Part 32
Since the retirement of the superb Katharine Chase Sprague “society,” in a blundering way, manages to get along without an acknowledged “head.” If the beautiful and accomplished woman is found, the immense wealth is lacking, for no woman can be a successful “leader” unless she has beauty, brains, and money. To a great extent beauty can be spared, because its loss can be made up by the artistic skill which the brain power will utilize. Just as a general must have the sinews of war to carry on a vigorous campaign, a society leader must be thoroughly equipped, for if the means to accomplish a certain result are somewhat different the end amounts to just about the same. The coming of the bonanza wives is watched with the most intense anxiety. The question is asked: “Has she the qualities to command or will inefficiency and cowardice consign her to the ranks?” A member of Congress was regretting his inability to be present at the Art Club reception. He said he “had reason to believe that in such an assembly he could find a relief or change from the political treadmill where he was forced to be at his post every day.” When his attention was called to the stately card receptions of almost every night, he replied: “I hate them; there is nothing there but clothes.” These were the words from no brain-distorted, dyspeptic Bostonian, but a Western man, in the full sap of existence, who would naturally be supposed to cling to the woman who could show the handsomest amount of shoulder to the square inch. Both General Garfield and Senator Blaine have declared that relief comes to the tired, over-worked brain by changing the train of thought, and not by dabbling in inanity. This proves that the doll’s occupation is gone. The woman of the nineteenth century must shake from her dormant brain the dust of ages and develop her power in precisely the same ratio as man makes the most of his. Almighty God has made the orbit of the sexes parallel, but they can never intersect.
All that which comes under the head of “formal ceremony” at the capital, such as state dinners at the White House, are faithful copies of foreign courts, or rather the tattered fragments of the manners of old baronial time under William the Conqueror, when the feudal chiefs were served first and their retainers were permitted to scramble on the floor for the bones. It is true the bones are not thrown under the White House table, for the world grows neater in its old age; but should a President entertain Victoria at dinner “etiquette” or the spirit of the old barbarians declares the President must be helped first. Instead of the American gentleman at his own table, where the example of private life should be the model for the public manners of a Republic, we have just enough of the old leaven of monarchy working that any child can smell the odor after a short stay in Washington. Nothing more terrible socially can be conceived than one of these cold, formal state dinners at the White House. It is not a company made up of breathing, living men and women, but is the masculine bones of the awful Department of State, with the feminine anatomy clutched for a brief hour from the highest judicial ermine. It is the ponderous Treasury Department, with its legs crossed under the Presidential mahogany. In preceding administrations the victims were allowed to drown their sorrows in wine, and by the time the fifth or sixth course came ’round the War and Navy Departments were prepared for the most desperate action on sea or shore. Only from twelve to nineteen inches table room is allowed a guest, and the steward of the White House, instead of the tailor, decides on the breadth of the anatomy. To the great credit of the State of New York it has been found that Secretary Evarts could be wedged in between a couple of Supreme Judges without diminishing the size of the table in the least, but he refuses to be a third party to this kind of an alliance, because there is no precedence of the kind to be found in the archives of the State Department.
The size of the White House table is perfectly prodigious, and when covered with the china dishes ordered by Mrs. Hayes the effect is paralyzing to sensitive nerves. No chance is given the poetic imagination to revel in ambrosial sips and taste the heavenly manna. If your soul is soaring to empyrean heights, you are dragged earthward by seeing pictured on the plates the ugly refuse of the dainties with which you are supposed to be tickling your palate. When one swallows an oyster, who wants to be reminded of the huge, ugly shell, a faint suggestion of a coffin? Who desires to see a shining, scaly fish, with its pink gills already to pulsate, and be made to remember that the fish died that you might roll one little sweet morsel under your tongue? Who can bear to be reminded when tasting a sweet, fresh new-laid egg, that looks as if it might have fallen from the sky, that an ungainly old hen scratching for worms was the origin of that egg? The pictures taken from the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum may be more sensual, but in no sense can they be called more earthly or barbaric. All things beautiful should be spiritually suggestive. If the new White House china was the property of private life incalculable mischief might be the result, but the crafty Cabinet ministers and aged Supreme Judges have outlived delicate and lasting impressions, and after the first slight shock no serious trouble will be apt to follow; but it would be well to let Lucretia Garfield know that if the “pitchers go to the well once too often” or a grand collision of plates and platters should take place, such a calamity would be accepted by the nation like the late war--a sore trial at the time but in the long run a blessing in disguise.
If it takes so many scratches of the pen to get over the celebrated china “designed by the highest artistic talent at home,” how shall we manage to get the reader through the three hours that it takes to manage the great state gastronomic feast? It is best told in the language of one of the guests:
“I was led out by Secretary Evarts. I don’t think he would have selected me if he could have been allowed his choice. You have to go in the order of the Cabinet. Three hours so close to the great New York criminal lawyer! I thought I should faint! I cast my eyes down the table at my husband; he was below me on the other side of the table and he looked ‘blue.’ I was just thinking what he could find to say to the strange women on each side of him, for he never talks to me, when I would be interrupted by one of Evarts’ questions that would make me feel that I was on the witness stand. I can talk fast sometimes, but I felt if I spoke except to answer him it would be sure to be wrong, and I would disgrace the Cabinet. I managed to get through some way and afterwards found out that I was liable to be taken into state dinners by Secretary Evarts as long as we were in the Cabinet. I tried to prevail on my husband to resign, to which he agreed as soon as some other good place could be found for him.”
The Cabinet dinners are modeled on the same plan as the state dinners, and the misery endured is in proportion to its size and duration. The torture consequent upon the formal dinners made a hero and a place in history for dear old Sam Ward. Of course, his dinners were as much above those of the White House as Sam exceeded the steward in brilliancy of conception of dainty cuisine. Sam’s culinary reputation rests on a ham boiled with three red clover heads, and when put into the oven to “brown” it was treated to a baptism of champagne. The three heads of red clover have been proved to be a fraud. Nothing was ever served on Sam’s table that was half as delicious as himself. He is familiar with nine different languages, three of which he spoke with all the fluency of his mother tongue. He has been seen to put his arm around a foreign minister with all the grace and affection with which a lover embraces his sweetheart. Is it strange that this man became an idol to the public men whose constitutions were impaired by the dyspeptic dinners of “high society?” Extremes meet, and overfeeding is far more disastrous in its remote results than a mild course of starvation. Sam Ward managed that his guests should never be satiated. The oyster patties, like a little woman, would be so perfect, though small, that the next course would be anxiously awaited. “Two dessert spoonfuls of soup with a thimbleful of choicest sherry, that is my foundation for a dinner,” says the immortal Sam. Only people of ability were permitted to gather around his board, and it was the brilliant conversation more than the viands that made it appear “a feast fit for the gods.” If a dinner was to be given to the Spanish minister the proper number of agreeable people who speak Spanish could always be found for a small party. Could anything be more grateful to a stranger in a strange land than to hear his home language spoken by his host with the ease and fluency of a native; to have the conversation adroitly turned to the subjects which lie nearest to the Spanish heart; to drink the blood of the grape brought all the way from Castile or Arragon? Is it a wonder with Sam’s arm around his diplomatic waist that he would feel as did Mungo Park in Africa when he heard the negro woman singing at the foot of the tree that sheltered him:
“No wife to catch him fish and grind him corn”?
When one of the foreigners died it is said that he left Sam Ward a fortune. If his cuisine was not always perfect the host himself made up the imperfection. He had the power to throw his guests out of their shells and by this means adding any amount of heat to the social atmosphere. The last time Sam Ward was seen he was marching across the Capitol Rotunda, his short, full arm around another man’s waist, looking as much like a fat Philadelphia capon as Charlie O’Neill. His round, chubby, boyish face and duck legs bore not the slightest resemblance to the lobby. He is the brother of Julia Ward Howe, the author of the battle hymn of the Republic. The same kind of spiritual essence that enters this poem made the dinners famous, but let no man attempt the same high art. The solitary vase has been broken, but the odor is left and clings to it still.
OLIVIA.
BEN HILL AND ROSCOE CONKLING.
MANNERISMS OF THESE FAMOUS SENATORS AND A NUMBER OF THEIR COLLEAGUES.
WASHINGTON, _May 14, 1881_.
Over the great public squares is spread a royal carpet of greenest verdure. Miles and miles of trees occupying the city “parking” are flaunting their tender leaves in the dazzling sunshine; the fruit trees are a mass of powdery blossom, whilst violets and lilacs fill the market space with delicious perfume. The cold North blast has ceased to blow, and from the sunny South comes the dallying wind, laden with the breath of magnolia and orange blossom; but a cloud which has no silver lining envelopes the National Capitol--lo! as an iron shroud. No precedent in history arises to permit us to judge the future by the past. Within the memory of the writer armed legions with glittering bayonets slept upon the cushioned seats of the Senate chamber, whilst the gallant Colonel Ellsworth, of Zouave fame, spread his soldier’s blanket on the floor. A war as bitter and unrelenting is being fought, but the cold sharp steel is invisible. It is the same old fight which shook the Middle Ages from center to circumference when the sovereign of millions threw down the gauntlet to his feudal chiefs. Senator Conkling could not have sustained his opposition to the President for a single day if the battle of New York did not include every State in the Union. It was the charge of little Rhody on the “big N.” It was to decide whether the two stalwart Senators, like Anthony and Burnside, weighing more than one hundred and eighty pounds each, were not able to look after the political welfare of a State so small that it almost requires a microscope to find it on the map. Conkling was the great general, stationed in the rear, planning the campaign. Men of the Dawes calibre conduct active operations in the field. To amuse the public firing is kept up between the Democrats and Republicans, but the real war, which means death to one or the other of the combatants, is between the Senate and the White House.
To get a thorough understanding of the machine politician he must be judged entirely by his acts, as a personal acquaintance warps the judgment and destroys what might be a first-class opinion, because the feelings are called into play. Beginning with the pages, who skip and flit like butterflies on the Senate floor, all unite in the worship of Senator Conkling. He never has to clap his hands to bring a page, for the moment he begins work that would require the service two or three of these lynx-eyed dots are at his elbow, all anxious for the honor to serve him. The writer asked a bright little page why the boys were so willing to do his bidding. He replied: “He never said a cross word to a page in his life. He says: ‘My little man, will you do this kindness for me?’ Then we all run!” Just what the sunshine is to the physical world this something which goes from every man and woman in a greater or less degree is what acts upon humanity. It is not love, because it is devoid of passion. It is a force that cannot be estimated or measured and it is given to only a very few in any age. The great Napoleon possessed it in the largest degree of any man in modern times.
A tall Texan comes from the “Lone Star” State and is seen in all the prominent places in Washington. Once observed, he cannot be forgotten, for he is of giant proportions. Colossal is the word, for every limb and feature has been adjusted to the proper scale, as if designed by Randolph Rogers or Vinnie Ream-Hoxie. Handsome is a word not strong enough for justice, but is used because Richard Grant White or the Chicago _Tribune_ has invented nothing better. The tall Texan was prowling about the Capitol, and whether by accident or design, the writer knows not, the Texan and Senator came together in the dark shadows of the lobby which leads to the Marble Room. An intense, anxious expression lighted up the features of the Texan as he neared the New York Senator. As they came in close contact Senator Conkling raised his arm, placed his hand around the man’s waist and lifted it to the lofty shoulder, and whilst he drew the colossal figure towards him looked up into his face and said, “You would not ask me to do that.” No quiver of disappointment was visible. The two politicians had met. Size had nothing to do with it. Matter went down before mind and the Darwinian theory was vindicated.
Notable among the men who were prominent in the House are those who migrated to the Senate wing and find themselves frozen stiff in their seats and motionless as so many dead flies. If by accident their bloodless lips are unsealed one day they only live to regret it the next. Conger, whose “horn” is in danger of being forgotten, sits glued to one spot and helps make an admirable picture for the galleries. Daintiest of snowy linen covers a breast which is known to conceal the most ecstatic emotions, whilst the costliest broadcloth serves the purpose of drapery. All that he requires is the addition of spices to make him a mummy that would far eclipse those of Egyptian magic.
Don Cameron sits in his seat, and if he were a woman he would be called “interesting.” In other words, he may be summed up as pale, sad, and extremely nervous. The iron crown which he inherited from his tough old Highland father is too heavy for tender temples and weaker brain. The people of Pennsylvania can afford to bide their time, for when the Winnebago Chief is gathered to his fathers Cameronism is wiped off the face of the State as clean as though it were a wheatfield in the path of the tornado; but if the old Keystone is not represented by brains in the National Senate she has beauty, and the poet sings, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It is not necessary for Senator Mitchell to make himself felt--he should be seen, and then no fault can be found.
The Senate is like an immense cave and unless a man has an intellect like a calcium light there is no chance for him; the tallow dips sputter for a moment, make themselves ridiculous, then go out in the icy gloom. Except for the warriors, both Union and Confederate, the live element would be entirely wanting. The “Tall Sycamore of the Wabash” will never let himself be forgotten, and he reminds one of an oasis in the Senate desert--land of the delicious date and towering palm.
Most winning, dearest to the heart of woman, are the Senate knights of the “lost cause.” There is a deference and courtly grace which they bestow on the so-called weaker sex which the cold Northman may counterfeit, but never succeed as an original. Whilst the men of colder latitude approach woman as though she were made out of the same kind of stuff as themselves, the Southerner makes her feel that she stands on a higher mark in the ascending scale and that if she is not quite “winged” she is almost an angel. Even Hon. Ben Hill can so deftly manage a woman that she cannot tell whether she is being pummeled or caressed, as our one solitary interview with this illustrious statesman will prove. In an article which was published some months ago in _The Times_, when a pen picture was being painted of the lobby, a paragraph was inserted which said, “The queen paused in her triumphal march to speak with Senator Hill.” In vain the writer pleaded that a Senator was not to blame because the “queen” had seized him. He declared that he had been “maligned” for the reason that he avoided all women the day he made speeches, therefore it could not be true. Again the writer pleaded that he was no more to blame for his seizure by the queen of the lobby than a big sunflower when a bumblebee pitches into its heart. His head could not be reached by argument nor his heart by petition. He said the article had been copied in a Georgia paper and used against him in the campaign; at the same time he artlessly confessed his love for his wife and his loathing for the “queen of the lobby.” If that Georgia editor has a soul will he publish our heartfelt desire to cleanse any spot which we have unintentionally cast on the Senator’s record? These Southern men are singularly clean-handed where so many fall. They put the pure woman on a pedestal and worship her, and if there are any bad ones they are carried off to their lairs and devoured and nobody hears of them any more.
OLIVIA.
PRESIDENT GARFIELD’S CABINET DAY.
MEMBERS OF THE OFFICIAL FAMILY--A SOLDIER’S DISAPPOINTMENT.
WASHINGTON, _August 22, 1881_.
A long residence in Washington proves the sad fact that “court life” at the capital of a Republic is precisely the same as in a monarchy, except in the change of its duration. As the time to accomplish results is so very brief the odious process becomes more patent and less care is taken to hide all the art and skill practiced by the parasites who surround the Executive and who change his nature in a very brief time unless, like “Old Hickory” or Abraham Lincoln, he cannot be veneered by his surroundings because the identity is too strong. When a citizen enters the White House as the political head of the nation he never hears another familiar word. From the august Secretary of State to the scullion in the kitchen, it is “Mr. President.” Not only the inclination downward of the head with the bending muscles of the knees, but even the voices of the old friends become humble in tone and deferential in spirit. Cringing servants in the shape of Congressmen--in fact, all other mortals who have favors to crave--creep and crawl before the face of majesty. By and by the strong and designing of either sex elbow all the rest away, and form a cordon around the Executive, coloring all in the shape of everything which reaches his ears and eyes until he is no longer himself and is as blind as a bat hung to the walls of the Mammoth Cave.
In proof of the above assertion the writer will give the readers of _The Times_ a description of the last day at the White House before the attempt was made upon President Garfield’s life. It was Friday, the last “Cabinet day” in the annals of this administration. It was the first day of July, hot and sultry beyond description. The breeze which swept through the open doors of the mansion came like the breath from an open oven. The spray from the fountain turned into vapor in its ascending flight and reminded the beholder of boiling geysers in a volcanic plain. Inside the White House a crowd had congregated to improve the opportunity of the last chance before the President should depart on his summer tour. Both branches of Congress, Army and Navy, governors of States and Territories, with the odds and ends of humanity all unknown to fame, were collected in an indescribable, whirling kaleidoscope. At times the stairs leading to the “throne room” would be turned into a cataract, but instead of animalcules in the water it was humanity in the air. The stairs once free from the descending mass would be instantly filled with the same kind of material in an upward flight, to remain until hope was dead, and the first result would be enacted again. It was understood that the President would see the people between the hours of 10 and 12, although it was “Cabinet day.” But, alas, the “people” meant the Cabinet officers, for not content with seeing their chief at the 12 o’clock council, it appeared that each had a little private business of his own. At 10 o’clock, or rather five minutes after, the coupe of the Treasury Department deposited Secretary Windom, apparently fresh from the hands of his laundress, faultlessly attired in thinnest of summer covering, on the Executive porch. The fragrance of a perfumed bath still clung to his handsome person and nothing could be compared to it but heaven’s own dew clinging to a morning-glory. With mischief dancing in his hazel eyes and a wave of his fragrant hand to the little woman whose duty it is to press his official name between leaves of lavender, he disappeared. Then came Lincoln--“Bob” the people call him, not tall like his late father, but stalwart of limb and broad of shoulder, a strong, handsome face, which lights up with the same expression which we all remember who had the honor of standing in the presence of Abraham Lincoln. A moment and he is gone. And now comes Postmaster-General James, looking neither to the right nor the left, with his eyes bent, as usual, in one direction. Built on the narrow-gauge plan, long, slim, shallow and slender, ophidian and dazzling, one listens for the death-dealing rattle. Cold chills begin to creep along the great nerve centers. He glides up the stairs. Thank heaven, he has gone. A moment later and a prominent governor says: “Garfield never knows what that man is bringing about.” Stand aside! He’s little, but how he can sting! It is MacVeigh--a Scottish chief. The tartan plaid, bare legs and pibroch are invisible. Round, dense and compact as a bullet, with the characteristics of Scotland which mark him as surely as the furze that each season adorns the heather. American-born generations may stand between him and his ancestors, but he is no more changed than an English walnut would be transplanted to the Western continent.