boyce, on the
low mantelpiece behind some palms with instructions to peep and tell
us everything he saw. "What are they doing now, Mr. Boyce?" "Oh, it's
grand! They bow, and then they bow again!" "Well, what are they saying?
What are they doing now?" "They are still bowing, and 'old Buck,' God
bless him, is bowing too." The ceremony was long. The murmured voices
were low. One might have imagined one's self at a funeral.
The Belgian Baron de Limbourg gave a fine garden party to the strangers.
The Baron considered himself on the entertainment committee as he had
recently married the daughter of our Secretary of State, Mr. Cass.
There were large grounds around his residence, and these he lighted with
Japanese lanterns, dotting the lawn all over with pretty tents, in which
young girls costumed to represent the peasants of various countries
served ices and confections. The large area in the rear was converted
by carpets, hangings, and divans into a luxurious Turkish smoking den.
The Japanese always presented a pretty work-box, filled with curious
silks, to the ladies who entertained them. They would then range
themselves on the seats prepared for them and look on silently, with
half-shut eyes and expressionless faces. The dancing delighted them.
"How much are the women paid?" ventured one, and was amazed to find
they danced for pleasure only. A tiny, round-faced boy was always of
the party. We sometimes spoke to him, and he invariably answered "all
right," until he was known as "Little All Right," and, as he was the
only gracious one of the whole party, he became a favorite.
The Prince de Joinville attended Madame de Limbourg's fête. During the
afternoon our host sent for me, and I was conducted to an alcove where
the Prince, Miss Lane, Lord Lyons, and some of the Cabinet ladies were
gathered around a little bottle of wine, which was, we were told, old,
old Rose wine—costing so much that now, what with interest and compound
interest, every drop was worth—I forget how much! And we were to drink
Miss Lane's health. "And I!"—she protested. "I cannot drink my own
health! Am I to have no wine?" Whereupon she was conjured to think her
own toast—and we would, not knowing her thought, drink it with her.
It was supposed that Lord Lyons was her suitor, and we were persuaded
that the President desired her to marry him. But nobody knows the heart
of the king, nor the heart of the President (who fills in some sort
a king's position), still less the heart of the President's pretty
niece—least of all the heart of a wily diplomat! We only know she
married one of her own countrymen—and as to Lord Lyons, we lost him for
good and all when the dreadful war came.