Part 14
The “Code” also says that the President accepts no invitation to dinner. This has heretofore been the custom, not because the President was a man, but because the man was a President, and, therefore, it was necessary to give no citizen cause for complaint, for if the President dines with one neighbor, why not with another? Besides, there are millions who would be glad to share their crust with this man. Ulysses S. Grant proves to the world that he is not above being a man because he has been elected President, and that he has no objection to going out to dinner, provided the viands be substantial and all the beverages pure. But let it be understood, the President does not scatter the bright light of his countenance indiscriminately, for only certain aristocratic dwellings are honored at dinner time by the presence of power.
Two receptions are held at the White House weekly,--one in the daytime, the other in the evening. The first is held on Tuesday, and is called in the newspapers “Mrs. Grant’s reception.” It is held on one of the Cabinet days, and, after the Cabinet consultation is over, the President descends to the Blue Room and aids Mrs. Grant in her arduous undertaking. Heretofore every President’s wife has received by herself, unless some guest happened to be stopping temporarily at the mansion. Mrs. Grant, however, has inaugurated a new order of things. Several women, usually the wives of some of the members of the Cabinet or of the Senators, are invited to the White House to lunch, and afterwards are detained to help do the pleasing work. Imagine a room of blue and gold, satin and ebony, where art, to carry out everything, has not only drawn inspiration from the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainment,” but at the same time has exhausted itself. Then picture our simple American dames, in costume that vies with Victoria’s and Eugenie’s on drawing-room days, each in her appointed place, at the right or the left of the “first lady in the land,” we trow no finer picture of a queen, surrounded by her “maids of honor,” can be found in any monarchy on the face of the globe. These dainty receptions are advertised in the _Chronicle_ to begin at 2 o’clock p. m., but alas! alas! it has happened to our positive knowledge that whilst these dames were lingering over the Presidential lunch table 2 o’clock has come and gone, and in the meantime exasperated American women have doubled their pretty little gloved fist in the East Room, and some have whisked out of the mansion without stopping to pay their respects to the “first lady of the land.” In the name of the masses of the people we ask, can our officials of to-day afford to depart from that simple republican platform of etiquette laid down by the immortal Washington? Can our public men, temporarily in power, safely divorce themselves from that later code laid down by general fitness and substantial common sense?
Whither are we drifting, in a social, republican point of view, when a Senator’s wife tosses her head and says: “Would you think it possible that the wife of a member has had the impertinence to ask me to come and spend an evening socially with her?” To a spectator, looking on this small society side-show, it seems all the more ridiculous, as the Senator-husband is so small that he is scarcely ever heard of either in the country or the Senate, whilst the member in dispute has a fame like the flag of our country.
To a neat little volume, called “Philip’s Washington Described,” we are indebted for a copy of the “Rules” as laid down by General Washington, as well as the “Code,” which was meant to be a new edition of the “Rules,” revised and corrected.
OLIVIA.
GENERAL PHIL SHERIDAN.
THE HANDSOME WARRIOR GRACES THE SPEAKER’S RECEPTION.
WASHINGTON, _February 14, 1870_.
Never since the inauguration of our Republic has social life in Washington assumed such brilliant hues as during the present winter. With the departure of the Democratic dynasty, and the disappearance of the Southern queens of society, it has been thought that the sunshine of the “Republican court” would go out forever. But the extravagant magnificence of to-day eclipses all former years; and if Mrs. Slidell or Mrs. Crittenden should revisit the haunts of their former triumphs they would find the social kingdom in stronger hands than their own. If the Southern woman ruled as queen, the haughty Northerner sways the sceptre of an empress. The Southern queen pointed to her slaves; the empress of to-day wears a coronet of diamonds, and only death can set her bondmen free.
Reception, ball, dinner, sociable--which shall be described first? The Prince’s ball darted across the social sky like a meteor. It has come and gone, and Washington’s fashionable women still survive. The New York _Tribune_ says that one young lady refused to dance with the Prince because she invariably declined all round-dances. Then she refused to be his partner in a quadrille, because it would keep dear papa and mama later than they had decided to stay. All this sounds very nice in the newspapers, only it is a pretty fib and counterfeit and should never pass for the genuine.
The President’s levee and the Speaker’s reception bear a strong resemblance to each other. Everybody is admitted to Speaker Blaine’s the same as the Executive Mansion. All the great men are there except the President, and all the pretty girls, in their best clothes, are cast up on this fashionable beach by the social waves of the people. If there is one sight in this wicked world, more pitiful than another, it is to see a poor widow’s daughter, or an innocent young Treasury employee in her simple robes of muslin, apparently raised for a brief time to the social platform of wealth and power. In no place on the face of the globe can the two opposite social elements come together as at a President’s levee or a Speaker’s reception. Wealth is pitted against poverty; strength against weakness, and the result sometimes is brought forth in a fruit more deceitful, bitter, and dusty than the apples of the Dead Sea.
It is the night of the Speaker’s social reunion. Carriages draw up before the handsome imitation brownstone residence. These vehicles deposit the precious perfumed darlings--the aristocracy--the cream of society. Gay cavaliers dance attendance on these flounced, frizzled, bejeweled butterflies. These cavaliers generally wear hats and overcoats which look as if they had been borrowed from the old-clothes man, or purchased at a bargain at the second-hand store hard by; but as no better place on the earth can be found for losing one’s outside wrappings than these levees and receptions, the men show their good sense by going prepared. The cars are freighted to overflowing. The ambitious young mechanic takes his young sweetheart on his arm and pays his respects to the Speaker. The suite of parlors at the brown mansion are on the first floor, and through the broad open doors, all newcomers can be inspected as they march to an upper story to be divested of wrappings, and it is quite as unsafe to judge what is beneath the ugly waterproofs as to guess what is under the caterpillar’s skin. Mirrors are provided in the dressing-room, where jaded maid and faded matrons can assist nature to carry out her most pressing needs. Boxes of pearl powder, brushes, combs, pins, dressing-maid are convenient, and if the last finishing touch of the toilet is omitted, the lady of the mansion is not to blame. It must be mentioned, however, that it is only the silk that powders in public; muslin and merino are the spectators in the scene.
“Belle, don’t you think one of my eyebrows is a little blacker than the other?”
“Yes; I think they both need touching up.”
“Too late now! Why didn’t you tell me before we left home? There, take up my handkerchief and rub it off.”
Pretty little white-gloved hand goes through with the daintiest manipulations, and the two eyebrows come out like Bonner’s fast team. Out of the dressing-room, down the tufted stairs that smother footsteps. There is something frightful about a human habitation where no footfall is ever heard. The eye is a glorious organ, but the ear is the better friend. You enter the first parlor, which is the beginning of the three _en suite_. It is elegantly furnished in exquisite taste. One of Bierstadt’s Rocky Mountain pictures has a conspicuous place on the wall. A Beatrice Cenci, in its voluptuous beauty, suspended in another place, takes you back to old sensual Rome, whilst a miniature world swings on its axis in a friendly corner in a second room, with plenty of books to keep it company.
Near the hall door of the first parlor stands the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and by his side may be seen his wife. If it is right to judge by personal appearance, they seem excellently matched. Speaker Blaine is a handsome man in every sense of the word. There is just about the right amount of material used in his construction, and, as a general thing, it has been put in the proper place. He has a large kindly eye that would not do to look into for any great length of time, for the same reason that gazing into the sea is apt to make one sick. All his other features have been arranged artistically to match his Oriental eyes, and his form is as straight and symmetrical as a Maine pine tree. He shakes hands with his numerous countrymen with a vigor, and if he did hold on an instant longer than it was necessary to the little kid-gloved digits of the New York _World’s_ correspondent, it only proved that he was mortal like poor Adam, and that he was willing to touch any amount of evil for a woman’s sake.
Mrs. Blaine stood beside her husband with something brighter and better than mere physical beauty in her face. Few if any women at the capital have a stronger countenance, and yet it is sweet and womanly. Everything about her is toned down to softest neutral tints. If she calls forth no thrill of admiration, she awakens no spirit of criticism. There are some colors in nature that are particularly grateful to the eye. There are some women in the same sense that are particularly grateful to all the senses. Their presence breathes repose. When you get near them your mind takes off its armor, draws in its pickets, and prepares to go into winter quarters. Mrs. Blaine’s superb taste may be seen in her elegant, well appointed home, in the world-renowned behavior of her husband, and just as he fills his most honored position, with dignified grace, she fills another still higher--that of the American matron at home.
Most noticeable of all the distinguished men who hover around the Speaker is General Phil Sheridan. In an instant you perceive that he is carved out of material from which Presidents ought to be made. Judging from memory, he seems no taller than the late Stephen A. Douglas, and in the same sense that Mr. Douglas was called the “Little Giant,” General Sheridan impresses you with the awful attribute of power. He has uncommonly broad shoulders for his height, and an eye like the American eagle’s. As if to carry out this picture, the country knows that he is a solitary bird, without even a mate to share his lone eyrie in wicked Chicago, and if matters do not mend in this direction it would be well for the people to take this most interesting situation into their own hands, and at the same time put a man in his place who will not retreat in the face of the feminine foe.
A tropical exotic is seen in a distant corner. It is young Lopez, the son of the Dictator of Paraguay. “Shirley Dare,” a woman of taste, says, he is “handsome.” To our eyes he is distinguished looking, nothing more. That peculiar flame born of mixed blood burns under his swarthy skin; it flushes his cheek, reddens his lips, and shines in his eyes with the cold glitter of black diamonds. You picture him swinging in his hammock under South American skies, and yet it is well to remember that he has not been in his native country for eight years, and the probability is, if he should return, his father would see in him a formidable rival, and in that case he would share the fate of all his illustrious relatives.
Colonel Parker, the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, was there with his white wife. It will be remembered that Colonel Parker belongs to the Indian tribe known as the “Six Nations.” It is said that he comes from mixed blood. If this is the case, the Indian was put on the outside, and the white blood was kept for the lining. He looks as much like an Indian as President Grant looks like a white man, and he is a very good representative of his race. His wife is fair, standing beside him, and attracts attention because she has broken a law; but why should she be received in society for the same reason that puts the poor Irish washerwoman, who links her fate with another race, beyond the pale of association, only the newspapers can answer.
As yet no half breeds have made their appearance, which proves there is a destiny which has something to do with shaping our ends.
For the reason that the card receptions of Secretary Fish are held the same evening, many of the ladies of the foreign legations pay their respects to the Speaker and his wife before going to the mansion of the Secretary of State. Whilst the toilette of the American woman is quite as costly, it cannot be said to be as elaborate and far fetched as that of the European sisters. The dresses of these foreigners are usually made up of trimmings. The eye is bewildered and lost in the multiplicity of flounces, fringes, laces, ribbons, and all those things which, in moderation, ought to be dear to every woman’s heart. The stylish daughters of Baron Gerolt, the Prussian minister, were there, and their costumes must have been perfect according to the European standard. The whole upper surface of their pretty little heads was turned into a flower garden; rosebuds were planted around the edges, and full blown roses blossomed in the center whilst long shoots and tendrils clung to their chignons as ivy nestles up to a damp wall. Their dresses were composed of that peculiar tint of silk called “ashes of roses,” and the fringes and satin trimmings were deep rose pink. Oh, the weary, weary labor of making these butterfly wardrobes, and these dresses were made by hand! No sewing machine had been used in the production. The tiny short sleeves were put together like patchwork, and between each tiny piece of silk was a satin cord. There was just the same proportion of human work on the long trained skirts, on the little fractional waists; and yet these extravagant toilettes, worn by these daughters of so-called lineage, only proved that in matters of dress there is such a thing as gilding refined gold and painting the rose, but this kind of work is always attended with the same consequences.
A literary woman connected with the _Rural New Yorker_ was present, and dazzled the beholders with her handsome face, lemon-colored silk, and black lace. A sweeter face scarcely ever looks out of a picture; but alas! alas! why did she not put herself into the hands of some stylish modiste, and yield the point as gracefully as a literary woman knows how? There is nothing so damaging to a woman’s toilet as to begin a certain style and not have the stamina or force of mind to carry it out. What is worse than a weak decoction of anything? If a woman decides to adopt “Pompadour” it must be completion to the last, else all is sacrificed. The reason that literary women sometimes fail in matters of taste in dress is because they do not give sufficient attention to the subject. The perfect arrangement of a woman’s costume is one of the fine arts as much as carving a statue, painting a picture, or writing an exquisite newspaper article.
OLIVIA.
MIDWINTER SOCIETY.
HOW THE CABINET LADIES CONDUCT THEIR SEVERAL FUNCTIONS.
WASHINGTON, _February 15, 1870_.
Midway between a President’s levee and a private entertainment lies the social ground occupied by the card reception. It is semi-official in its character, because public position has much to do with general invitations extended to the guests. It does not necessarily follow that calls must have been exchanged between any of the parties in the contest. A man is invited because he is a Senator, head of a bureau, or an upper clerk in either branch of Congress. At the same time each Cabinet minister means to look after the social interests of his own State by gathering under his hospitable wings as many of its citizens stopping in Washington as his mansion will possibly admit, estimated by cubic measure.
Since the beginning of the social season four out of the seven Cabinet ministers have issued cards for three receptions each. These include Secretaries Fish, Belknap, Cox, and Postmaster-General Cresswell. The receptions held at the magnificent mansion of the Secretary of State have been simply a continuation of those elegant entertainments for which his distant home was celebrated when he was a citizen in private life. Only a man of great wealth can afford to be an American “Premier.” All the foreign legations are gathered around his liberal American hearth, and is it not most consoling to our national pride to remember that it is broad and generous in every sense of the word? Yet why our open-handed countryman should be obliged to spend his private means to keep up the dignity of the Republic only the people through their representatives can answer.
Elegantly unostentatious have been the receptions held at the handsome residence of the three remaining ministers. In either case no effort has been made of display. It would seem that these Secretaries have a just appreciation of the social bearings of their positions, and yet realize, with Mr. Dawes, that, in the face of the financial peril of the country, frugality and economy should be the order of the day.
The great reception triumph of the season has been held at the historic Seward mansion, at present the home of the Secretary of War. Outside of the public buildings no house in Washington is so memorable in associations as this plain, unpretending pile of brick and mortar. It is broad, old-fashioned, with rooms extending far back, and everything about it reminds one of the good old days of one’s grandfather, and its severe simplicity is as refreshing as pure air when compared with the sensuous gingerbread work of the luxurious modern mansion.
The reception of the War Secretary and his accomplished wife was honored by the President of the United States, accompanied by the well-known Dent family. The newspapers have much to say about the “Dents;” but a close inspection of their every-day lives, as well as their antecedents, proves that our Chief Magistrate might have fallen into much worse hands. It is true they are numerous; but, as they did not make themselves, this sin must be laid at another door. Besides, are they to blame because a President happened to drop into their nest? Is there a man or woman in the country with stamina enough to keep them modest if they had a brother-in-law more potent than any king? Besides, these dozen or more brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law are exceedingly well behaved, considering the excellent opportunities which might be turned to mischief. A member of the Dent family has never been known to be connected with the gold ring; has never been summoned before a Congressional committee. It is true, they like to snuggle under the warm wing of the President; but are not the great arms of the nation long enough to embrace the whole brood?
Up the very stairs that once echoed to the footsteps of the assassin Paine poured a stream of life composed of the creme de la creme of the national capital. Members of the foreign legations, with their ladies, were there; and this is unusual, as many of these haughty foreigners are seldom or never seen in Washington society except at the mansion of the Secretary of State. The Cabinet, Supreme Bench, Senate, House of Representatives, distinguished members of the press, were present; and, to give additional brilliancy to the scene, the Army and Navy were largely represented, glittering in blue broadcloth and the usual golden trappings.
At the entrance of the first parlor stood the Secretary of War; at his right hand might have been seen his fair young wife. With all due respect to secrecy, it is whispered that Secretary Belknap is just a shade handsomer than any other man in the Cabinet.
His exterior surface indicates the pure Saxon, and his eyes are the color of that deep blue liquid which is obtained by dissolving indigo in sulphuric acid. He had the true soldier’s form, which is tall, broad, and deep, and his voice is as mellow as an organ’s. His step has a ring when his foot touches the pavement, and his hand has the true grip, whether it hauls a rebel colonel over the earthworks on the battlefield, or touches the dainty finger-tips of a woman. It is said that Secretary Belknap has a warm place in the Chief Magistrate’s heart, which proves that the feminine element does not enter into the construction of a President. General Belknap is a warrior by inheritance as well as by practice, for ever since the beginning of the Republic the long line of Belknaps have taken up arms in defense of their country.
The fine young face of Mrs. Belknap, as she receives the host of dignitaries who have come to pay their respects to the great war power represented by her husband, is just as refreshing as pure water at the hillside. The bride of a year, a newcomer to the capital, she has not had time to be spoiled by adulation. The genuine, kind ways of private life she bears unspotted to her high social position, and the graceful manners which she brings with her from her Kentucky home remind us of the days of Mrs. Crittenden, when the distinguished women of that State were the fixed stars of society in Washington. Mrs. Belknap wore upon this occasion the same superb dress which graced the Prince’s ball, which proves that she does not intend to imitate those extravagant women who will not be seen twice in the same toilette. If this independent trait in her character lessens her in the opinion of her feminine peers, let us hasten to tell her how much it endears her to the people. Mrs. Belknap shares the honors of beauty with Mrs. Cresswell in the Cabinet.
Just beyond the War Secretary stood the President, with his sister-in-law, Mrs. Sharp, at his side. Marshal Sharp might have been in the vicinity, but as he is only a Dent by marriage, his presence or absence need not be noted. The President brought with him the same “killing eye” which the New York _World_ so vividly described, yet another Dent sunned himself in its beams without the least sign of damage. Mrs. Grant remained at home, owing to indisposition, but Mrs. Sharp performed her part with exceeding grace and good nature. She wore a handsome blue silk dress, almost devoid of trimmings, with an elegant point lace shawl, and pearl jewelry. Mrs. Sharp is not noticeable for beauty or the want of it. She has the average face of American women, and her friends speak of her in the highest terms of praise.