Part 31

In the gallery assigned the families of the Republican Senators sits Katharine Chase Sprague--cold, stately, and statuesque as a lily, or a bit of marble in human form. The heavily fringed waxen lids fall over the sorrowful eyes--those large, dark almond orbs, such as glorify the Orient. There are faces all around, but she seems as much alone as Cleopatra in her barge floating down the dusky Nile. A blue turban with a single bird’s wing for an ornament sits jauntily on her auburn hair; not out of place, because youth, beauty, and sweetness still linger in form and face. There is not the slightest attempt at display in her simple toilet--a dark dress, severe in its simplicity, a scarf of scarlet silk folded gracefully around her throat. She has given no thought to her personal appearance, but has come evidently to observe the intellectual combat which has drawn together so large a percentage of the citizens of Washington. The writer recalls the impeachment trial of Andy Johnson when “society” appeared in the Senate galleries and when Katharine Chase Sprague was the acknowledged queen. Her toilet is recalled for the readers of _The Press_, and to-day it may be found recorded in the old files of this paper, for the writer was one of the “staff correspondents” at the time, whose duty it was to make “pen pictures” of the day. A Parisian suit of royal purple velvet, perfect in all its appointments. The detail escapes our memory, but the bonnet never will. It was made in Paris to accompany the suit, and when placed on her head it conveyed the idea of a single Marguerite. Imagine a purple violet large enough to be placed on the head, the leaves bent in bonnet shape. At the time the writer felt that her eyes rested upon the most graceful, distinguished, and queenly woman that she had ever seen in the Capitol or elsewhere on the face of the globe. The writer has no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Sprague, but described her then, as she does to-day, as she would a picture or a poem. When it was published in the newspapers that she was engaged during the Senate session sending notes to a Senator on the floor the writer sat in the gallery, but saw no notes given to a page or delivered on the floor. Year after year the writer has noticed this accomplished woman sitting in the gallery from time to time, apparently deeply interested in the debates, without the slightest levity or the smallest departure from the most rigid decorum. In later years she is rarely seen without one or more of her children. History is full of martyred women who have been used to crush obnoxious men. When Katharine Chase Sprague was the daughter of the Chief Justice and the wife of a United States Senator she appeared in the social heavens with the calmness and precision of a fixed star. Sunshine friends have deserted her, but the star does not waver in its course. It is the same haughty Katharine, despoiled of her throne, as true a woman to-day as when surrounded by her fawning flatterers. It is the flatterers of the Tuileries that have changed, and not the Empress Eugenie.

Outside the Senatorial circle of chairs may be noticed “a sea of upturned faces.” A dash of bronze reflects the last representation of African blood on the floor of the United States Senate. In the Darwinian political aggression the weaker must give way to the survival of the fittest, and the feebler race will be heard no more. Among the dusky faces in the “men’s gallery” may be seen Pinchback of Louisiana, excluded from the floor where Patterson of South Carolina stands. Pinchback tried to obtain a position with other distinguished men on the floor, but was remanded to the gallery among the scores of black men that compose the dark cloud that is always to be seen sou’west just above the Senators’ heads. It angered him beyond conception. Fierce passion flamed on his burning cheek and darted in lightning glances from his keen black eyes. Could he have invoked the power to turn himself into a huge stiletto he would have buried himself to the hilt in the Senate breast. Oh! the blessed relief of responsibility! His Creator made him, endowed him with the elements of fearful wrath, subjected him to scorn, because his white soul is wrapped up in a yellow covering! Peace, be still, sorely tried and beloved brother, in whose veins mingle the blood of the haughty Anglo-Saxon with that of another race. The body perishes, but the soul circles on forever and forever.

OLIVIA.

KATE CHASE SPRAGUE.

A DINNER WITH THE QUEEN OF AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY.

WASHINGTON, _April 15, 1880_.

During the penitence of Lent, and all the succeeding time which Congress honors the capital with its presence, society of the fashionable form assumes a bleached or faded appearance. In a great measure this is brought about by the absence of the swallow-tail and white-necktie element. The assemblings are largely feminine, of necessity, from the fact that Congress, about to depart, is wholly engrossed with its “unfinished business.” So the courtly dinner of state and the official reception is superseded by the aristocratic lunch and “high teas.” At these purely exclusive gatherings may occasionally be found musty old relics of the Army and Navy on the retired list, whose records and shoulderstraps are fast perishing with official mildew and dry rot; or perhaps a supreme or district judge, for enough of this masculine seasoning should be found at least to flavor the social pot. But it frequently happens these lunches are attended by women alone, the hostess intending to bring together only those who are supposed to be agreeable to each other, at least so far as it is possible to bring these repellent atoms into a compact mass, and oh! how delightful! Our ancestors used to call the same kind of meetings “schools for scandal,” for no two or more women ever did come together beyond the hearing of masculine ears without by the merest accident a secret would be told; and in Washington, where every spot is sacred to the death of some poor secret, it is unnecessary to follow this delicate subject to an ignominious end.

All the readers of the _Journal_ are invited in fancy to a high-toned lunch at Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague’s, at her beautiful home in the West End. Mrs. Sprague has said to the correspondents that she has no objection to newspaper comment if it treats her justly and in the spirit of courtesy; so her lunch is described for not only the above reason, but because no woman in Washington excels her as lady “to the manner born,” or can surpass her in those graces which make her the reigning queen in her own home. If fortune has deserted her in a great measure, all the unique, costly, and superb trappings are here. A few terrapin, a few bottles of champagne are all that is necessary to bring the old millionaire days back, unless it be the presence of the young war governor of Rhode Island (God bless him). We shall never forget the day that he came to the capital, dusty and travel-worn, with his thousand men which he had equipped and brought to President Lincoln in person. The capital was cut off from the North by both railroad and telegraph, and the rebel hosts were gathering in Alexandria, as we thought, to burn and sack the city. Governor Sprague did not go to a hotel, but camped in the market-place with his men. The first time the writer saw Governor Sprague he was drinking water from a tincup and eating baker’s bread and cold meat with his regiment; and, when we realized that this royal prince of finance was willing to sleep on the ground and drink from the tincup to preserve the Union, an adoration was born which neither time nor misfortune can chill.

But, coming out from the sanctuary of sacred memories to the lunch, for, after all, it is with to-day we must deal, for the past is just as remote as the future. It is 12 o’clock, high noon. An elegant table may be seen in the center of one of the most perfect dining-rooms at the national capital. There is much in the surroundings to recall to the cultured mind thoughts of the royal as well as republican days of sunny France. Some ancient Gobelin tapestry, handed down from the palace when it was occupied by Queen Marie Antoinette, is suspended from the walls, whose threads may yet hold her imprisoned sighs. Beautiful screens, works of highest art, extend or shorten the space according to the caprice of the fair mistress. Exquisite paintings adorn the wall; elaborate service of silver and gold ornament the sideboard; a Parisian clock measures the time in musical chimes; Persian rugs conceal the polished, inlaid floor. Without exception it is the daintiest spot to partake of an innocent bowl of crackers and milk to be found in all Washington. Upon the table is first laid a thick heavy cloth, made expressly for the purpose to deaden all sound in case a knife or spoon meet an accident; though a dozen forks should fall they would not be heard except for their own dashing. The sound-cloth is now covered by Irish damask, soft and sheeny as satin; and around it clusters eight perfect chairs. These seats are chosen for ease quite as much as beauty, because the sitting will last all the way from three to eight hours. Flowers alone occupy the center of the table, and these are so artistically arranged that each guest is visible to every other. On the table before each chair may be seen two knives of different sizes, and a pair of forks, dessert and teaspoons, sherry and champagne glasses, and a thimble-sized gold salt cellar. An elaborate castor, on the sideboard, furnishes pepper, celery-flour and all other condiments; but these are served in good time, at the exact moment wanted, by the white-gloved, machine-like Ethiopian, who understands a glance from the Princess’s eye and does not have to be regulated by means of the English language.

The mistress leads the way and takes her stand at the head of the table, with her ebony assistant at her right. The guest who is to sit in the most honored place is called and seated by the waiter, the next place is filled in the same way, and this is continued until the circle is completed. This consumes but a few moments of time, the right people are brought side by side, and in such a way as to prove the remarkable tact of the fair hostess, and all confusion has been avoided. After all, this lunch turns out to be a dinner in disguise, for the first course consists of French bouillon, which is only a very rich and nutritious beef tea. The Hoosier housewife who is bold and aggressive enough to attempt a Kate Chase Sprague lunch must look out that no fat swims on the top of the bouillon, for the fat had much better be in the fire, as its presence indicates plebeianism. Nothing can be found too handsome and costly in which to serve this beef tea. If there are no golden bowls in the house, the next best are such as are found in the Sprague mansion. These wonderful gems have been brought on the backs of mules over the Ural mountains from the heart of Persia. It is declared by some that these bowls are made of the dust of broken garnets, gathered by the emerald hunters when they are in quest of gems in the great Himalaya range. They are manufactured expressly for the palace of the Shah; but during the greenback regency a few found their way to the table of an exalted official, and in this way have become heirlooms in a distinguished family. These Persian bowls have never been insulted by coming in contact with beans, or even Potomac oysters. Only clover-fed beeves, of the amiable short-horn variety, slaughtered on the Jewish plan, and treated by a skillful French cook, are permitted to be introduced to these jeweled caskets. During the sipping of this delectable stew, which must be as noiseless as a cat licks cream, the Shah of Persia, his advent as a literary character, his strong points of wickedness as a man are discussed, as well as the mineral and vegetable possibilities of the venerable but distant kingdom. Even old Haroun Al Raschid and his disguises come in. No chance for the conversation to languish whilst the Persian bowls are on the table. The bouillon is kindly assisted by different kinds of dainty crackers, “Havenner’s cream” being the favorite, with French bread. But one must be very careful, whilst toying with the spoon, not to sip too much beef tea, else the space which might be filled with more eatable matter is all taken up.

The Persian bowls are gone! Ah! who would believe it? one-half hour--or as long as it takes a Buckeye or Hoosier to eat an average dinner. So the next course is hurried on. This consists of oyster patties, served on plates, each one different, each a hand-painted portrait by a skillful French artist, and manufactured at the Sèvres porcelain works, near Paris. All are costly enough to hang as pictures and works of art on the wall. A commonplace Washington society woman is eating her pattie from the honored head of dear old Lafayette. Another scans the face of Napoleon I, and finds a striking resemblance to Congressman Blinks, from the Michigan district, if he would only clear out the brush of his whiskers and mow down the tall grass of his moustache. Sherry, clear as limpid amber and colored like a meerschaum pipe, has kept company all the time with the Persian bowl as well as the medallion plates. These plates were purchased from one of the sales of royal pottery brought about by the decay of a branch of one of the reigning families of the old world.

The next course of sweet breads is brought in on plates designed by the hostess as a present to the late Chief Justice of the United States--a love offering from a most devoted daughter to an illustrious sire. It was made without regard to cost, at the celebrated pottery near Paris, at the same time and place a set was being made for the Prince of Wales. No two plates are alike, but each one is embellished with a gorgeous bouquet. The violet and early gentian, the sweet but humble wild flowers trodden under foot in the hoyden days of girlhood, away off in the old Ohio home, have been caught and stamped in this imperishable form from the idolator to the idol. What pictures of the old home-life are called up like fast-dissolving phantoms, but as genuine creations in the invisible world as the exquisite works of art before the mortal vision. The white, waxen eye-lid of the fair hostess droops until the long silken fringe sweeps the cheek. The spirit of hush! be quiet, falls upon the guest, which the hostess alone knows how to remove. The gulf is visible, like a hideous skull at a feast, between the days of the young millionaire wife, designing gifts for the Chief Justice, and the cold bereavements and change of fickle fortune of to-day.

Begone, dull care, with the sweet-bread course! Thy sweetness is bitter and unsavory! The first of the season! Virginia mountain lamb with green peas from Florida. The mountain lamb is served on another “work of art,” all different, no two plates alike, and this one is pictured with a single flower. It is a royal pink just culled from the parent stem and thrown carelessly down. One feels like picking it up just for one sniff at the perfume before it is smothered in Southern peas. Now comes champagne, clear and beaded, resembling the fluid in all probability in which Cleopatra dissolved the pearls. A course now follows which is a cross between a custard and charlotte russe--an infinitesimal ocean of cream between banks of snowy paste. After this more meat, vegetables, salads on different bits of porcelain with a history, until the ices and fruits are reached. These are served on daintiest of majolica ware or odd bits of crockery, fished from all the uncanny quarters of the globe.

Only think of being pinned to one spot from three to eight hours, forced to be civil and polite at least, if not working for the title of “agreeable diner-out.” Oh, for the blessed privilege, if one must be so tortured, to get as uproariously drunk as did the great Daniel Webster, with the privilege of rolling under the table like him to snore it off. All the nations of the earth who have spent hours eating and guzzling at table have come to that point where decline begins. England’s roast beef and ale, and sensual time at the table has culminated in Ireland’s horrors and Beaconsfield’s fall. The President’s salary was doubled on account of these dyspeptic state dinners. Congress should at once make a law placing the social expectations of official life on precisely the same basis as that of the private citizen. This is a Republic. We employ our officials to do certain work for which we pay them. They should be made to understand they are servants, and not masters.

A large lobby is engaged to get Congress to build a new White House, because the present one is not large enough “to entertain.” Could we build a house large enough for this purpose, for why should the few be invited and the great mass of voters left out in the cold? Each State is asked to build houses and furnish them for their Senators in order that these gentlemen may “entertain.” Who will pay for the oyster patties, the porcelain and champagne when the great new White House dots Meridian Hill, and the States enter into competition for the grandeur of the Senatorial castle? The human body should be cared for because it is the finest created physical object to be seen by the light of the blessed sun, besides being a receptacle of the different sizes of soul as they come imported; but, as a nation, we should not permit in the care of this mortal mould that kind of legislation which begins in spider webs and ends in chains.

When Lucy Hayes moved into the White House she tried hard to reform the precedents, but Secretary Evarts was too much for her. He painted the Russian bear howling because the minister from that barbarous frozen land might, without wine, get a cake of ice in his stomach, and then what would the Czar say? Prince Alexis came to Washington to attend the inauguration, walked up and down Pennsylvania avenue with two bull pups at his side, because Secretary Evarts, or any other human being (except royalty), were thought not good enough to be there. Dogs were preferred to Secretary Evarts; but it may be possible that Alexis could put the proper estimate on the State Department, and at the same time do justice to the bull pups. The American people should not feel aggrieved, or pull a single feather from the tail of the national eagle because the government at Washington has been fearfully “snubbed.” When the Prince of Wales was in this country he planted a tree at Mount Vernon, and was as sorrowful as Mark Twain at the tomb of Adam; but Alexis came over and gave us a taste of the genuine Romanoff flavor. But this could be borne, because we could have called out the Army and Navy and charged on the bull pups, but instead of managing in this way, Secretary Evarts took possession of the kitchen of the White House, forced Lucy Hayes to stultify her convictions, and instead of making the Executive Mansion the reflection of the purity and wisdom of a Christian, sensible, high-toned woman, he brought the wornout bestiality of monarchical Europe as represented by its agents here, and made our administration conform to it. Is it a wonder the bull pups take precedence? Nations, like individuals, must respect themselves. When another good woman like Lucy Webb Hayes, united to a great one, such as Queen Elizabeth or Empress Catherine, finds herself wife of the President of the United States, our impotent and costly plenipotentiary foreign missions will be abolished. Established as long ago as feudalism was in its cradle, when it was necessary to have spies in every court of Europe to bolster up each despotic dynasty, what sympathy, or how can a Republic consistently approve such positions?

Let us have a sprinkling of honest commercial consuls wherever they are needed on the earth’s surface; pay them a generous living salary, and the instant they are found coquetting with “fees,” cut off their official heads. The Augean stables cleaned by Hercules needed purification no more than our white-gloved, daintily-perfumed State Department. When it is remembered that the handful of men sent out from their respective governments to attend to business, who are dignified with the sounding title “foreign legations,” are only polite to our officials, but “snub” all the sovereign people, are the ones who, while they sneer at us, set all our fashions, dictate our manners, steal our rich American girls, and, through Secretary Evarts, order champagne at the White House. This would be unbearable except for the bull pups that were imported to supersede Secretary Evarts. This proves that every cloud hath a silver lining; for the pups were as white as the glistening ice of the Neva.

The _Journal_ comes now regular; I am very much pleased with it. It is what I call a live paper. Hon. Edward McPherson, late of the Philadelphia _Press_, was at my house the other evening, and he said it was the best paper published in the West. I was very glad to hear him say so, because he has excellent judgment, and it is a great honor to be connected with an able newspaper.

OLIVIA.

LACK OF A LEADER.

SOCIETY WITHOUT A RULING SPIRIT TO TAKE THE INITIATIVE.

WASHINGTON, _February 18, 1881_.

It takes the most exquisite kind of courage to paint truthful views of life as it is pictured on the social boards at Washington. If the well-known society writers would furnish the newspapers with faithful kaleidoscopes of the “day’s doings” they would be banished or, like Othello, they would “find their occupation gone.” It is the small sins of “high life” which weaken the constitution of society; lack of moral courage, love of finery, gilt and glitter, envy and jealousy, and the enjoyment of slander. When the most beautiful and accomplished leader at the capital became the shining mark at which the quivering arrows of condemnation were hurled, have any of the women who used to bask in the sunshine of her queenly hospitality said one word in her defense? One would suppose that after years of smiling and caressing this monster of society, after lavishing tens of thousands of dollars upon it, one brave, strong utterance, one loving word might come back in return. Where are the women who have smirked and basked in the shadows of the dead and dying administrations? What niche will their minds fill in history? We have railroad kings and bonanza emperors and money grabbers in place of statesmen, by the score; but where are the drawing rooms such as Lady Blessington’s, or the famous salon of Madame de Stael, which has an existence to-day far more substantial than the daily receptions at the capital. Instead of cultivating their minds the “society women” at Washington are expending the last show of vitality in the adorning of their bodies. Flitting from one “palatial mansion” to another, from “sunny morn to dewy eve,” these human butterflies make no more impression on the world at large than the moths which they so much resemble. Whilst as a general rule the society women have politicians for husbands, it does not always follow that all the politicians have “society” wives. Such accomplished women as Mrs. George F. Edmunds, of Vermont, or Mrs. Thomas F. Bayard, of Delaware, will always be found, and, like the men at the pumps, will keep the old worm-eaten hulk of Washington society from going to the bottom.