Part 30

A residence at the national capital which spans the social rule from the days of queenly Harriet Lane to the present “first lady” at the White House affords an opportunity to note the different changes and peculiar innovations inaugurated by those whom fate or accident has called to wield the most powerful social scepter to be found upon the face of the globe. The public need not be told that the wife of our President has more real political power than Queen Victoria. True, she does not ride “in state,” drawn by eight cream-colored horses to open Parliament in person, but she waits carefully in an ante-room, and when Cabinet sessions are over seizes upon the head of any of the Departments, and then and there, like a Catharine or Elizabeth, makes known her command. Mrs. Abraham Lincoln inaugurated this excellent plan of doing business, because the exigencies of the war wholly occupied the mind and time of the President, and it became necessary for the “first lady” to look after the minor affairs of the country at this particular date. To prove exactly what the writer means, the case of the first Commissioner of Agriculture is called up. Several crafty men put their heads together and decided to call into being a “Bureau Of Agriculture.” Its different departments were to be “run,” each one by its particular head, independent of the other. It was to be a cluster of little kingdoms with a nominal head that should be empty of ideas, possessing only one requisite, that of managing Mrs. Lincoln and the appropriation of the public funds. These shrewd men made the good old Quaker Newton believe that he was among the greatest men of the universe, and while he was busy talking “spiritualism” to our “first lady,” escorting her with his old time chivalry and grace to the humble homes of the “mediums,” the head men of his department were scattering the worthless seeds broadcast over the country and making up those absurd reports which have brought ridicule on one of the most important branches of the public service down to the present time.

One of the most impressive and gorgeous receptions which the writer ever attended was given by the President and Mrs. Lincoln toward the last of this important term. The White House looked old, worn, and dingy, for this preceded the golden splendor of the Grant regime, but the brilliancy and magnificence was made up by the scarlet uniforms of the Marine Band with the gilt buttons and shoulderstraps of the brave defenders of the Union, who clustered about the capital in those historic days. The same struggling tide of humanity inundated the doors of the Executive Mansion, but at every turn a soldier was stationed to keep the crowd within the limit of Mrs. Lincoln’s law. Bayonets glittered over the daintily dressed heads and bare shoulders of the beautifully dressed ladies who declared that “mob law” was now inaugurated and “they should never visit the White House again, until a change.” But if the guests felt insulted at the presence of the bayonets what was their astonishment upon going into the “presence” to find a genuine crown on Mrs. Lincoln’s head. It was made of gilt, but looked precisely like those which are found on the heads of those distinguished women about whom we read in Agnes Strickland’s “Lives of the Queens of England.” The stones or gems were wanting, but the tinsel and gilt were all there. There was only time allowed to note that dear old Abraham looked down at the little “bobbing” woman at his side as he might at a frolicsome kitten, then a cold steel bayonet pressed the writer’s shoulder, while the military gruff voice added: “Pass on! pass on!” Afterwards it was ascertained that the “crown” was a harmless head-dress invented by a Philadelphia milliner, and that Mr. Lincoln ridiculed it so severely that its debut and withdrawal all took place the same night. It was Mrs. Lincoln who arranged that a division of society should be made after the guests have entered the White House. She had a door set apart for the Judges of the Supreme Court, Senators, Army and Navy, and foreign ministers. Members of Congress were herded with the common people, and actually forced through the same door. When Mrs. Julia Grant succeeded to the sceptre she realized that any distinction of this kind would make any administration unpopular; so she decided that all persons who entered the front door of the mansion were entitled to the same social privilege, and all doors should be alike to the guests. But to get over the difficulty and please royalty as well as democracy, Mrs. Grant discovered a side door, a sort of sneak entrance, where those who wished to avoid the crowd could pass in, take up their positions in the rear of the “throne,” and glare upon the struggling crowd of humanity as it passed by in single file.

With astonishment the writer learned by personal experience that Mrs. Hayes has revived Mrs. Lincoln’s law as to the aristocracy of the doors. Last Saturday for the first time at a public reception the writer entered the White House. Seeing an immense crowd struggling to go through one door, and kept back by the police, while at another in close proximity only now and then a few were permitted to pass, upon inquiry it was learned that a door was set apart for the privileged few. As the hour was about to expire and it was found that if we waited our “turn” with the crowd there would be no view of republican royalty that day, at least, it was learned that a fat man in another part of the mansion had the power to let even a common person slip through the aristocratic door, and by means of that bribery which the “minions of the press” know so well how to bestow, access was gained the “presence” and a picture was hung on the walls of memory, to last us as long as the soul floats down the great river of eternity. In the same room the writer had gazed at a wonderful kaleidoscope. Instead of bits of colored glass, it was men and women shifting about in the hands of Time, beginning with the rare beauty and unstudied grace of Harriet Lane as she stood by the side of President Buchanan, followed by Mrs. Lincoln and her tinsel crown, succeeded by the daughters of Andy Johnson, who said, “We are plain people from the mountains of Tennessee; too much, we fear, is expected of us.” Then Julia Dent Grant, who possesses the wonderful power of conciliating all the distracting elements which help unite social and political society.

It is a historic fact that the White House is modeled after the palace of the Duke of Leister. This accounts for the lofty walls so decorated and beautiful in frescoes that they resemble in intention, if not in genius, the noble creations wrought by Raphael and Michael Angelo. As the eye descends from the ceiling it rests upon the inlaid floor, but this is covered with carpeting so thick that the tramp of a regiment would be noiseless as phantom wings. Ebony furniture with richest satin upholstering, candelabra which reach from floor to mantel, holding waxen candles all ready to light, pictures on the walls, huge baskets of flowers, with decorated pots of greenery scattered everywhere. In a row, like school girls in a class, stood the wives and daughters of the Cabinet officials, with Mrs. President Hayes at the head. That it was strictly “official” was proved by the order observed in their positions. Just as the departments are ranked the women stood. State, then Treasury, War, Post Office, Interior and Attorney-General. Mrs. Hayes may safely be called a “handsome woman,” and there will none be found brave enough to dispute the palm. A brunette of the purest type, with large, brilliant eyes that convey the idea of surface but not depth--like a transparent window that opens into space--a rather low, Greek forehead, over which is banded that shining mass of satin hair. If the glossy coronet could be improved by wave or bangs; but the dark, rich brunette complexion forbids this modern fashion, and Mrs. Hayes is an artist in one or more ways. Clad in rich, ruby satin and silk combination, the corsage square and low, as Pompadour invented to call attention to her charms, no fault can be found with Mrs. Hayes, for her dress is as costly and showy as any worn by the celebrated beauties who flourished in the Cabinet during the Grant reign. Mrs. Hayes has invented a way to shake hands which ought to be known to the official world, as it saves this useful member from crushing annihilation. Never give your fingers to the crowd, and, instead of allowing your own hand to be seized, grasp the unruly enemy by the hand as far as the unfortunate thumb will permit you to go, one vigorous squeeze, and the torment is over. All this is done on the same principle of a collision at sea. It is the vessel that is hit that sustains all the harm.

A plain, dignified, matronly woman stood next to Mrs. Hayes. A lace cap--Quaker-like in its simplicity--rested on her snowy hair, a self-trimmed black silk dress (for Mrs. Evarts has not wholly discarded mourning for a beloved son) made one of the simplest toilettes to be found in the crowded throng. A whole head and shoulders above Mrs. Evarts stood Mrs. Secretary Sherman--one of those creations which can be compared to the lilies of the field in purity of style and stately grace--occupying the middle ground between blonde and brunette, her tawny hair, with its natural wave gathered in the low, Greek coil, without comb or ornament of any kind. A simple black dress, relieved at the throat with illusion ruchings, she seemed the personified embodiment of one of Tennyson’s poems:

“Tall and divinely fair.”

Not a beautiful woman, but one created with so much harmony that the whole mortal statue would have to be pulled apart to remedy the defect. Mrs. Sherman would make a most admirable “first lady”--the very best of all the candidates now in the field--for in all the years of her husband’s official life at the capital her unostentatious charity, her kindly deeds to the worthy and deserving, have enshrined her as a patron saint in many a widow’s heart.

Imagine an English duchess who has inherited the rare beauty which descends with hereditary rank. Why are the English nobility the finest specimens of personal beauty? It is because its members leave nothing undone to perfect the physical proportions of the race. Of English origin, Mrs. Ramsey brings to the Cabinet any amount of that material which this administration lacked most. It has already been whispered by those who ought to know that Governor Ramsey was not called to the war office because of his bloody record, but it was made necessary by the deficiency in the social Cabinet, for while a large number of these society leaders were equal to handshaking, they were not quite strong enough to prevent masculine yawns between the courses at official dinners. The coming of Mrs. Ramsey into the field, even at this late day, if it does not win the battle, will at least prevent a complete rout. Mrs. Ramsey’s long residence at the capital, her superior intelligence and winning ways, is doing much to retard the criticism which ended with the retirement of her predecessor, for it is openly declared that Secretary McCrary was hocus-pocused into a “jedge” because “Mrs. Hayes could stand it no longer.”

Next to Mrs. Ramsey stood Mrs. Postmaster-General Key, who, in the language of the Emperor Napoleon, would be pronounced the greatest woman, as he told Madame de Stael “it is she who has the largest number of children.” And yet Mrs. Key is robbed of her laurels, for while she has only ten olive branches, Mrs. Evarts has eleven, or did have when the Hon. William M. Evarts became Secretary of State. Mrs. Key is large and substantial-looking, without any particular genius in the style of dress, as her trying gown of red waist and yellow sleeves sufficiently proved. It is only youth and beauty that can wear theatrical costumes with becoming effect, but when a middle-aged woman can be found to take the risk her courage should be applauded and her wounds artistically dressed.

Just beyond Mrs. Key stood Miss Agatha Schurz, the eldest daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, rather more than pleasing in form and feature, but entirely destitute of that indescribable something which makes her father one of the historical characters of his time. The youthful girl who stood by the side of Miss Schurz might have been the niece of Attorney-General Devens, but as there is no proof on this point the subject is omitted.

It was Mrs. Grant who first invited other ladies to receive with her, and in those primitive days it was often the wives of the army officers. Mrs. General Babcock was almost always at her side. Mrs. Grant was very “near-sighted,” and Mrs. Babcock had the faculty of relieving any embarrassment which might come from this misfortune. Ladies whose husbands had never been in public life, except in the different professions, were seen by the side of Mrs. Grant or artistically grouped a little way off. The receptions of Mrs. Grant reminded the beholder of the picture of “Eugenie and her maids in waiting.” True, Mrs. Grant did not possess the beauty of the charming Spaniard, but her “suite” would compare favorably in dignity, beauty, and grace with the same number of women found near any throne in Europe. Mrs. Grant grouped her assistants as exquisite flowers of different color and perfume are gathered in a bouquet, making a tableau worth spreading on canvas. Mrs. Hayes stretches a straight line, that reminds one of a Bible class in a Methodist meeting, or would if it were not for the Pompadour corsage and canary-colored sleeves, and yet all this is permissible in the strictly fashionable churches of the day.

Is “society” improving at the capital? Alas, no! There are no social centres where gifted men and accomplished women meet to exchange original ideas. A few literary societies flourish, where a few friends gather to listen to some worn-out “theme” and bitterly complain of being “bored” afterwards. The brilliant men like Webster, Clay and Calhoun, Ben Wade and Thad Stevens have no genuine successors. Why? Because politics takes the place of statesmanship, and our public men have to work so hard to keep their heads above the muddy pool there is no time to gather and disseminate the rich fruit of thought, consequently there is a short crop and the inevitable famine.

OLIVIA.

VICE-PRESIDENT ARTHUR.

HOW HE WIELDS THE GAVEL OF THE PRESIDING OFFICER OF THE SENATE.

WASHINGTON, _April 1, 1880_.

It is a day of indescribable excitement in the Senate, vividly recalling the stormy times of secession, Andy Johnson’s impeachment, or the famous Electoral Commission. Standing-room on the floor or in the galleries can nowhere be found. Even the vast lobbies are crowded with a struggling mass of humanity, such as rarely gathers in the national temple which glorifies Capitol Hill. A face new and strange to the Washington public surveys the throng from the Vice-President’s chair and taps with uncertain hand the official gavel. The private secretary of the late Vice-President stands at his left to prompt him as to the names of the Senators he is to recognize, for as yet he has not had time to become familiar with their features or names. At his right may be seen one of the trusty clerks of the Senate to make sure that no official commission or omission shall follow. It is apparent to all that only experience is necessary to make Vice-President Arthur a model presiding officer. Except a little perplexity, there is the ease and grace of a man instead of the noiseless machinery which constitutes a well-preserved fossil. What the yellow, juicy, rosy-checked peach, with the fur rubbed off, jolting to market, is to the vegetable world, Vice-President Arthur sustains the same relation to the fruit of humanity. There is something about his presence suggestive of strawberries and cream, and yet this fact seems to be completely ignored by the Senate, for the turbulence goes on just the same. He sits in an attitude of grace worthy the painter’s brush or the pen of the poet. Fully six feet in height, broad-shouldered, but rounded and smoothed into curved lines which not only rival but excel those of Cupid. A cold, haughty face is often seen, but warm, proud features are rarely found; but here we have the exception. A high forehead towers above the brown velvety eyes; a nose a little too short for classic perfection; but a firm, manly mouth, with plenty of decision stamped on it, with a width of jaw that means business in any work it undertakes. Never since the days of Breckinridge has so handsome a man wielded the Vice-President’s gavel, and whilst this fact may have no significance in a political sense, in a social way there is no estimating the heights to which it may aspire or depths where it may be cast down. It is a great comfort to be able to rest the vision on a diamond that has few, if any, flaws, and these not perceptible except to the finest judges of the gems.

In a direct line, exactly opposite the Vice-President, may be seen Senator Conkling, more winning in personal appearance than of yore. The gorgeous tints or high colors of early manhood have been toned down, softened, and spiritualized. Tranquillity is pictured on the bosom of the river, but we all know the channel is running at the same rate per minute and no time will be lost in its motion toward the sea. Stronger than most men, stronger than women, it is the inexorable law that the larger absorbs the smaller quantity. The kids that would not be eaten must keep out of the way. He glances now and then at Mahone, who sits only three chairs away, as a spoiled child might at “puss in boots,” whilst this little man, apparently all hair and claws, helps carry out the perfect illusion. Let us look at this “balance of power,” as the other Confederate brigadiers politely call him. At the first glance it seems altogether probable that the hair has been snatched off seven-tenths of the Senate to crown this one small man. His beard in length and density might be mistaken for that of the Wandering Jew. He has obtained the clothes of a much larger man, and they constitute a series of wrinkles from shoulders to heels. He does not inspire the beholder that he is a fraction of humanity, but that he is an uncanny contrivance, which, if not opened with the greatest caution, will work irreparable damage to those nearest concerned. There is neither joy nor comfort on the face of the Republicans as they survey this new addition to their ranks, while there is calm submission, if not positive elation, on the Democratic side at the situation.

Don Cameron appears weary, as if tired with it all. A man must have a peculiar organization to thrive in the Senatorial atmosphere. It is a gladiator’s ring, where intellectual combat is the order of the day. Woe to him that is not endowed with weapons of the keenest and most polished kind. Though a Senator can pipe his slogan on a thousand hills at home and carries a bonanza mine in each pocket, it will not add a feather to his Senatorial strength. Men endowed with business talent, even of the highest order, can find neither congenial nor agreeable work in the Senate. Only a natural orator or debater like Blaine or a great lawyer like Edmunds find their native element in the stormy waters of the Senate; and even Blaine was far more at home in the other wing of the Capitol, where his talents at all times shone as a star of the first magnitude. It is no sign of the lack of ability because a Senator does not rank high, but rather a lack of the peculiar and exceedingly rare qualities which make Senatorial success secure.

Of the new Senators Pennsylvania must be awarded the prize in point of beauty, for Senator Mitchell bears away the palm without a dissenting voice. In the grounds of one of the nabobs at Saratoga there may be seen the statue of a Roman gladiator, such as lived in the times of Nero. It is “stalwart” to the last degree. Imagine the old statue Americanized--that is, toned down in its roughest corners, smoothed away--a little less muscle, a little more nerve, daintier, with a dash of Greek symmetry, and you see the handsome Mitchell of Pennsylvania. His hair is abundant, his eyes a twinkling hazel that rise and set with the arrival and departure of the dry goods in the gallery, but with a modesty that is simply indescribable.

Conger, dear old Conger, is here, cooled down to the polite frigidity which constantly pervades the Senate. He wears a white choker of such elevated height that it grinds away at his ears in the same way that a horrid glacier wears away the face of the mountain. A new suit of the finest broadcloth, of satin sheen, conceals limbs of the Adonis kind, though this last statement is more a matter of faith than actual proof. That “horn” which the wicked Stilson Hutchins was so fond of attacking with cruel squibs in the Washington _Post_ appears to have gone where the woodbine creepeth, for it is heard of no more. It is rumored in private circles at the Capitol that Senator Conger is one of the most romantic and sentimental of men, and Governor Foster declares that it is the only case on Congressional record where a man is known to be madly infatuated with his own wife. When Mrs. Conger would enter the gallery of the House it was immediately known that Mr. Conger would soon attract all eyes by his graceful motions and mellow “horn.” Some wretch of a Congressman would call out: “Now, boys, we are in for it,” and there have been seen no such scenes of suffering chivalry since Don Quixote attacked the windmills in behalf of his beloved Dulcinea. But far be it from the head and heart of the writer to mock at this pure and exalted flame. Rather let us stand in the presence of this man with uncovered head who brings to our aching vision a new Garden of Eden, when Adam was good because there was but one Eve, and the serpent did the mischief.