By MRS. PATTIE L. COLLINS.
When Washington was in its infancy, and the patriots of that early day
bethought themselves of the propriety of building a residence for the
President, it was with some difficulty that they could decide what it
should be called. In truth, this seemed a more serious question than
location, expense, or architecture. Anything that suggested monarchies
or kingdoms, such as the word “palace,” could not be entertained; not a
trace of the effete despotisms of the Old World should be tolerated, even
in our nomenclature. At last “Executive Mansion” was settled upon as a
proper title. Any gentleman, provided it was sufficiently pretentious,
might style his house a “mansion,” and the chosen executor of laws for
the nation was not therefore set apart and above his fellow countrymen,
when installed as chief magistrate. In the course of a few years, when
only its blackened walls were left standing as mute witnesses that our
British cousins still loved us, so much paint was required to efface the
marks of the destroyer, when it was restored, that it gleamed white as
snow in the distance, and naturally, nay almost inevitably, came to be
called the “White House” by popular consent. And by this pretty, simple
name the home of the Presidents will doubtless continue to be known as
long as republican institutions endure. It is as different as possible in
external appearance from the habitations of royalty in European cities;
no iron-barred windows, better fitted for a fortress than ordinary
outlook, no gloomy, gray walls, chilly and forbidding, frowning down upon
you, no squalid tenements thronged with degraded specimens of humanity
press upon its outskirts to accentuate the beauties of the one and the
miseries of the other. Instead of this, the White House rises fair and
inviting from an elevation which seems just sufficient to bring it into
relief as a conspicuous feature of the landscape. Its north front looks
toward Pennsylvania Avenue, commanding a view of Lafayette Square—itself
a most interesting spot, containing the celebrated equestrian statue of
Jackson, by Clark Mills, and grouped about it the cannon captured at the
battle of New Orleans—while around it stand some of the many historic
residences of the capitol. To the east and west of the President’s
grounds, respectively, may be seen the Treasury, and the War, State
and Navy Departments; the southern aspect is the most charming of all;
flowers, trees and emerald lawn, with the music of falling water make up
a picture as bewildering in loveliness as it is arcadian in simplicity,
its boundary line being the Potomac, shining in the distance like a bit
of blue sea, but disfigured by no great iron hulks or other sea monsters;
only a modest little excursion steamer, now and then a tall three-masted
schooner lazily rocking and glancing skyward, impatient to set sail.
With these surroundings a President must be singularly oblivious to
the voices of nature, art and patriotism if he does not find about his
temporary abode everything to minister to his higher nature.
At present, on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, the President usually
receives from twelve to one o’clock; Tuesday and Friday are Cabinet days,
and Monday he claims as absolutely his own. Of course if a Secretary,
Senator or Representative should present himself upon urgent business,
that would not admit of delay, the rule would be violated, but not
otherwise.
The official etiquette of the White House remains about the same from
generation to generation, but the social regime varies very much,
according to the tastes of the temporary occupants. If, by a combination
of fortuitous circumstances, an unpretending woman of limited education
and provincial habits finds herself suddenly thrust into a position
for which she is wholly unprepared by previous training, she fills it
more or less acceptably, as she has tact and adaptability. These seem
qualities which have not of late years been conspicuously characteristic
of the “first ladies” of the land, no matter what their previous station;
unless, indeed, an exception be made in favor of a certain beautiful
woman, who was herself a more priceless treasure than any the White House
contained.
A visitor going for the first time to the White House would suppose at
a casual glance that it was a gala day, and all the world was thronging
thither. It is rather surprising to learn that it is always the same.
There are fine ladies and gentlemen who come in great state, foreigners
of all nations, rustics from the depths of the forest, the perfectly
blasé, the ignorant clown, the ubiquitous, irrepressible American
child—all running rampant over the President’s house. Perhaps it would
be just as well to go back to the very beginning, when this surging
crowd presents itself at the main entrance. Few, fortunately, make the
mistake of the intoxicated straggler who found his way into the grounds,
and perceiving the three harmless gilded shells used in the way of very
questionable ornamentation in front of the mansion, thus accosted a
door-keeper: “Old man in?” Receiving only a look of dazed inquiry by way
of reply, he continued, “Old ten per cent. money bags, I say?” At this
juncture it dawned upon the official, so far as his sense of shocked
dignity permitted him to receive any impression, that this besotted
wretch actually supposed himself at a pawnbroker’s shop! But a much
prettier story than this can be told of these empty shells: Formerly the
birds built their nests in them, and now that the holes have been filled
so that they can not, they yet come and perch and twitter and circle
around their former dwelling-place.
Eight persons are required to stand guard at the entrance; not all
at once, but to alternate and keep a sufficient number on duty. An
imperative necessity has drawn the line of demarcation for White House
sight-seers. Entering the hall they are ushered at once into the East
Room, and having inspected it to their heart’s content, return by the
same way they came, unless choosing to ascend to the waiting room on
the second floor, and risk an opportunity of seeing the President. In
this case, to a student of human nature a rare opportunity for study is
presented. Hardened, chronic office-seekers, schemers, conscienceless
plotters, shabby women, forlorn, dismal, nay, often heart-broken, pert,
self-assured youth, and even the small boy, with ragged jacket, one
illy-adjusted suspender and rusty shoes walks in with an air that could
only have been begotten by the consciousness that he was a part of the
republic. Much patience brings the vigil of each to a close, and if the
business be simply to shake hands with the President, that ceremony
is speedily accomplished. At present it would be something like this:
Entering as other people go out (for the other people are always there,
going out before you, and coming in after you), a tall gentleman, very
grand and very dignified, quite like a gigantic icicle—but no, that
comparison is derogatory—let us say like Pompey’s Pillar—stands Chester
A. Arthur. He glances at your card mechanically, he takes you by the hand
most indifferently, and in an inexpressible broad voice, without a single
inflection, he says, “It is a very pleasant day.” You may say that you
are charmed to have an opportunity to pay your respects to Mr. President,
or any such nonsense that comes uppermost, but it is not of the least
consequence what you say, or whether you say anything at all. That is
all, and you may salaam yourself out of the side door.
The East Room is used for all public receptions. It is of noble
proportions, eighty feet in length by forty in width, and twenty-two in
height. It was originally intended as a banqueting hall, but the first
authentic account of its use was that Dolly Madison found it an excellent
place for drying clothes. Under its present aspect it would scarcely
appear to be well adapted to that purpose. A rich carpet of those soft
tints that seem to melt into each other covers the floor. The walls
and ceiling are all white and gold; glancing into the immense mirror
you find it reproduces an endless vista of panels and columns lost in
space. The windows are draped with lace curtains, and in warm weather
the breeze comes up fresh and sweet direct from the river, blowing them
about at will—just as it does the curtains of other people! But something
else happens to these curtains, too, that is not so pleasant, and from
which other people’s, as a rule, are exempt. But a short time since an
employe of the White House called my attention to the fact that here
and there a figure had been entirely cut out by a souvenir-thief. This
apartment, as well as several others in the mansion, has been recently
done over by Tiffany, and greatly improved; it has now very much the
appearance in general effect of the “Gold Salon” of the Grand Opera House
in Paris. It contains only two pictures; one of Washington, purchased
as the original, by Gilbert Stuart, but of doubtful authenticity, and
the Martha Washington painted in 1878 by Andrews, an Ohio artist. This
latter shows the same refined, high-bred features that even the crudest
representation of her portrays, and the flowing train and satin petticoat
are quite regal. The dress was copied from a Parisian costume made for
a New York lady to wear at the Centennial tea party in Philadelphia in
1876, and purports to be an exact reproduction, but with a not unusual
nineteenth century skepticism, I confess that I boldly decline the sleeve
as an anachronism, and leaving the queenly robe out of the question, do
not hesitate to say that in my opinion the hand was borrowed—perhaps
from a Greek statue. Certainly it is not the strong right hand which
accomplished the prodigious amounts of spinning, weaving, and the like,
usually ascribed to this wonderful matron; but it is a tiny, symmetrical,
extremely pretty hand, in the delineation of which the artist was
probably true to his instincts rather than history, and in consideration
of the happy result, the departure from fact to fancy deserves to be
condoned.
The Green Room, which derives its name from the prevailing color of
its decoration, is next in order to the East Room. It contains a
portrait of Mrs. Hayes, by Hunt, in an elaborate wooden frame, carved
and presented by young ladies from the Cincinnati School of Design; it
represents luscious bunches of grapes and graceful foliage, a design
which, it has been sarcastically observed, in this connection is
singularly inappropriate—since it wreathes the very high priestess of
temperance like the fabled bacchanalian god. There are also crystal
vase of exquisite workmanship, selected by Mrs. Lincoln, a grand piano,
costly cabinets and candelabra, and a bronze clock which is said to be
a little childish about keeping time. That is to say, it will do well
enough for presidential and diplomatic time, but not for running trains
on single track. It was presented by Napoleon to Lafayette, and by him
to Washington. Another much-prized antique is a claw-footed round table
of mahogany, inlaid with brass, and known to be at least one hundred and
seventy years old. A cover almost envelops it, quite hiding its rich
color and fine polish; the reason for this being that once upon a time a
vandal borrowed some of the brass ornamentation and forgot to return it.
The Blue Room is very much prettier than its title is suggestive. It is
here that foreign ministers present their credentials. The furniture,
with its gilded framework, and upholstered in a silk damask of blue and
gold, is in harmony with the curtains, the carpets, and the decorated
ceiling. It is oval in form and the general effect is very beautiful,
especially by gas-light.
The Red Parlor is used for general receptions, both by the President and
the ladies of the household. This was the last room occupied by Lincoln
in the White House. He left it on that fateful 14th of April, accompanied
by Mrs. Lincoln and Speaker Colfax. The tiled mantel represents the
style of 1200; this also is some of the high art—Tiffany decoration. And
in truth the entire furnishing shows a singular, but not inharmonious,
conglomeration. The candlesticks, dating back to Monroe’s time, the gold
pitcher and bowl presented by Elkington & Co., of London, after the
Centennial, a wonderful screen embroidered in silk and beads, from the
Austrian Government during Grant’s administration, vases from France,
upon whose delicate surface are portrayed the conviction and sentence
of Charlotte Corday, a curious cabinet, of which the entire front is
formed of brass tacks and pin heads, and many other things, but the most
interesting and probably the most highly prized is the clock used by
Lincoln in his private office during the war. A portfolio of engravings,
a pot of flowers, and a single book occupy a small table. It is a
refreshing oasis, a glimpse of something real and altogether home-like,
that rests one after so much overpowering richness and antiquity combined.
The State Dining Room is furnished in green. The heavy curtains with
bright borders and lambrequins are themselves pretty enough to excuse
their shutting off the river view. The table will seat forty persons
as it is, but when arranged in the form of a cross, fifty-four. Only
three state dinners are ordinarily given during a season, but nine were
interspersed through the last. A sideboard contains wine glasses of every
shape, size and description. Some one laughingly explained his by saying:
“You know when the little friends of the President’s daughter come to see
her, he likes for them to have a real good time, and these are for their
dolls’ tables.”
Apropos of the wine question, a colored employe, seeing a visitor taking
a copious draught of ice-water just within the vestibule, and return from
his explorations through the East Room soon after, complaining of being
sick, exclaimed in a triumphant voice: “Boss, I tole you dat stuff wuz
only fit to wash clothes in.” Turning to me he added, “Dat’s so, missus,
’cept to cool your head when you got a ra’al bad headache, and can’t git
no cabbage leaves to wrap ’round it.”
It is said to be quite a general impression that the expense of state
dinners is borne by the government. This is not true, and President
Arthur keeps his own horses, coachman, and cook.
The table is ornamented by a center-piece for flowers, the bottom of
which represents a miniature lake, and mirrors the floral beauties above
and around it. The President’s chair is on one side, at the middle.
In speaking of this I am reminded of a young American girl, who, like
myself, was upon a certain occasion being shown through one of the
numerous abodes of a crowned head. Entering the _salon_ in which foreign
ambassadors were received, we perceived that the throne chair stood upon
a sort of dais which was entirely covered with superb crimson velvet.
This adventurous little spirit inadvertently let fall a profane footstep
upon the sacred fabric, when she was immediately reprimanded in an awful
voice and solemnly admonished to keep a respectful distance. Proceeding
further in this princely residence, we reached the dining room. The
king’s chair, like our President’s, stood in the middle, and unlike it
was of entirely different and of more elaborate workmanship than the
others. Whilst the extremely loyal and obsequious attendant was looking
in another direction, young America silently and swiftly drew out the
chair from its place and seated herself with a comical assumption of
dignity that was very amusing, a perilous position, which even she was
not audacious enough to maintain more than a few seconds.
A door from the dining room leads directly to the conservatory, a perfect
wonderland of perfume and color. It seems as if all the wealth of Flora
had been gathered here; forests of ferns, banks of azaleas, roses in
endless profusion and variety, and priceless exotic children of the
tropics without number. One stands almost breathless with admiration
before the exquisite orchids; and here is a plant with thick, polished
leaves, heavy clusters of scentless blossoms, from the southern coast of
Africa, named for its discoverer, Prof. Rudgea, while not far off the
medinella waves slowly and sadly its long red clusters, as if sighing for
its native Japan. Ensconced here and there are receptacles for goldfish,
and even a coral bank is to be discovered among the drooping ferns and
falling water. It is difficult to come away from these fairy regions to
prosaic places, but there is another nook near by into which prying eyes
must peep, and after all the transition is not so very trying, since it
is into the family dining room, which is a charming picture in itself.
There is something so attractive in this warm, bright looking spot, that
I must confess to a fascination here stronger than that inspired by the
tiles, mosaics and bric-a-brac found elsewhere. Perhaps every feminine
heart is sensitive to the dainty beauty of china, cut glass, and richly
chased vessels of silver and gold, but the most unsusceptible would be
moved to warmer enthusiasm over the set of Limoges faience, manufactured
by the order of Mrs. Hayes. It consists of five hundred pieces,
representing the fauna and flora of America, and each is a delicious
study, bearing the impress of true artistic skill. The designs were all
made by Mr. Theodore Davis, whose studio is upon one of the most romantic
portions of the New Jersey coast. There, in his happy home, surrounded
by wife, children and mother, far removed from the turmoil of the outer
world, and borrowing inspiration from sea, sky and air, he labors, and
sends forth the admirable results to an appreciative people. This china
is a rich legacy to the White House families.
The grand corridor is hung with portraits of former Presidents; that
portion of it from which the private stairway ascends is cut off for
the exclusive use of the household. A marvelous light falls through the
western window upon the cabinets with their treasures, the many flowering
plants and inviting easy chairs. But even here history must intrude;
a marble table of hexagon shape is said to have been the property of
General Jackson, and tradition asserts that broken places here and there
in the smooth surface are the traces of his seal ring when his hand was
brought down with that terrible emphasis peculiar to him on certain
occasions.
The elevator which was put in for “Grandma Garfield,” she never returned
to the White House to use. The dreariest place, perhaps, under the roof,
is the shabby, forlorn little cloak room, in which Minister Allen fell
dead last January a year ago, at the New Year’s reception.
It is not an uninteresting spectacle, to stand just within the vestibule
on Cabinet day, and observe the arrival of the nation’s arbiters,
sandwiched between the throng. Perhaps a slight murmur is heard, and
strangers turn toward the entrance. It might be a pleasant-faced
countryman in his plain black clothes, but instead it is the Honorable
Secretary of the Interior. Next, a stylish coupé, with an iron-gray
horse, from which Postmaster-General Gresham and his chief clerk alight.
The Postmaster-General is in the stalwart prime of life. He is tall and
commanding, with strongly marked features. Immediately following him is
a British tourist, with a glass screwed in his eye, who pauses to ask,
before entering the East Room, “What do you call that cold-looking place
there?” Then the Spanish Minister enters and passes so slowly up the
stairway that one is involuntarily reminded of the inevitable _manana_
(to-morrow) of his people, not one of whom has ever been in a hurry since
the beginning of time. No matter what the service required of these
children of the sun, unless a compelling power supplements the order,
“_Manana, manana_,” is the response.
Another carriage rattles over the pavement, and a pale, spare man, with
a white fringe under his chin, and close cropped hair, with a mysterious
gloom upon his countenance, and bent, as if, like Atlas, he upbore the
world upon his shoulders—passes with such an air as has never been known
outside of the State Department. There they all have it in greater
or less degree, messengers, clerks, and assistant secretaries. It is
indescribable, but it is admirable. Even the high-stepping bay horses
appear to be distinctly conscious of their position.
Next in order comes Attorney-General Brewster, who is without doubt the
most gorgeous man in Washington. I say gorgeous advisedly. He wears an
immense expanse of buff vest, a dark necktie, illuminated by a pin of
diamonds clustering around a ruby center, light drab pantaloons, and lace
ruffles about his wrists.
Secretary Folger has the aristocratic appearance which is the legitimate
birthright of those wonderful old Nantucket families and their
descendants. I need not ask you to pause longer at the entrance; the
other notabilities are out of town to-day.
But after all its artistic finish, its rich decoration, the luxury
apparent at a glance, there is a sense of something lacking in this
grand habitation. All of these fine apartments leave the impression that
they are mere show-places, not the habitual resorts of a family. One
of my pet theories is that people’s houses always look like them—they
transfer a portion of their personality to everything with which they
come habitually into contact. Well, this is nobody’s home; it belongs to
the government, and is illustrative of the national wealth and taste,
but of no individual peculiarities. The question has often been debated
of erecting another residence, which shall literally be the President’s
home, while the present mansion shall be devoted exclusively to public
receptions and official affairs. Then, and not till then, will the Chief
Magistrate taste occasional immunity from outside trespassers, and enjoy
a well earned repose.
* * * * *
Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life’s smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father’s will!—_Whittier._