NEW YORK SOCIETY
It has been explained that the continued prosperity of France under very
varying forms of government is due to the fact that the municipal
administration of the country is not affected by these changes, but
continues much the same under king, emperor, and republican president.
I find something analogous to this in the perseverance of certain
underlying tendencies in society despite the continual variations which
diversify the surface of the domain of Fashion.
The earliest social function which I remember is a ball given by my
father and mother when I must have been about four years of age. Quite
late in the evening, I was taken out of bed and arrayed in an
embroidered cambric slip. Some one tried to fasten a pink rosebud on the
waist of my dress, but did not succeed to her mind. I was brought into
our drawing-rooms, which had undergone a surprising transformation. The
floors were bare, and from the ceiling of either room was suspended a
circle of wax lights and artificial flowers. The orchestra included a
double bass. I surveyed the company of the dancers, but soon curled
myself up on a sofa, where one of the dowagers fed me with ice-cream.
This entertainment took place at our house on Bowling Green, a
neighborhood which has long been given up to business.
As a child, I remember silver forks as in use at my father's dinner
parties. On ordinary occasions, we used the three-pronged steel fork
which is now rarely seen. My father sometimes admonished my maternal
grandmother not to put her knife into her mouth. In her youth every one
used the knife in this way.
Meats were carefully roasted in what was called a tin kitchen, before an
open fire. Desserts on state occasions consisted of pastry, wine jelly,
blanc-mange, with pyramids of ice-cream. This last was always supplied
by a French resident, Jean Contoit by name, whose very modest garden
long continued to be the principal place from which such a dainty could
be obtained. It may have been M. Contoit who, speaking to a compatriot
of his first days in America, said, "Imagine! when I first came to this
country, people cooked vegetables with water only, _and the calf's head
was thrown away_!"
Of the dress of that period I remember that ladies wore white cambric
gowns, finely embroidered, in winter as well as in summer, and walked
abroad in thin morocco slippers. Pelisses were worn in cold weather,
often of some bright color, rose pink or blue. I have found in a family
letter of that time the following description of a bride's toilet: "Miss
E. was married in a frock of white merino, with a full suit of steel:
comb, earrings, and so on." I once heard Mrs. William Astor, _nee_
Armstrong, tell of a pair of brides, twin sisters, who appeared at
church dressed in pelisses of white merino, trimmed with chinchilla,
with caps of the same fur. They were much admired at the time.
Among the festivities of old New York, the observance of New Year's Day
held an important place. In every house of any pretension, the ladies of
the family sat in their drawing-rooms, arrayed in their best dresses,
and the gentlemen of their acquaintance made short visits, during which
wine and rich cakes were offered them. It was allowable to call as early
as ten o'clock in the morning. The visitor sometimes did little more
than appear and disappear, hastily muttering something about "the
compliments of the season." The gentlemen prided themselves upon the
number of visits paid, the ladies upon the number received. Girls at
school vexed each other with emulative boasting: "We had fifty calls on
New Year's Day." "Oh! but _we_ had sixty-five." This perfunctory
performance grew very tedious by the time the calling hours were ended,
but apart from this, the day was one on which families were greeted by
distant relatives rarely seen, while old friends met and revived their
pleasant memories.
In our house, the rooms were all thrown open. Bright fires burned in the
grates. My father, after his adoption of temperance principles, forbade
the offering of wine to visitors, and ordered it to be replaced by hot
coffee. We were rather chagrined at this prohibition, but his will was
law.
I recall a New Year's Day early in the thirties, on which a yellow
chariot stopped before our door. A stout, elderly gentleman descended
from it, and came in to pay his compliments to my father. This gentleman
was John Jacob Astor, who was already known to be possessed of great
wealth.
The pleasant custom just described was said to have originated with the
Dutch settlers of the olden time. As the city grew in size, it became
difficult and well-nigh impossible for gentlemen to make the necessary
number of visits. Finally, a number of young men of the city took it
upon themselves to call in squads at houses which they had no right to
molest, consuming the refreshments provided for other guests, and making
themselves disagreeable in various ways. This offense against good
manners led to the discontinuance, by common consent, of the New Year's
receptions.
A younger sister of my mother, named Louisa Corde Cutler, was one of the
historic beauties of her time. She was a frequent and beloved guest at
my father's house, but her marriage took place at my grandmother's
residence in Jamaica Plain. The bridegroom was the only son of Judge
McAllister, of Savannah, Georgia. One of my aunt's bridesmaids, Miss
Elizabeth Danforth, a lady much esteemed in the older Boston, once gave
me the following account of the marriage:--
"Yes, this is my beautiful bride. [My aunt was now about sixty years
old.] Well do I recall the evening of her marriage. I was to be her
bridesmaid, you know, and when the time came, I was all dressed and
ready. But the Dorchester coach was wanted for old Madam Blake's
funeral, and as there was no other conveyance to be had, I was obliged
to wait for it. The time seemed endless while I was walking up and down
the hall in my bridesmaid's dress, my mother from time to time exhorting
me to have patience, without much effect.
"At last the coach came, and in it I was driven to your grandmother's
house in Jamaica Plain. As I entered the door I met the bridal party
coming downstairs. Your mother said to me, 'Oh! Elizabeth, we thought
you were not coming.' After this all passed off pleasantly. Your
grandmother was dressed in a lilac silk gown of rather antiquated
fashion, adorned with frills and furbelows which had passed out of date.
Your mother, who had come on from New York for the ceremony, said to her
later in the evening, 'Dear mamma, you must make a present of that gown
to some theatrical friend. It is only fit for the boards.'"
The officiating clergyman of the occasion was the Reverend Benjamin
Clarke Cutler, brother of the bride. It was his first service of the
kind, and the company were somewhat amused when, in absence or confusion
of mind, he pronounced the nuptial blessing upon _M_ and _N_, the
letters which stand in the church ritual for the names of the parties
contracting. Accordingly, at the wedding supper, the first toast was
drunk "to the health and happiness of M and N," and responded to with
much merriment.
I have further been told that the bride's elder sister, afterwards known
as Mrs. Francis, danced "in stocking-feet" with my father's elder
brother, this having been the ancient rule when the younger children
were married before the older ones.
In spite of the costume which met with her daughter's disapproval, my
maternal grandmother was not indifferent to dress. She used to lament
the ugliness of modern fashions, and to extol those of her youth, in
which she was one of the _elegantes_ of Southern society. She remembered
with pleasure that General Washington once crossed a ball-room to speak
with her. This was probably when she was the wife or widow of Colonel
Herne, to whom she was married at the age of fourteen (when her dolls,
she told me, were taken away from her), and whose death occurred before
she had attained legal majority. She had received a good musical
education for those times, and Colonel Perkins of Boston once told me
that he remembered her as a fascinating young widow with a lovely voice.
It must have been during her visit to Boston that she met my grandfather
Cutler, who straightway fell in love with and married her. When past her
sixtieth year she would sometimes sing an old-time duet with my father.
She had a great love of good literature. Here is what she told me about
the fashions of her youth:
"We wore our hair short, and _creped_ all over in short curls, which
were kept in place by a spangled ribbon, bound around the head. Powder
was universally worn. The _Marechale_ powder was most becoming to the
complexion, having a slight yellowish tinge. We wore trains, but had a
set of cords by which we pulled them up in festoons, when we went to
dance. Brocades were much worn. I wanted one, but could not find one at
the time, so I embroidered a pretty yellow silk dress of mine, and made
a brocade of it."
She once mentioned having known, in days long distant, of a company of
ladies who had banded themselves together for some new departure of a
patriotic intent, and who had waited upon General Washington in a body.
I have since ascertained that they called themselves "Daughters of
Liberty." A kindred association had been formed of "Sons of Liberty."
Perhaps these ladies were of the mind of Mrs. John Adams, who, when
congratulating her husband upon the liberties assured to American men by
the then new Constitution of the United States, thought it "a pity that
the legislators had not also done something for the ladies."
Among the familiar figures of my early life is that of Dr. John
Wakefield Francis. I wish it were in my power to give any adequate
description of this remarkable man, who was certainly one of the
worthies of his time. As already said, he was my uncle by marriage, and
for many years a resident in my father's house. He was of German origin,
florid in complexion and mercurial in temperament. His fine head was
crowned with an abundance of silken curly hair. He always wore
gold-bowed glasses, being very near-sighted, was a born humorist, and
delighted in jest and hyperbole. He was an omnivorous reader, and was so
constituted that four hours of sleep nightly sufficed to keep him in
health. This was fortunate for him, as he had an extensive practice, and
was liable to be called out at all hours of the night. A candle always
stood on a table beside his pillow, and with it a pile of books and
papers, which he habitually perused long before the coming of daylight.
It so happened, however, that he waked one morning at about four of the
clock, and saw his wife, wrapped in shawls, sitting near the fire,
reading something by candlelight. The following conversation ensued:--
"Eliza, what book is that you are reading?"
"'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' dear."
"Is it? I don't need to know anything more about it--it must be the
greatest book of the age."
His humor was extravagant. I once heard him exclaim, "How brilliant is
the light which streams through the fissure of a cracked brain!" Again
he spoke of "a fellow who couldn't go straight in a ropewalk." His
anecdotes of things encountered in the exercise of his profession were
most amusing.
He found us seated in the drawing-room, one evening, to receive a visit
from a very shy professor of Brown University. The doctor, surveying the
group, seized this poor man, lifted him from the floor, and carried him
round the circle, to express his pleasure at seeing an old friend. The
countenance of the guest meanwhile showed an agony of embarrassment and
terror.
The doctor was very temperate in everything except tea, which he drank
in the green variety, in strong and copious libations. Indeed, he had no
need of wine or other alcoholic stimulants, his temperament being almost
incandescent. Overflowing as he was with geniality, he yet accommodated
himself easily to the requirements of a sick room, and showed himself
tender, vigilant, and most sympathetic. He attended many people who
could not, and some who would not, pay for his visits. One of these
last, having been brought by him through an attack of cholera, was so
much impressed with the kindness and skill of the doctor that he at once
and for the first time sent him a check in recognition of services that
money could not repay.
After many years of residence with us, my uncle and aunt Francis
removed, first to lodgings, and later to a house of their own. Here my
aunt busied herself much with the needs of rich and poor. Ladies often
came to her seeking good servants, her recommendation being considered
an all-sufficient security. Women out of place came to her seeking
employment, which she often found for them. These acts of kindness,
often involving a considerable expenditure of time and trouble, the dear
lady performed with no thought of recompense other than the assurance
that she had been helpful to those who needed her assistance in manifold
ways. In her new abode Auntie lived with careful economy, dispensing her
simple hospitality with a generous hand. She was famous among her
friends for delicious coffee and for excellent tea, which she always
made herself, on the table.
She sometimes invited friends for an evening party, but made it a point
to invite those who were not her favorites for a separate occasion, not
wishing to dilute her enjoyment of the chosen few, and, on the other
hand, desiring not to hurt the feelings of any of her acquaintance by
wholly leaving them out. When Edgar Allan Poe first became known in New
York, Dr. Francis invited him to the house. It was on one of Auntie's
good evenings, and her room was filled with company. The poet arrived
just at a moment when the doctor was obliged to answer the call of a
patient. He accordingly opened the parlor door, and pushed Mr. Poe into
the room, saying, "Eliza, my dear, the Raven!" after which he
immediately withdrew. Auntie had not heard of the poem, and was entirely
at a loss to understand this introduction of the new-comer.
It was always a pleasure to welcome distinguished strangers to New York.
Mrs. Jameson's visit to the United States, in the year 1835, gave me the
opportunity of making acquaintance with that very accomplished lady and
author. I was then a girl of sixteen summers, but I had read the "Diary
of an Ennuyee," which first brought Mrs. Jameson into literary
prominence. I read afterwards with avidity the two later volumes in
which she gives so good an account of modern art work in Europe. In
these she speaks with enthusiasm of certain frescoes in Munich which I
was sorry, many years later, to be obliged to consider less beautiful
than her description of them would have warranted one in believing. When
I perused these works, having myself no practical knowledge of art,
their graphic style seemed to give me clear vision of the things
described. The beautiful Pinakothek and Glyptothek of Munich became to
me as if I actually saw them, and when it was my good fortune to visit
them I seemed, especially in the case of the marbles, to meet with old
friends. Mrs. Jameson's connoisseurship was not limited to pictorial and
sculptural art. Of music also she was passionately fond. In the book
just spoken of she describes an evening passed with the composer Wieck
in his German home. In this she speaks of his daughter Clara, and of her
lover, young Schumann. Clara Wieck, afterwards Madame Schumann, became
well known in Europe as a pianist of eminence, and of Schumann as a
composer it needs not now to speak. There were various legends regarding
Mrs. Jameson's private history. It was said that her husband, marrying
her against his will, parted from her at the church door, and thereafter
left England for Canada, where he was residing at the time of her visit.
I first met her at an evening party at the house of a friend. I was
invited to make some music, and sang, among other things, a brilliant
bravura air from "Semiramide." When I would have left the piano, Mrs.
Jameson came to me and said, "_Altra cosa_, my dear." My voice had been
cultivated with care, and though not of great power was considered
pleasing in quality, and was certainly very flexible. I met Mrs. Jameson
at several other entertainments devised in her honor. She was of middle
height, her hair red blond in color. Her face was not handsome, but
sensitive and sympathetic in expression. The elegant dames of New York
were somewhat scandalized at her want of taste in dress. I actually
heard one of them say, "How like the devil she does look!"
After a winter passed in Canada, Mrs. Jameson again visited New York, on
her way to England. She called upon me one day with a friend, and asked
to see my father's pictures. Two of these, portraits of Charles First
and his queen, were supposed to be by Vandyke. Mrs. Jameson doubted
this. She spoke of her intimacy with the celebrated Mrs. Somerville, and
said, "I think of her as a dear little woman who is very fond of
drawing." When I went to return her visit, I found her engaged in
earnest conversation with a son of Sir James Mackintosh. When he had
taken leave, she said to me, "Mr. Mackintosh and I were almost at
daggers drawing." So far as I could learn, their dispute related to
democratic forms of government, and the society therefrom resulting,
which he viewed with favor and she with bitter dislike. I inquired about
her winter in Canada. She replied, "As the Irishman said, I had
everything that a pig could want." A volume from her hand appeared soon
after this time, entitled "Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada."
Her work on "Sacred and Legendary Art" and her "Legends of the Madonna"
were published some years later.