Part 23

And last, but not least, the Japanese. The President had fixed himself in the right place in the East Room. To his left were the great men of his Empire. To his right were the ten Eastern representatives. The first five stood a little forward of the other five, because they preceded them in rank. The first five were dressed somewhat different from the remainder. They wore garments which are never allowed to be upon their persons except in the presence of a ruler of a great nation, and when engaged upon the highest diplomatic duty. This dress consisted of a blue silk skirt, embroidered with white, which reached almost to the floor, just allowing the queer, sandaled feet to become visible. This was surmounted by a black silken tunic fastened at the waist, which did not allow the arms to be of much use. The head was covered by a courtier’s hat of device indescribable, with a long metallic ribbon-like streamer falling down the back. A stranger costume can hardly be conceived. Those of lesser rank wore the same skirt and tunic, but the headgear seemed to be made of patent leather, banded with soft white material, an excellent invention for a masquerade. The great ambassador, in a sing-song way, read from his parchment, whilst General Grant and all the others listened. Then our President read something to the Japanese, Mr. Mori standing and looking quietly on. Then President Grant introduced his Cabinet. There was no-handshaking. The Americans snapped their heads in the usual jerky way, but the Japanese gave them the graceful salaam of the East. An Oriental only knows how to bow.

After everything official was concluded, then the Japanese allowed their hands to be touched by the Western barbarians. The Cabinet at this point offered their arms to the fluttering silks, and each Minister took a Japanese into the presence of Mrs. Grant, where the press had no desire to go. We claim there are certain inalienable rights. For the preservation of these we will endure all that heroism requires, and for comfort and support we look to the people.

OLIVIA.

THE PUBLIC GREET THE JAPANESE.

UNDER ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES EASTERN ROYALTY IS WELCOMED.

WASHINGTON, _March 6, 1872_.

It has already been truthfully stated that several thousand dollars of the people’s money have been set aside with which to entertain our Oriental guests. Last night’s experiment proved to be a superb success. The Masonic Temple’s insignificant proportions were dwindled to Lilliputian size in the vain effort to make it resemble some gorgeous Eastern landscape. In the vain pursuit of this Quixotic dream General Myers purchased pink and white tarletan by the rod and furlong; carpenters nailed it to the ceiling, to the roof overhead, and to every other available spot worth mentioning. Where there was no place for tarletan, the gallant general plastered the stars and stripes. A couple of fountains were placed in the upper part of the room, and it was said Japan in miniature was represented on its watery surface, but no persons present would have found it out unless they had been told previously that this was the original program. Hanging baskets were attached to the ceilings by long strings, a threatening menace to the brains below, whilst birds in cages were suspended in such a way as to cause serious alarm as to personal safety. Then cards of invitation were issued, calling the faithful together between the hours of 9 and 11 o’clock. At 9 o’clock the writer stood within the enchanted hall of the Masonic Temple. The sight was sorrowful if it was not imposing. The imperial chandeliers had not been lighted. Carpenters were hard at work nailing tarletan to finish out the eastern sky. Workmen were hurrying with tables and flower pots and other et cetera of the landscape. Humbler hands were scrubbing the floor, whilst one or more men were finishing up the corners with an unpoetical mop. In the centre of all this grandeur stood the Secretary of State, supported by General Banks; only a short distance from them, to the left, were the wives of these distinguished officials. As the landscape was to be heated after the Esquimaux style, that is, by hanging lights and the warmth of human bodies, the damp floors had to be dried by opening the windows of the magnificent temple. Through these yawning holes came the Arctic blasts. Mrs. Fish wrapped her royal ermine mantle around her; Mrs. Banks drew the folds of her opera cloak close. It had previously been agreed that those ladies who had elected themselves “to receive” should get to the temple precisely at half past 8 to put the last half dainty touches to the brilliant surroundings. It was a few moments after 9, and only Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Banks and a newspaper intruder, who was bound to tell the truth, unless she chose the majesty of silence!

A new actress in the drama--all ripples, laughter, and girlish abandon--Mrs. Colfax--came bouncing into the “eastern scene.” She had thrown aside her wrappings in the dressing-room, and appeared clad in rich white silk court-train over a black silk petticoat, and a white pom-pon in her hair. Her neck and arms were bare, and in through the open windows came the biting winds. The lithe, elastic frame shuddered like a jaunty yacht caught in the jaws of a terrific nor’wester, but succor was close at hand in shape of covering, and the pearly shoulders disappeared from view. Next came Mrs. Governor Cooke, magnificently arrayed in filmy lace and light green. If the fountains in the corner had been larger and she had been more sylph-like the play of Undine might have been performed.

At last the tarletan was tacked, the last pot of flowers planted, the floor mopped, the last bird--cage hung, the gas-jets lighted, and the reception ladies had disposed themselves on the sofas. Let it be remembered there were no other seats in the room. The door swung open on its noiseless hinges, and in walked the precious Japanese men, who had got themselves up in “Melican fashion” to please us rude barbarians of the West. How poor, weak, and shammy everything must have seemed to their almond-shaped eyes! Flower-pots and pink tarletan, a bit of bright carpet, a cold, damp floor, a wintry atmosphere faced them. As they walked through the narrow path which opened in the throng and led to the upper end of the hall, they saw seated before them women no longer young and some of them far advanced into that period which is called the “sere and yellow leaf of age,” with shoulders exposed below the point of modesty (if there is any such place in that delicate region), arms bare above the elbow! What a lesson it must have conveyed to our visitors! And yet these women tried to look beautiful!

The foreign ministers, with their wives and daughters, had drawn themselves into the usual diplomatic knot. There was the tall and queenly Lady Thornton, elegant in pink silk and Chambrey gauze; and Sir Edward Kingly as a knight of old; and pretty Madame Roberts, the wife of the Spanish minister, in quaint costume, regardless of expense; magnificent Mademoiselle Freyre, the daughter of the Peruvian minister, who was the most gorgeously and costly appareled of any woman in the temple. A moderate fortune of diamonds nestled in her hair, whilst bust, arms and ears sparkled like the cave wherein was caught unfortunate Sinbad the Sailor.

About the banquet? It fell below the “Oriental landscape” attempt. It was spread under the directions of A. G. Jiraudan. We never heard of this man before, and yet he will be remembered for his stale boned turkey and hard crusts. In place of ice cream we were treated to doubtful frozen custard. The salad might have been made of lamp oil, judging by its flavor. The coffee was such as contractors furnished the army during the late war, and water was denied the last resting place of a goblet. We drank it from the humble plebeian glass in the shape of a mug without a handle.

Fancy Sir Edward Thornton carrying this cup to his aristocratic lips at an entertainment given to royalty! Will not motherly Philadelphia or her sister city New York open the doors of hospitality and retrieve Washington from her niggardly disgrace? Not that the people of the capital are in fault, but a grave charge lies somewhere. Let exposure do its work.

OLIVIA.

SAMUEL F. B. MORSE.

MEMORIAL SERVICES HELD AT THE CAPITOL.

WASHINGTON, _April 17, 1872_.

Because we have no Westminster Abbey, or other royal sleeping place when genius passes away, we have memorial services held at the capital of the nation, under the shadow of the dome and the Goddess of Liberty. No man since the Saviour was born has ever had such obsequies follow him to the grave as the plain citizen of a Republic who has just passed away. The ceiling of the House of Representatives had been pierced, and numerous wires were seen suspended from the wall, and these ended below the Speaker’s desk, where an electric instrument was placed that transferred to those present that throb of sympathy which alone makes the world akin. The voices of seventy cities of the Union were heard speaking in the Hall of Representatives, for Professor Morse had given to each a tongue of flame. Click, click, click; from the bed of mighty waters came the sob of the Old World. London sent her condolence, dated many hours subsequent to our time. April the sixteenth was dead and gone in England, but on the wings of the lightning came the intelligence of an unborn day. From Europe, Egypt, China, flashed sympathy with this nation because a simple American citizen had gone to his eternal home. In the self-same spot where all this tribute was paid to his memory he had once stood--poor, obscure, and alone, working out the solemn problem which should revolutionize the world.

On the floor of the House of Representatives might have been seen political strength, the judicial ermine, poet, painter, scholar, and humble citizen, and from the galleries looked down the womanly element of the Republic. First of all came President Grant, with his square, immovable face. At his side walked Secretary Fish, whose comeliness will ever furnish a theme for song and story. Then came Secretary Belknap, with a presence sufficiently warm and attractive to keep the whole Cabinet from spoiling for the want of caloric; then clear-cut Secretary Boutwell. Behind the Cabinet might have been seen the ponderous Supreme Judges, and their presence proved that the Creator worked regardless of material when he constructed these excellent men. On the Speaker’s stand stood the men whose speeches were to honor the great man whose memory was to be embalmed. Speaker Blaine sat in his accustomed seat, with Vice-President Colfax at his right hand.

Speaker Blaine touched his desk with his gavel, and silence fell upon those congregated there. Then softly upon the ear sounded the silver voice of Professor Morse’s aged pastor in solemn prayer, a simple petition, such as men utter when their feet have almost reached the other shore. After the Marine Band had been heard, Sunset Cox made some remarks, and these were followed by a lengthy biography from Senator Patterson, which was altogether too long to be read when so much that was equally interesting was to follow.

Fernando Wood gave the most interesting account of the struggle and despair, but final triumph, of Professor Morse in his attempts to make the Government aid him in his undertaking. Mr. Wood is the only man in Congress who was a member of that body at the time the inventor was pleading his cause. Professor Morse first laid his plans before his own Government, and they were rejected. He then went abroad, was absent two years, going, as did Columbus, from court to court, obscure, unheard, unnoticed. All undaunted, he came home, to try for the last time to bring his wonderful discovery before the world. It was this period of his life that the Hon. Fernando Wood brought so vividly before the audience. With the mind’s eye the vast congregation could see a threadbare, dejected man traversing the streets of Washington, modestly attempting to electrify Congress with a flash of his own genius. At last, when he was slowly settling into the depths of despair, he had the supreme happiness of learning that in the very last hours of a session a modest amount had been appropriated to carry out his apparently insane undertaking.

Facing the speakers of the evening hung a portrait of the departed. It was surrounded by a white groundwork, inlaid with an inscription in green letters: “What God hath wrought.” It was the picture of a man in the winter of life, with hair and beard of snow; a face not classically made, but with fine, manly features, that must have glowed with indestructible beauty when lit up by the enthusiastic genius within.

Samuel F. B. Morse has gone the way of all the earth. He lived to know that his name had been spoken by the intellectual world from pole to pole. No more honor could be bestowed upon his ashes; and his memory is embalmed in the soul of his country.

One of the speakers of the evening said that Professor Morse was born the same year that Benjamin Franklin died, and the lives of the two men seemed like joining a broken thread. And this reminds the writer of a man who might have been seen in that audience who to-day is trying on the same field to get Congress to help him to demonstrate to the people that wires and batteries and Atlantic cables are only so much waste matter; that from given points anywhere on the world’s surface that same lightning which Franklin brought to earth with his kite can be harnessed to do his bidding. He has got his patent, his invention, and his faith. As with Morse, Congress is afraid to “establish a precedent,” and so another inventor goes begging his way, perhaps to immortal fame.

OLIVIA.

ON THE PROMENADE.

A SATURDAY HOLIDAY WITH ITS STROLLERS AND EQUIPAGES.

WASHINGTON, _April 22, 1872_.

Spring, though laggard, has at last smiled upon Washington. Once more the bosom of Mother Earth has yielded up the frost and the baby vegetation wears a smiling face. No longer the cold, bitter winds smite the wayfarer, for the king of the season has tempered their edge. Saturday afternoon at the capital is a holiday. Congress usually adjourns from Friday until Monday. Not always the Senate, but the House, which is a much harder-worked body, necessarily must have a short respite for breathing time, although it is claimed by the members that the last day of the week is the hardest of them all. A Senator who holds his position for six years can afford to take more or less ease; but a member who has only two years to serve, if he has any ambition or talent, is about the hardest-worked man in the nation. He has the superhuman effort to perform of making himself felt in Congress; at the same time he must manage to keep the peace at home. The majority of them know there are men in their districts as gifted as themselves, who are working out the problem of rotation in office. So when Saturday afternoon comes they try to forget their troubles whilst riding up and down Pennsylvania avenue, with the smoke of cigars issuing from their lips; but only the women suffragists envy this deceitful happiness.

Smoothly the carriage moves over the faultless pavement. Some of the members are wealthy enough to own their own “turnouts,” but these seem to have simply been purchased for their comfort, for there is scarcely anything about them suggestive of display. The carriage of Mrs. Secretary Fish is of the plainest and most comfortable description. It might have belonged to some Knickerbocker relative of a past generation, so prim and respectable it seems. Even the wheels have an aristocratic roll, entirely unlike the little plebeian satin-lined concerns of the _parvenues_ which have been called into existence in the same way that Cinderella’s fairy god-mother changed the nut-shells and mice.

When the Avenue was first lined with Nicholson pavement the carriages of the “first families” were seen rolling over it. In those days the “thoroughbreds” belonging to the President were seen stretching their graceful limbs in contrast to the fast-trotting bays owned by Sir Edward Thornton. The carriages of the foreign ministers were then displayed in all their glory. The most magnificent were usually occupied by the South American ministers. The representative of Peru could be seen in the daintiest affair, lined with white satin. The body of the carriage is rounded and the top opened in the centre, and when thrown back it seemed to disclose a huge bird’s nest, and the white satin in the distance bore a striking resemblance to eider down. Altogether it looked like a portable nest filled with the rarest birds of a tropical clime, whilst coachman and footman in the most gorgeous livery completed one of the handsomest pictures of a Saturday afternoon.

Another elegant establishment might have been noticed--a luxurious carriage, with its light-bay prancing thoroughbreds attached. On the creamy cushions, with their costly white lap-robe, was seated a solitary woman in the earliest stages of the winter of life. She usually wore a white carriage costume--nothing but white from the snowy ostrich tip to the Paris kids that encased her slender fingers. Who is it? A wealthy New York widow, too wise to be ensnared by fortune hunters, and not a remarkably shining target for arrows of the other kind.

In those days not so very far remote the carriage of Senator Chandler might have attracted attention, especially if the superbly dressed madame and her accomplished daughter were securely inclosed within. But, alas! alas! the _creme de la creme_ no longer patronize the Nicholson pavement. This is given up to the blonde-haired beauties, fast youths, and tipsy Congressmen. The sunny side of the Avenue has become the fashionable promenade. What a changing human kaleidoscope!

Here comes Secretary Robeson with his substantial bride. One feels like lowering the mainsail of conversation in time to salute the jolly consort and tender as they go sailing down the river of human life.

This is the Hon. Eugene Hale, of Maine, with his graceful new wife. Would the ladies know how the richest heiress in Washington is attired? In plain black cashmere and a simple straw hat.

And this is the Hon. Benjamin F. Butler, one of our most famous citizens, but so changed for the better that his nearest friends scarce recognize him. The time has been when General Butler was dubbed “belligerent,” but this must have been when he was in the active fermentation of life. To-day the dregs have settled to the bottom. The froth and scum were all whisked off in that last Massachusetts campaign. Nothing but the rich, generous body remains. Even the famous Don Piatt can find no peg to hang a fault on; besides, the General is growing handsome, for the beauty of the spirit lights up the countenance, and this is the truest type of perfection.

A slender and exceedingly graceful man hurries by--a gentleman whom the wicked types made us call in our last letter “Sunset Cox.” We never applied any such appellation to this gentleman, and for this reason we call attention to this correction. We have no personal acquaintance with the Hon. S. S. Cox, but men, like greenbacks, pass in Washington for just about what they are worth. There is nothing about this Congressman to remind one of sunset, unless it is the brilliant coloring of his mind. This is the term which envy and malice have fastened upon him; and this uncourteous term cannot be made to foreshadow his decline. Although he has not reached the noontide of life, he is one of the readiest debaters, one of the most eloquent and pleasing speakers, a fascinating writer, and in every sense of the word an accomplished man. If this is “sunset,” may we have a little more of it in Congress, for we believe in men instead of parties, and when women vote we shall not stop to ask “Is he a Republican?” “Is he a Democrat?” but we shall propound the awful question, “Who is the man?”

Yonder comes Mrs. Cresswell, clinging to the arm of the Postmaster-General--a pretty, petite woman, but not quite strong enough to stamp her impression on the age. And yet women who have only social qualities upon which they can rely are remembered long after their thrones are crumbled into dust.

To-day Mrs. Crittenden, of Kentucky, has her shrine in Washington. Her manners are quoted like the speeches of Clay or Webster. “Tell me,” inquired the writer of an elderly lady who was blessed with an excellent memory, “what made Mrs. Crittenden so famous?”

“I am sure I cannot tell, unless it was because she treated the poorest slaves as though they were ladies and gentlemen.”

OLIVIA.

CHARLES SUMNER.

AN INTERVIEW IN THE WORKSHOP OF THE VETERAN STATESMAN.

WASHINGTON, _April 15, 1873_.

This article is not written with the attempt to portray that which makes Charles Sumner the central figure of the American Senate. No woman possesses the gift to explore his mind. Yet there may be those who read _The Press_ who feel an interest in the material part of his nature, and who would like to know something about his every-day life--how he looks, how he appears, and the impression he makes upon the womanhood of the day. The so-called gentle sex are convened in secret now, and men are not supposed to hear what we say. We will examine Charles Sumner in the same way that we would a picture, whilst his fine house and exquisite surroundings may be called the frame. Stand a little way off, because light is needed, and remember he is seen to the best advantage in what he terms his “work-room.”

An easy chair high enough to support the head is drawn before the open grate, and its capacious depths reflect the majestic figure of Mirabeau, but the face was designed by his Maker expressly for Charles Sumner. It is one of the best living pictures that foreshadows the exceeding grace of autumn. The sense of harmony in its highest embodiment is fulfilled; but the vision is neutral-tinted with all the scarlet glory left out. Even the long dressing-gown with its heavy tassels is soft, bluish-gray.

In scanning the features you realize that the artist has been trying to follow the classical order of art. You see it in the royal head crowned by its abundant gray hair, in the oval face, and the clear eyes which, if you watch closely, you can catch a glimpse of the soul within. Observe the Greek nose, and finely moulded lips, which are never used except to make the world wiser and better. Now add the manners of an English lord and an improvement on the polish of the Chesterfieldian age, and we have the picture of the simple American gentleman.

The difference between spending a morning with Charles Sumner or learning about him through the newspapers is like quenching our thirst at a fountain at Saratoga or procuring some of the elixir at a drug store. It may be that your apothecary is honest, and that you are imbibing genuine Congress water, and then again perhaps you are the victim of misplaced information. With his permission, let us make a visit to that model “work-room,” because Charles Sumner will take us into the company of the famous people of the world. He will tell us about meeting George Eliot at a dinner party, or about his being on the same ship with George Sand. Then we can say to him with enthusiasm: “Tell us about this wonderful George Eliot. How old is she? Whom does she look like, and don’t you think her the greatest intellect represented by the womanhood of the present day?”

“I think her a great woman, perhaps the greatest, but time must decide all things connected with fame. I have a picture amongst my engravings very much like her, so much so that it would answer very well for her portrait.”

The picture is found. It represents Lorenzo de Medici, and is ugly to the last degree.