Part 16

The ambrosial soup is followed by a French croquet of meat. Four admirably trained servants remove the plates between each course, and their motions are as perfect as clockwork. These servants are clad in garments of faultless cut, which serve to heighten to the last degree their sable complexion. White kid gloves add the finishing touch to this part of the entertainment. The third “course” of the dinner is composed of a fillet of beef, flanked on each side by potatoes the size of a walnut, with plenty of mushrooms to keep them company. The next course is dainty in the extreme. It is made up entirely of luscious leg of partridges, and baptized by a French name entirely beyond my comprehension. It will readily be seen that a full description of the twenty-nine courses would be altogether too much for the healthy columns of a newspaper to bear, so we pass to the dessert, not omitting to say that the meridian or noon of the feast is marked by the guests being served bountifully with frozen punch. As a general rule, wine is served about every third course. Six wineglasses of different sizes and a small bouquet of flowers are placed before each guest at the beginning.

The dessert is inaugurated by the destruction of a rice pudding, but not the kind which prompted the little boy to run away to the North Pole because his mother “would have rice pudding for dinner.” It is not the same dish which our Chinese brethren swallow with the aid of chop-sticks, but it is such a pudding as would make our grandmothers clap their hands with joy. Charles Lamb has made roast pig classic; Professor Melah’s rice pudding is worthy to be embalmed in romance or story, or at least to be illustrated in _Harper’s Weekly_. This Presidential dish cannot be described except by the pen of genius, therefore it can only be added that no plebeian pies or other pastry are allowed to keep its company. After the rice pudding, canned peaches, pears, and quinces are served. Then follow confectionery, nuts, ice-cream, coffee, and chocolate, and with these warm, soothing drinks the Presidential entertainment comes to an end, and the host and his guests repair to the Red Room, and after fifteen minutes spent in conversation the actors in a state dinner rapidly disappear.

Whilst we are discussing state dinners it may as well be remembered that private citizens in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, in some respects have equalled if not surpassed the White House in the elegance of their entertainments. In New York perfumed fountains exhale their liquid delights in the centre of the table, and this is as far ahead of that old mirror arrangement as the genuine surpasses the imitation. No fault, however, should be found with Professor Melah, for as far as he goes, no officer of the Government performs his duty better. At the same time it would be well for the Professor to remember that at an entertainment honored by the presence of women something besides the sense of taste and vision must be gratified. He should imitate the Japanese in the perfection of his surprises. He must make pastries out of which live birds will spring. Such a dish as this is none too dainty to set before President Grant and his friends.

When Mrs. Lincoln lived in the White House she dearly loved to have everybody know that she kept house in the Executive Mansion. If an entertainment was to be given she didn’t mind lending a helping hand, just as she would have done in that modest home in the “prairie land.” Martha Patterson saw that the milk-pans were kept sweet and clean, a matter of just as much importance in the White House as in the humblest wayside cottage; but now that this order of things which commenced with Martha Washington and ended with another Martha has passed away, and the Government employs a man to look after this beloved household, is it not a duty devolving particularly upon the press to see that this officer performs his duty with military strategy and perfection? Who has the authority to punish this man in case the President’s digestive organs are impaired? Napoleon lost a battle on account of a vicious dumpling. The greatest divorce case on record was founded on the following touching epistle: “Dear Mrs. B.: Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, PICKWICK.”

There are no entertainments in England like the state dinners in the United States. The Queen has her drawing-room receptions, which are not unlike the afternoon receptions of Mrs. Grant excepting the rigidity and frozen formality. A woman must have a court dress in order to be presented to Victoria; but a working woman in her serge can take the President by the hand. The Queen asks whomsoever she pleases, informally, to her palace, but she leaves “cabinet dinners” to her Prime Minister and the Speaker of the House of Commons.

Women are never included in these official dinners, but the same evening the wife of the minister or Speaker holds a reception, to which the families of the guest are invited, and the day closes with the feeling that all have been entertained. It will be remembered that Mrs. Thornton asked gentlemen only to meet the Prince at dinner, but in the evening the ladies were assembled to honor the royal guest. At a regal entertainment only gold, silver, and glass are to be seen on the tables. The King of little Hanover is said to have six million dollars’ worth of silver to set before his guests. The King of Prussia has for table ornaments mountains of silver from three to five feet high, with deer climbing them, and huntsmen following, all composed of that precious metal. It is next to an impossibility for a mere traveler to be introduced to the King of Prussia. He cannot be presented through the American minister, as it is practiced in France and England. If the traveler is a distinguished citizen of this country the case is different, and Prussian majesty allows itself to be approached. Men in official life are invited to dine at the royal table in Prussia, but a woman in high life must await the coming of a court ball, and then, if her rank is strong enough, she is shown into the royal dining-hall and has the supreme honor of hearing his majesty say: “How many wax candles do you think I am burning to-night?” The old King of Prussia was burning waxen tapers by the thousands, and he wanted his generosity appreciated. Century after century the etiquette of England and Prussia have followed in the same groove. Certain rank has certain privileges as well defined as the night and day. In France this stony rigidity is somewhat relaxed; but the length to which this letter has already attained prevents any further allusion to the subject.

OLIVIA.

SOME SENATORIAL SCENES.

JOHN SHERMAN, ZACH. S. CHANDLER AND OLIVER P. MORTON IN THE LIME LIGHT.

WASHINGTON, _March 12, 1870_.

In order to see the light of the sun eclipsed, or completely thrown in the shade, it is necessary to visit the Senate in night session. In prosy daytime one’s senses are ravished by the bewildering beauty of the decorative art in this “chamber;” but thus seen only a magic hall pictured in the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainment” will compare with the fairy-like beauty of the scene. Whence come the beams that steep everything in a sea of liquid amber? No jetty flame is visible anywhere. The exquisite roof of stained glass gleams with a deeper, richer light than was ever borrowed from old Sol’s rays. In order to be disenchanted one must be told that innumerable little gas jets cover the interior roof of the chamber, but the stained glass hides the ingenious contrivance from view. Who shall describe the sea of splendor that wraps and beautifies everything caught in its embrace? Under its influence grave Senators relax that stern gravity and austerity so becoming in a man upon whom half the dignity of a sovereign State depends. During last evening’s session, Senator Ramsey deliberately placed his hands behind him, apparently without malice aforethought, marched across the floor, and patted Senator Drake on the head. But the most astonishing thing connected with the performance consists in the fact that Senator Drake never quacked or even called the attention of the Senate to this strange proceeding. If in the course of legislation a Senator’s head must be patted, by what authority has a man the right to do so? Considering the irascibility of Senator Drake, his behavior under the hand of Senator Ramsey was becoming in the extreme.

If there is a chestnut burr in the American Senate, it is found in the person of Senator Drake, of Missouri. He bristles with sharp points, like a porcupine. He is ever on the alert for his foes, and when found he hurls shaft after shaft, unmindful where he hits; yet there is something so upright and true in the man that one forgets, as in the case of pricked fingers when a hoard of satin-backed chestnuts are brought into view.

But the shimmering rays of the evening light up a unique picture. In the outer circle of Senatorial chairs may be seen the one occupied by the colored man from Mississippi. As yet it cannot be said that a negro or black man has broken into Congress. Senator Revels has the head of a bronze statue, and his hands are Anglo-Saxon. But the cruel weight of slavery has left its mark upon him. He brings to bear upon the tufted Wilton of the Senate chamber the plantation’s walk. Slave idiom clings to his mellow, flute-like speech. He looks so lonely and forlorn in his seat, the first in the edge of the charmed circle, just as if he had been washed there by some great tidal wave, which had retired, never more to return. Senator Revels is a good man, but not great, after the manner of Frederick Douglass; or keen as a Damascus blade, like Sella Martin, the editor of the colored man’s national organ. And yet, in legislative attainments, he compares favorably with the majority of the new Senators from the reconstructed States.

The Senators are talking about the “funding bill.” In the colloquy the clear-cut face of John Sherman, of Ohio, comes to the surface. He has put his shoulder to the mountain of finance, and how manfully he tugs. Oh, the wear and tear to the understanding in the attempt to comprehend the money situation! A masculine biped whispers to his next door neighbor, “Do you understand why they had a night session?” Of course the little woman didn’t know. “It was to choke off all discussion and come to a vote. In the House they have a way of putting on the brakes, but in the Senate a man can talk and talk until he spins a cocoon out of his brain, through which he must eat in order to come back to common sense and terra firma. You see,” continued the man, “that the Senate is tired. It wants to get home; but a few of the hardy swimmers will not give up the race.”

Senatorial abandon takes possession of the hour. A Western Senator perambulates the floor, smoking a cigar, but there are very few ladies in the gallery, and the cigar is daintily fragrant, considering its obnoxious origin. In the door of an adjoining cloak-room may be seen the broad, open face of Zachariah Chandler, and from its moon-like disc may be noticed small volumes of smoke escaping; but whether this fiery exhibition is the result of the destruction of tobacco, or a mild volcanic eruption in a very delicate region, there is no means of ascertaining.

During the impatient conflict Charles Sumner is seen in his seat, solemnly solemn as the sphinx. A woman whispers: “Did you ever see Charles Sumner smile? I did once, you ought to have seen it.” “Why?” asked her companion. “Because he looked so handsome. The smile transfigured his countenance. I have liked his face ever since.” “May I never see him smile,” said the other woman. “I prefer to contemplate this man in the Senate as I do the mountain in a picture, or as I would an Arctic landscape in a gloomy, sullen sea.”

Apparently weary of wielding the Vice-President’s sceptre, Schuyler Colfax has slipped out of the honored chair to a lower seat, and a Senator occupies his place. If a public man wants to be buried alive he can accomplish it by getting himself elected heir-apparent to the Executive. The Vice-President of the United States never has a chance to read his name in the newspapers, and by the time his four years are up the dear public have forgotten him. Oh, the horror of riding on the topmost wave of popularity, and then suddenly finding oneself plumped out of sight, actually buried under a mountain of greatness. If the President would only die. But who ever knew a President to commit suicide, though he is perfectly aware that another man has been actually prepared to take his place, and that the people of this country will not suffer for the want of a President? The actual reason why the great body of American women are against woman suffrage is because they fear that some time in the course of their natural lives they will be called on to act as Vice-President. Schuyler Colfax was seen reading a newspaper at the foot of his throne, and if he gets any comfort out of his position it must consist in holding the gavel suspended over the heads of the shining lights of the country. And yet there is no chance of bringing these Senators to order, as in the case of the unruly members of the House. The Senators are always in order; there is no chance of enjoyment for Schuyler Colfax except to crawl out of his seat and read a newspaper. And what does he find in that newspaper? Oh, sorrow and consternation! Dawes is ravishing the East with economical delights, and Logan is cleansing the Augean stables of the House in which iniquity has herded ever since the Republic began. There are two positions which are alike, so far as the country is concerned, the Vice-Presidency of the United States and that of a country schoolmaster.

In the person of Senator Harlan, of Iowa, may be seen the presiding officer of the hour. How admirably he becomes the sombre, dignified place. Nature has cast this man in a noble mould. Broad forehead, clear gray eyes, and features as handsomely chiseled as if fresh from the hands of a first-class sculptor. Few men in the Senate have the simple tastes of Senator Harlan. His personal presence would be superb if it were not for the general appearance of threatened disruption which marks his every-day attire. But, notwithstanding the inclination of his coats to wear out under the arms and fringe in exactly the wrong place, no Senator at the capital is more beloved or trusted by the people of his own State now residents of Washington than Senator Harlan.

The funding bill still agitates the waters of legislation, and Senator Morton, of Indiana, arises slowly, leaning upon his cane. What subtle influence brings to the mind’s eye the picture of a tiger chained to a broken cage? Surely that powerful organization was made to last three-score years and ten. What a glorious casket! Away with the cane! The pallor of his countenance is a part of the uncanny mockery of the night. There is no better speaker on the floor of the Senate. His thoughts flow fresh, clear, sparkling, like water from a hill-side spring. It is true, Indiana is a benighted State, morally defective, as seen by her divorces; her territory swampy, with fever and ague a yearly crop. But which is the best harvest a State can yield? Why men, to be sure, and when this fact is considered Indiana need not feel ashamed of herself.

At this hour of the evening the floor is thickly strewn with all sizes of fragments of paper. It rustles under the feet of the nimble pages. Senator Wilson is opening his evening mail. He snaps the letter envelopes and hauls out the insides as gracefully as a bear scrapes honey out of a hollow tree. He is so earnest, and there is so much to do, and the sun will not stand still even for Massachusetts. He takes the time to read the name only of his correspondents; the reading through these letters must be done by a private secretary. What a huge pile of papers menace him! Public opinion says he is a man of “practical talent.” Is not this the best gift bestowed upon man? Blessed, thrice blessed, is the State that has a man in the Senate connected by an electric cord to the least of her people!

Senator Cameron is walking up the broad aisle, erect and stately as a majestic pine in midwinter. This man is not one of the brilliant figures of the Senate, but he is high like the mountains and deep like the mines of the great powerful State he represents. Few, if any men, carry greater weight in Senatorial legislation.

Senators Conkling and Stewart may be seen in their respective seats, and these two men may properly be called the “blondes” of the Senate. If these Senators were women they would have the whole masculine world at their feet. It would seem as if the forces of nature conspired to keep them at a red heat, these men are steeped in liquid sunshine; their beards, at a distance, are the best kind of imitation of spun gold. Once a watery veined Senator was actually seen warming his hands only a short distance from Senator Conkling’s head; but notwithstanding this fact a handsomer man is seldom seen on the floor of the Senate.

There is evidence of strong-coming impatience. Senators pace the floor as lions stride their dens. When will the interminable talk cease? No one heeds it. Senator Sprague is seen in a leaning attitude against the wall. The golden background helps to make a fitting picture of the young millionaire. His face has a marble pallor which the rosy light of the chamber cannot dispel.

Very few people are in the galleries. A few dusky faces may be seen at the right of the reporters’ seats. The diplomatic space is unoccupied. In the ladies’ gallery is the intellectual countenance of Mrs. Secretary Cox. She is followed by a suite of pretty, youthful faces. Mrs. Sprague is also present, superbly graceful as ever. This elegant woman is not only ornamental, but useful to the world. When she is traveling amongst foreign nations her manners reflect honor on the country that gave her birth.

But the gavel has sounded, and the night session ends.

OLIVIA.

THE ROBESON TEA PARTY.

THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY AWARDED THE PALM FOR ENTERTAINING.

WASHINGTON, _March 22, 1870_.

Humiliating as the task may be, it must be acknowledged that in every race undertaken by the two sexes at the same time, for reasons which never can be explained, the men will manage to come out ahead in the exquisite art of millinery and dressmaking, where it would seem natural that woman’s nimble fingers and dainty tastes should rival the work of the fairies; yet stubborn facts bring us face to face with Monsieur Worth, the masculine milliner of Paris, who has stepped on to the throne, and by superiority of judgment has robbed woman of her rightful heritage. “Ah!” said an American of rare taste, just returned from abroad, “you should have seen the dress prepared by this man for the Queen of Prussia. It was made of the simplest material, being composed of grass and lace, but the lace was filmy tulle, almost as ethereal as the moonbeams, and the grass was soft and velvety, such as may be supposed to adorn the river banks in Paradise. Over this faultless combination was flung a shower of seed pearls.” From whence did this man Worth get the pattern? He went to Nature’s glorious book, just as all Earth’s children must when they seek inspiration. Dear reader, have you seen in the early morning a handkerchief of cobweb glisten with pearly dew spread out on the grass? Monsieur Worth has noticed this fairy work, and the hint enabled him to fashion a queen’s dress which was pronounced by competent judges to be the most faultless ever worn by royalty. Dresses imported from Paris by the score may be seen in Washington society; but these costumes have not received the last touches of grace from the hands of the great masculine dressmaker. Monsieur Worth has all the orders he can fill for such women as Eugenie, Clothilde, the Queens of Prussia, Belgium, and others, without puzzling his dainty brains for the simple daughter of a Republic, who may be somebody to-day but nobody to-morrow.

This letter is written, in all humility and sorrow, to prove that the great social success of the season has been awarded (must the truth be told?) to a man, and the citizen is known to the world as the Secretary of the United States Navy. Whilst the President of the Republic has tickled society with his levees, and the married men of the Cabinet have held their receptions, Secretary Robeson, the jolly bachelor tar, has given a tea-party, and such a one as would make the Widow Bedott clap her hands with joy. No other woman in Washington in fashionable society would have dared ape the custom of other days; but the gallant Secretary, after donning a mental armor as invulnerable as ironclad, has sailed into the face of public opinion and won a victory as complete as McClellan’s capture of the wooden guns.

It will be remembered that at the tea parties given in the old times by the Widow Bedott the dear old snuff-taking stocking knitters assembled of an afternoon and talked their honest gossip by the light of the patient sun. But owing to the hard day’s work which has to be performed by the Secretary of the Navy the company was not assembled until long after candle-light; but as candles are not as plentiful as they used to be in the good old days of our grandmothers,--a modern substitute was found to light the mansion, by the flame of which every wrinkle was visible on the faces of his guests.

Thirty persons attended the tea party, but the most astonishing feature consisted in the fact that nearly one-half of the company were men. It is true the Secretary is single and these men were possibly invited for protection sake; but what hindered him from stationing a squad of marines outside of his modest home, within easy call, in case superior strength was needed? There is not a house in Washington fitted up so snugly and cosily as the home of the bachelor Secretary. Everything about it is suggestive of every-day comfort. Instead of heavy silken drapery at the windows, chintz, modest chintz, pure enough to smile on the dreams of a bachelor, shuts out the sun’s too obtrusive rays. Chintz covers the luxurious sofas and twines around the broad-shouldered, deep-chested chairs. All these happy surroundings had much to do with the jolly comfort of the guests of the tea party. Two hours were spent dallying with music before the tea-room was disclosed. At the expiration of that time a pair of folding doors were opened as if by magic, and in the offing might have been seen a tea-table such as would have brought tears of envy to Mrs. Potiphar’s eyes. It has been proved that the moon is made of green cheese, and Secretary Robeson had a piece of it on his tea-table. Then there were muffins, crisp as a frosty morning, and a pot of tea for which a war vessel had been dispatched with sealed orders, and the captain, under threats of dismissal, was commanded to return within a given space of time, bringing from Japan the exact quantity of tea requisite for the occasion. It was also rumored, but the writer cannot vouch for the facts, that the vessel brought over a Japanese man to brew the tea, and, after the awful thing was done, the miserable Jap committed hari-kari.