CHARACTERISTICS OF SOCIAL LIFE IN 1858—LEADERS IN SOCIETY
There were many brilliant and beautiful women who escaped the notice of
the society newsmonger of the day.
Mrs. Cyrus McCormick, recently married to the inventor of the great
reaping machine, was one of these. Mr. McCormick, then a young man, was
destined to be decorated by many European governments and to achieve
a great fortune. His wife, just out of Miss Emma Willard's school,
was very beautiful, very gentle, and winning. No sheaves garnered by
her husband's famous reaper can compare with the sheaves from her own
sowing, during a long life devoted to good deeds.
Then there were Mrs. Yulee, wife of the Senator from Florida, and her
sisters, Mrs. Merrick and Mrs. Holt, all three noted for personal and
intellectual charm; and beautiful Mrs. Robert J. Walker, who was perhaps
the first of the coterie to be called to make a sacrifice for her
country, exchanging the brilliant life in Washington for the hardships
of Kansas—"bleeding Kansas," torn with dissensions among its "squatter
sovereigns," and with a climate of stern severity, where food froze
at night and must be broken with a hatchet for breakfast. Mrs. Walker
shrank from the ordeal, for she was well fitted for gay society; but the
President himself visited her and begged the sacrifice for the good of
the country. She went, and bore her trials. They were only a little in
advance of sterner trials ordained for some of her Washington friends.
Nor must we fail to acknowledge the social influence of Mrs. Jefferson
Davis, one of the most brilliant women of her time—greatly sought by
cultivated men and women.
But the wittiest and brightest of them all was Mrs. Clay, the wife of
the Senator from Alabama. She was extremely clever, the soul of every
company. A costume ball at which she personated Mrs. Partington is
still remembered in Washington. Mrs. Partington's sayings could not be
arranged beforehand and conned for the occasion. Her malapropos replies
must be improvised on the moment, and must moreover be seasoned with wit
to redeem them from commonplace dulness. Mrs. Clay rose to the occasion,
and her Mrs. Partington became the Mrs. Partington of the future.
The reader will not fail to observe the number of Southern women who
were prominent in Mr. Buchanan's court. A correspondent of a leading
New York paper[4] has recently written an interesting article on this
subject. He declares that the Southern women (before Lincoln's day)
had long controlled the society of Washington. "With their natural
and acquired graces, with their inherited taste and ability in social
affairs, it was natural that the reins should fall to them. They
represented a clique of aristocracy; they were recognized leaders
who could afford to smile good-naturedly at the awkward and perplexed
attempts of the women from the other sections—Mrs. Senator This, Mrs.
Congressman That—to thread the ins and outs of Washington's social
labyrinth. To none of these ladies was the thought pleasant of secession
from the Union and consequent giving up whatever of social dominion she
had acquired."
I wish I could give some idea of the "days at home" of these court
ladies in Washington in 1858. The large public functions were all alike
then as now, with this exception, that nearly every man present was
Somebody, and every woman Somebody's wife. It was not necessary for
these people to talk. The men made little effort. It was well known
what they had said yesterday in the House or the Senate Chamber; but we
dared not express opinions in public (and not freely in private), such
was the tense feeling at that time. Conversation had been always, at
the South, an art carefully cultivated. Conversation suffered at a time
when we were forced to ignore subjects that possessed us with absorbing
interest and to confine ourselves to trivialities.
Excusing the silence of one famous man, somebody remarked: "Oh, well,
you know brilliant men do not of necessity talk well. Thrilled by
their utterances in their speeches and writings, we are surprised, when
we meet them, at their silence." A "famous man's" eye twinkled. "Ask
Galt," he said, "why he doesn't give away his gems. Probably he might
answer that he proposes to sell them," an ingenious way of avoiding the
remotest hint that silence was the result of preoccupied thought on the
grave questions of the hour.
For some inexplicable reason the wives of great men are apt to be
quiet and non-committal—little moons revolving around a great luminary.
Moon-like, one side only is turned to the world. How is it on the other
side? We have a glimpse of it over the _demi-tasse_ in the drawing-room
after dinner, or at our informal "at homes" in our own houses.
At these times of unbending in Washington we were wont to begin in a
rather stilted manner, sipping our coffee and liqueurs in a leisurely
way, and steering widely clear of politics and politicians. We talked of
art and artists, galleries in Europe, shops in Paris,—anything except
what we were all thinking about. The art of conversation suffered
under such circumstances. But some interesting books were just out
in England, and everybody was discussing them. Thackeray had recently
given "The Virginians" to the world. Tennyson was turning all the girls'
heads with "Elaine." A new star was rising—George Eliot. Dickens, we
were, at the moment, cordially hating because of his "American Notes."
Bulwer was well to the fore. Two valued members of our own special
coterie were Randolph Rogers and Thomas Crawford the sculptor, whose
genius, differently expressed, lives to-day in his gifted son, Marion
Crawford. Thomas Crawford had been commissioned by the state of Virginia
to execute a colossal statue of Washington for the Capitol Square in
Richmond, a great work,—including statues of Virginia's statesmen,—which
was happily completed in 1861, and from which I heard Jefferson Davis's
inaugural address, February 22, 1862, upon his taking the oath as
permanent President of the Confederacy. It was a black day of rain and
snow; the new government, destined never to flourish in sunshine, was
born in storm and tempest.
Thomas Crawford, born in New York in 1814, was now at the height of
his fame. He had studied and worked with Thorwaldsen. Apart from his
peculiar genius he was a charming companion, full of versatile talk. The
younger man, Randolph Rogers, was also most interesting. He brought to
us his sketches and drawings for the bronze doors of the Capitol before
they were submitted to the committee, and came again when they were
accepted, to tell us of his good fortune.
The army and navy people were especially interesting. They never
discussed politics. Their positions were assured and there were
consequently no feverish society strugglers among them. They had no
vulgar respect for wealth, entertaining charmingly within their means.
Admiral Porter and his family were there, General Winfield Scott was
there, the admiral (then commander) forty-four years old, and the
noble old veteran nearer seventy-four. Both were delightful members of
Washington society. Nobody esteemed wealth or spoke of it or thought of
it. Office, position, talent, beauty, and charm were the requisites for
men and women.
On one day, I remember, I had gone the rounds of Cabinet receptions,
had taken my chocolate from the generous urn of the Secretary of State,
and had dutifully looked in upon all the other Secretaries. I knew a
dear little lady, foreign, attached to one of the legations (I really
never knew whether she was Russian or Hungarian), who had invited me
for the "end of the afternoon." Her husband had not a prominent place in
the embassy, nor she in society, but she knew how to gather around her
tea-kettle a choice little company, every one of whom felt honored to be
included. I found her seated at a small round table, and she welcomed
me in the English that gained from a musical voice, and the deliberate
enunciation of syllable which always seems to me so complimentary and
respectful in foreigners.
The fashion of the low tea-table had just been introduced. One could
have tea, nothing else. One could always find behind the silver
urns "'igh and 'aughty" butlers serving chocolate, wine, and every
conceivable dainty at the houses of the great Senators, Ministers,
and Cabinet officers. Things were much more _distingué_ at this lady's
tea-table. A few early spring flowers, crocuses, hyacinths, or purple
heather, were blooming here and there about the room. Our hostess was
gowned in some white stuff, and there was a bit of classic suggestion in
her attire, in the jewelled girdle, and an order or medal tucked under a
ribbon. A little white-capped maid welcomed and ushered us, and managed
to hover about for all the service we were likely to require. The
impression grew upon me that all this had been done for me especially,
and I found myself thinking how fortunate it was I had happened to come.
That lovely woman would have been so sorely disappointed had I stayed
away!
But presently other guests arrived. They were all foreigners, but
perceiving the American presence they spoke only English. The hostess
put into motion the most musical conversation. How has she done it?
She has made no effort "to entertain." Conversation had come unbidden.
Russian tea? Why, certainly! Do we ever care for other than Russian
tea? She was deliberate. We forgot we were sorely pressed this day with
seventeen names on our list. We gave ourselves up to the pleasure of
observing her.
She lighted her silver lamp; and, although she wished us to see the
great shining samovar which descended to her from her grandmother, she
said it was good, very good indeed, in the camp or on journeys when one
had only charcoal; but here in America the fairy lamp to light the wax
taper and the alcohol burner beneath the kettle are best. She poured
the water, which had bubbled, but not boiled (boiling water would make
the tea flat), over delicious tea, paused a moment only, then poured
the steaming amber upon two lumps of sugar, two slices of lemon, and
one teaspoonful of rum, and we pronounced it a perfect cup of tea. But
our enchantress said No, that some day ladies will grow tea in their
own conservatories, and then only will it be perfect in this country;
for the ocean voyage spoils the delicacy of the sensitive herb.
Glancing around the table, our hostess grasped the situation. Here was
a Russian lady with a proud head, there two dark-eyed Bohemians, one
Greek beauty, an English woman, and our own stiff, heavy, uncompromising
American self!
She is to make these people happy for the five minutes they are around
her little board. How does it come to pass that these strangers find a
common ground upon which they can hold animated conversation?
They talked of genius and geniuses,—how they are not created by
opportunity or culture, but are inspired; how that, apart from their
gifts, they are quite like other people, not even cleverer always.
"Yes," said the Greek girl, with an exalted look in her dark eyes, "they
are chosen, like the prophets, to speak great words or compose immortal
music, or build symphonies in stone; and what they do is outside
themselves altogether." "It is literally true," said the Englishwoman,
"that people have 'a gift' apart from their ordinary selves. Does not
George Eliot say that his novels grow in him like a plant. No amount
of work and study can create a genius!" And then everybody marvels at
the wonderful young man (for nobody knows it is a woman) who has just
written "Adam Bede" and "The Mill on the Floss."
Or perhaps the hostess has bribed some one of the foreign legation
to come to her "at home." Novels on Washington life hint of such a
possibility. Or perhaps some prince of good talkers among our own
Ministers is home for a brief holiday, or returned from a mission, and
a circle gathers around him.
Our Minister, sent to France by Mr. Pierce, once honored me by his
presence and told us the following story. Everybody who remembers the
genial John Y. Mason will easily imagine how he told it, and how his
own magnetism possessed his listeners. Not a tea-cup rattled during the
narration. "I lived," said Mr. Mason, "at a hotel for a few weeks after
receiving my appointment as Minister Plenipotentiary—while my house
was being made ready to bring my family. The house was crowded, and my
landlord was forced to divide one of his offices by a thin partition to
receive me at all.
"One night I was awakened by a stifled sob on the other side of the
partition. Rising on my elbow, I listened. The sob was repeated—then I
heard abusive language and oaths in English—I fancied I heard a blow!
Leaping to my feet, I struck smartly on the partition, and all was
still.
"The next morning I asked the clerk about my neighbors and complained
that they disturbed me. He shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Mais,
Monsieur! they are Americans!' as if that explained everything. However,
he informed me that they had left the hotel that morning.
"A few days later I was sitting in my room at the legation, when I
received a visitor—a slender female closely veiled, who said in a
troubled whisper that she had come to claim protection of the French
government. I told her I could not confer with her while she was
disguised, and she slowly raised her hand and held her veil aside. I
never saw a lovelier face.
"She could not have been older than eighteen years. Her features were
delicate, her eyes large and expressive, her brow shaded by golden-brown
hair. She was deathly white. I never saw such pallor. 'What can I do
for you, my child?' I asked. Well, it was a sad story. Married to a
dissipated young fellow, away on her wedding journey; threatened, and
in terror of losing her life. She wished the protection of the police.
She said she should never have had the courage to ask it alone, but that
she knew I had slept near her at the Maison Dorée. I had heard! I could
understand. I was the American Minister, and I could help.
"'But think,' I said, 'I heard nothing but harsh language. We cannot
go with this to the _préfet_. He will not consider it cause for action
against your husband.'
"The girl hesitated. Finally, with a burst of tears, she unfastened
her gown at the throat, turned it down, and disclosed the dark print of
fingers on the delicate skin.
"It was enough. She had been choked into silence—this frail American
girl—on the night when I heard the smothered sob.
"Of course you may imagine my zeal in her behalf. I had daughters of my
own. I arranged to accompany the young wife at once to the office of the
_préfet_, and having ascertained the address of her bankers I resolved
to make arrangements to get her out of Paris in case she felt her life
to be in danger.
"Well, I waited long at the office of the _préfet_. Finally our turn
came. I rose and made my statement. Imagine my feelings when my fair
client threw back her veil, and with a surprised look said:
"'I think the American Minister has been dreaming!'
"I felt as if a tub of ice-water had been poured over me. Of course
my position was perfectly ridiculous. Before I could recover she had
slipped through the crowd and was gone. While we waited she had changed
her mind!"
"The wretch!" exclaimed one of the listeners. "That just proves that
women are always attracted by brutality."
"Really?" said Mr. Mason.
"Not exactly, perhaps, but there was once an English countess who
explained a divorce suit of one of her relatives thus:—
"'You see, Ermentrude was one of those women who needed kicking down
the stairs, and Ferdinand was gentle; he was not up to it!'"
An agreeable function, no longer in vogue in this country, was the
evening party. Lady Napier gave one of these parties to present her
friends to Edward Everett.
These parties were arranged that pleasant people might meet
distinguished strangers and each other. As this was the prime object
of these occasions, there were no blatant bands to make conversation
impossible, but there was no lack of delightful music. Miss Nerissa
Saunders played exquisitely upon the harp; Mrs. Gales's niece, Juliana
May, sang divinely; many young ladies had cultivated voices. Nobody
thought of hiring entertainment for guests. The guests were bright
talkers and could entertain each other. If a ball room were attached
to the _salon_, dancing was expected; but the parlors were distant
and people could talk! Of course it is always stupid to collect a
lot of dull people together, but the wives of the brilliant men of
Mr. Buchanan's administration understood entertaining. There were
always gifted conversationalists present who liked talking better than
eating, with cleverness enough to draw out, and not forestall, the wit
of others. This art could not be claimed by the great talkers of old
English society, Johnson, Macaulay, Coleridge, De Quincey, and the rest.
We should not now, I am sure, care much for these monopolists. Sheridan,
for instance, must have been rather a quenching element at an evening
party; for in addition to his own witty creations, he had a trick of
preserving the bon mots of others, leading conversation into channels
where they would fit in, and using them accordingly. Thus in talking
with Sheridan his friends had a dozen wits to cope with withal.
Our Washington hostesses always gave a supper—not a fine supper—a _good_
supper, where the old family receipt book had been consulted, especially
if our hostess had come from Kentucky, Maryland, or Virginia. The
canvasback ducks, terrapin, and oysters were unlike Gautier's. We all
know that rubies are now less rare in this country than good cooks. We
may essay the triumphs of the old Washington of the fifties, but beneath
our own fig tree they become failures and shabby makeshifts. There are
mysteries in cooking unattainable to any but the elect—and of the elect
were the sable priestesses of the Washington kitchens.