Part 33

Square, heavy-rigged, sitting low in the water, bearing down under full sail, determined to reach the port in time--this is Secretary Kirkwood. His clothes are thin and fleecy, but more sheepy-looking than cloud-like. He perspires! One is reminded of great drops of rain pattering on a shingled roof, only the noise must exist in the imagination. Homely and plain as a crooked apple tree, and yet the very shade where it would be delightful to linger. Only a rough shell, containing the sweetest of kernels. After 11! The clock hands point to the hour of 12. A moving tableau enters the broad corridor from a side door. Secretary Blaine is the central figure. On his right walks Sir Edward Thornton, in full court dress, dazzling in decorations and gold lace. He has come to take formal leave of the President, as he has been called home by his Queen. On the left of the Secretary walks his eldest daughter, proudly--Miss Alice Blaine. She is clad in pure white, unrelieved by color. A broad-brimmed chip hat on the back of her head frames her oval brunette face, and with her youth and grace she is a striking addition to the picture. Secretary Blaine looks troubled and worried. The shadows have grown darker under his eyes, while the other portions of his face are far more pallid than of yore. His step is less elastic, but the heat must be considered. The doors close and the curtain falls.

It should have been mentioned before that the officials who guard the front doors of the White House have the power to assign people to different rooms in the order which may seem to them best. Those whom they consider of most consequence are permitted to go up the stairs, whilst the “rabbles,” so called from want of honorary prefixes to their names, must remain below. This is applicable to Cabinet day. When the fortunate arrive up stairs the winnowing process goes on again. The highest privilege is to be permitted to enter the room or headquarters of Mr. J. Stanley Brown, a youth of 22 summers, whose velvet cheeks, destitute of hirsute ornament or manly decoration, is sufficient evidence of his guileless innocence and his willingness to obey the will of others. Mr. Rose, who had been the President’s private secretary for years when he was a Congressman, was found to have opinions of his own, and it did not suit those who have matters in hand to have that kind of material to manage.

Whilst Dr. Bliss has shown the country that he does not believe in having too many doctors around, Swaim and Rockwell are the men who keep guard at the chamber door of the President and will not permit a friendly face to pass. As proof the following fact is given to the readers of _The Times_: When Mrs. Garfield visited New York, before her late illness, she invited her warm personal friend, Miss Ransom, to accompany her. The two intended to visit the art galleries together. Mrs. Garfield wished to have Miss Ransom’s opinion on a picture of Alexander Hamilton that had lately been resurrected and come to light, after lying for many years among the rubbish. Mrs. Rockwell also went along. When the names of the august female Presidential party were made up to be given to the press Colonel Rockwell instructed the correspondent to leave out Miss Ransom’s name, saying that “no names must be mentioned but Mrs. Garfield and Mrs. Rockwell.” All the old trusted friends of the Garfields are thrust aside, whilst Swaim and Rockwell guard the doors. The isolation and cruelty towards the President is not the work of the doctors, for they are only intent on killing off each other, and if the country could be relieved of this surplus material the nation would have cause to rejoice.

But coming back to the White House, among those permitted to wait up stairs was the gallant Colonel Buell, who had come to Washington after an eighteen months’ campaign in the field after the murdering Victoria and his savage band. He waited until the Cabinet meeting was over, and it was well on to 4 o’clock. “Better on an Indian trail in the wilderness than the trail of a President, if this is the experience,” he said. Did President Garfield know that this brave, gallant soldier awaited audience at his door? The writer believes not. Did the soldier depart with his face crisped with disappointment? He did. Who saw the President? One woman of all the women who hung around like the lost souls around the gates of Paradise. This was Mrs. General Morgan L. Smith, the woman who began a suit in the New York courts for $25,000 damages for refusing to pay her for giving a decision of the Supreme Court in advance of its being known through the regular news channel. Mrs. Morgan Smith informed the writer that her interview with the President was perfectly satisfactory. The joy stamped on her beautiful face was sufficient proof. The soldier walked sad and dejected away, but from the window of the Executive Mansion a woman’s eyes filled with tears followed his retreating footsteps; and from the holiest depths of her heart ascended the prayer that God would shield and protect him, and give his brave soul and strong arm the strength to protect the lone settlers from the murderous savages that infest our remote frontier.

OLIVIA.

A NEW YEAR RECEPTION.

THE DIPLOMATS AND THE PUBLIC PAY THEIR RESPECTS TO PRESIDENT ARTHUR.

WASHINGTON, _January 2, 1882_.

According to immemorial usage, the broad doors of the Executive mansion opened their portals to receive the gorgeous pageant that inaugurates the President’s first official reception of the New Year. Thoroughly renovated and partially refurnished, the old historic building appears like an antiquated belle rejuvenated by the modern accessories of the toilet. Oriental designs, artistically arranged, give the surroundings a magnificence never attained since a former White House mistress died. The Red Parlor, where the foreign legations assembled previous to their presentation to the President, has been recently furnished in modern style and with exquisite taste. From the lofty windows fall cascades of ruby velvet and real lace. The furniture is upholstered in ruby plush, and the prevailing tints of the Persian rugs, which cover a large proportion of the floor, have been chosen to harmonize with the ruby surroundings. Potted plants, but not in profusion, were used to ornament the tall mantels and pedestals purposely placed for their reception.

Another marked feature was the absence of the police until the immense unofficial crowd began to pour through the corridor. Then the necessity of keeping the living river within its proper bounds became apparent to the crowd itself, and good nature and kind words for the President were heard on every side.

A New Year’s reception at the White House forms a picture on the mind never to be forgotten. Precisely at the hour appointed the foreign legations began to assemble and in a brief time the Red Room was filled to overflowing with representatives of the different civilized nations of the globe. The gorgeous costumes worn by these people can only be compared to the plumage of birds which infest the tropical forests. The appearance of the English diplomat is among the most subdued.

The French minister, M. Maxime Outrey, appeared in the usual court dress which the French Republic has adopted. In the dim light its hue could not be detected except that it was very dark, with semi-military appearance. The pants were ornamented with a broad gilt band up the side, with a limited quantity of gilt embroidery. His chapeau, which he carried, looked like that worn by Napoleon I. Monsieur Outrey seemed particularly engaged in playing oak to the vine, for on his arm clung winsome Madame Outrey, clad in a long-trained black velvet dress. When the old minister was balancing his dignity before the red fez of Turkey, the madame, in the sweet language of her native land, had asked after all the seraglios on the banks of the Bosphorus. But the most charming face and figure which shone in the diplomatic throng belonged to Miss Sackville-West, the daughter of the new English minister. In the absence of her father she appeared with one of the attaches of the legation. Imagine a slight, girlish figure, yet perfect in development as a rose in full bloom, with a face cast in the most aristocratic mould, low brow, full, large, almond-shaped eyes, classic nose, the saucy, short upper lip and wonderfully chiseled chin, all animated by the highest grace of expression. If the haughty Victoria has ever looked upon this dainty subject she will not bear too heavily on the lineage of the Sackville-Wests. Miss West was clad in a heavy dark green satin walking dress, with a simple Fanchon bonnet to match, and amidst all the pomp and splendor her presence brought the same sweet emotions which come to mind with an English daisy.

In picturesque effect imperial China glowed in the Red Room like a fireplace in the dark. An imposing figure, clad in a blue satin petticoat, surmounted by a cap, from which trailed gracefully that which might have been clipped from Pegasus. It is said this Chinese minister is of the highest rank ever sent out of his own country, his person more fully representing the permanency, the fixity of purpose, of his imperial master than any of his predecessors. Closely following the mandarin comes South America--land of political turmoil and earthquakes. All these ministers appear to be the descendants of Cortez. A genuine Spanish grandee is represented by Señor Don Simon Camancho, from Venezuela. He is unaccompanied, as Mrs. Camancho still tarries in New York.

It is very hard to leave the Red Room with its striking figures for pen portraits, but the “throne room” must be reached. You pass the threshold which leads from red to blue. The first impression is republican simplicity. An official of the State Department stands at the left of President Arthur and presents the passing throng. The dean of the diplomatic corps is the first to enter, followed very closely by all that is official from other lands. Towering above his associates stands President Arthur, in personal appearance and attitude every inch a ruler, with all the stately courtesy of James Buchanan, the native dignity and warmth of manner of Abraham Lincoln, and a grace which is all his own. He was clad in a simple black full-dress suit.

At the right of the President stood his new Secretary of State, slender, attenuated, but spirituelle and refined. Near by is Secretary Folger. Imagine a man of perfect proportion and exactly the right size, with a face so classic that it might be carved, with iron-gray hair, and this is Attorney-General Brewster.

A long line of ladies had been invited by President Arthur to help him receive. The innovation of numbers was inaugurated by Mrs. Julia Grant, when she presided at the White House. It is not known whether Mrs. Grant meant to emulate Eugenie surrounded by her court, yet the effect is somewhat the same. The leading lady who modestly stood at the head is Mrs. Frelinghuysen, dressed in black silk, without the slightest pretense of doing anything but her duty. How tired and worn every feature of her face seemed, turned into an interrogation point, which asked, what does it all amount to any way? Then came the wife of the Attorney-General. Mrs. Brewster wore a royal robe of ruby velvet. Another lovely face was that of the wife of the young Secretary of War. Mrs. Lincoln wore Spanish lace over old gold satin. Although the youngest of the cabinet circle, Mrs. Lincoln’s whole childhood was associated with official society at the capital. Room only for one more of the stars that compose President Arthur’s galaxy of assistants--Mrs. Senator Logan, most queenly in appearance of all. Slightly taller than the others, with a face lighted with flashing black eyes and snowy hair rolled back in Martha Washington style, with rosy cheeks and pearly teeth, a veritable picture of “roses in the snow.” The saddest picture is Mrs. Blaine in the background, bereft of her official crown, disappointment peeping out of her face covertly, as the picket guard watches for the foe.

The Supreme Court marches by, but some of its members are absent. Afterwards file by the veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, wearing a badge which indicates devotion to a cause. Now a cold, sad wave comes down the long corridors following the gay throng which has just passed. It is the Oldest Inhabitants Association--encased in the frozen armor of age. There is a brush. A sigh that seems to breathe from everything around. It is gone. The beautiful ladies who stood by President Arthur are gone, because all that is “official” has drifted by. There is a muffled sound--the crowd, the strangers, the citizens of the District are coming. Policemen begin to appear, they are strewn around as though a siege were about to begin, but President Arthur shows not the least sign of weariness; he shakes every offered hand. “Where are the ladies who were to receive with the President?” is anxiously asked. “Gone to their own receptions,” is answered from somewhere. A bit of a woman appears leading a little child. It is such a tiny speck, but its sweet face peeps out from its fleecy hood as an angel’s might from under the mist. There are no grand dames around--only the people. President Arthur takes the little one in his hands, then he lifts it high, and gives the humble little tot a kiss. It was so exquisitely done that it seemed the work of inspiration. With this incident the ceremonies came to a close, whilst the Marine Band was playing its choicest airs, composed by its talented leader to inaugurate the new year.

OLIVIA.

AT THE TRIAL OF GUITEAU.

ANECDOTES OF THE JUDGE, JURY, AND AUDIENCE.

WASHINGTON, _January 5, 1882_.

A strange tale comes floating down the surface of the centuries. Its strange points assimilate with those associated with the unique criminal trial of to-day. During the period that the Roman inquisition was at the zenith of its power, a Catholic priest invented an instrument of torture. It was in the shape of an iron room, long and narrow, and with seven small windows looking toward the rising sun. By means of noiseless machinery the space contracted so that the wretched prisoner would see by the first light of dawn that a window had disappeared. The torture of the infernal machine could be lengthened or shortened according to the mercy of the executioner. But on the last day, or rather night, the iron bedstead would assume the form of a box, and as the sun appeared in the east the muffled tones of a bell would fall on the ear of the doomed, whilst the lid would fall, and after the clang there would be heard the fastening of screws if insensibility had not previously intervened. To prevent the existence of this instrument being known, the Doge of Venice seized its unfortunate inventor and put him into the machine, that everything connected with it should be destroyed, even to the inventor. Just as the Catholic priest created an instrument of torture and destruction, Guiteau has woven a web from which there is no escape.

The mercy or weakness which Judge Cox is accused of exercising toward the prisoner is the same sort of kindness which the executioner had for the Catholic priest. The windows of the iron cage are a little longer in disappearing. A thoughtful spectator watching the countenance of Judge Cox will see that he carries all the weight of responsibility which goes with the judicial ermine. Cool, calm, inflexible, he seems to realize that his course in this celebrated case will be put on record to stand as long as the archives of the Republic. No opportunity has been given for the defense to obtain a new trial; no chance for ill-timed sympathy to accuse him of want of clemency or withholding that which is decreed the humblest citizen on trial for his life. In this most trying position in which a man could be placed, Judge Cox has filled all the requirements of the case in a manner which unbiased, unprejudiced posterity will applaud.

Coming to the jury, taken altogether, a clearer-headed set of men could not be found. If the writer was on trial for her life and allowed the privilege to select a jury, a large proportion of those now serving would be chosen for this painful and thankless duty. One of the jurymen has had honors paid him accorded only to the most distinguished men of the world. He has been met at the threshold of the Winter Palace of the Czar of Russia, the great Nicholas, standing with a silver salver in one hand, upon which was placed corn bread, and a golden chair in the other, the seat of which was hollowed out to hold salt. He has sat at the same table with the Emperor, amidst all the splendor and pomp of the Russian court. This gentleman (Mr. Heinline) was engineer of the monitor that carried Assistant Secretary Fox, of the Navy, when he went to take President Lincoln’s dispatches to the crowned heads of Europe during our late war. In charge of this wonderful war craft, he received as much attention and in one sense more than Mr. Fox, for the Czar, like his ancestor, Peter the Great, had unbounded respect for the science of mechanics. During the lifetime of the monitors only the highest talent was employed to manage their machinery. Cool and brave must be the men who went to sea in these iron pots, and who would not choose such a juryman? And yet fate or accident has determined this man should be one to bring his strength of mind to decide in the matter of the assassin’s responsibility. It would make this article too long to make sketches of the different jurymen, but all enjoy the respect of those who know them best, so far as the writer has been able to ascertain. Few men, whether their crimes have been heavy or light, have been so fortunate as the assassin. No mortal hand was extended to help Guiteau in the selection of a jury. To the credit of all the citizens of the District, not a man was chosen that did not bewail his fate and hope that something would prevent his selection. It was claimed at the time that no jury could be impaneled because all had expressed opinions as to the guilt of the prisoner; but whether the assassin was insane or otherwise placed the trial in a different light, and only the repulsion remained in the minds of the people of the capital.

It is cruel slander on the women of the District when it is claimed it is “the same old set” of theater-goers that have gone to the Guiteau trial every day. A very few faces, less than a dozen, have been daily attendants, but these are the suspected adventuresses who come to Washington in advance of Congressmen to get the winter nests well warmed. They stop at the leading hotels, where they behave with that becoming modesty that secures them from molestation. When the real work of the Congressional season begins they flit to the different “boudoirs” in some of the most respectable quarters of the city where carriages going and coming attract not the slightest notice. The women wear “seal skin” and have all the attractive airs of “official life.” Excitement they must have, and the Guiteau trial is an excellent preliminary to the winter festivities.

It is this class of female adventuresses who dog the footsteps of the virtuous Congressmen as well as the other kind. They even have the “cheek” to attend private receptions uninvited, and claim to be on intimate terms with those who compose our most refined circles of “official society.” When these women are excepted it will be found that the surging crowd that fills the court room is composed of strangers visiting the national capital. Our ladies had a desire to look once upon a man who could murder a President, but the desire was gratified with one visit. A glance at the newspapers will prove that this pardonable curiosity pervaded all ranks of the people. Even clergymen have been seen in the small space allotted to spectators of this criminal trial.

All the “star” actors or actresses who have appeared on the stage in Washington since the trial began came to the court room--the Florences, Mary Anderson, Lotta, and a troupe of lesser lights which have escaped the writer’s memory. All seemed seeking to try to solve the problem, whether the assassin is insane, and, with scarce an exception, all believe, as did Frederick the Great of Prussia, that cranks “are responsible.” When Frederick ruled his subjects assassination became a familiar crime, while insanity became the bridge which carried the criminals to safety; but the far-seeing, irrepressible Emperor thought it would be a good plan to crush out this kind of dangerous material by the extreme penalty of the law, and the result was that fanaticism did not bloom out any more in this kind of way. Whilst “experts,” or those who have had experience in the management of insane people, can give their belief, that has little to do with the actual and proper settlement of the question as to the responsibility of the “crank.” An honest man or woman who has been insane, yet restored to health, should be the ones to decide this most important point. Shakespeare settled the subject when he asked “Who can minister to a mind diseased?” Now, this most superior of human beings did not dare to answer his own inquiry. If the “experts” could take hold of a broken mind as the surgeons do of a shattered limb, possibly they might cure it; but if a human soul by some inscrutable means, like a ship at sea, finds its bottom covered with barnacles, or a terrible rent in the hold, torn by a hidden rock, only the Builder can plunge into the vast ocean of mystery and mend the sinking wreck.

Taking the testimony of the “experts,” Dr. Gray seemed wisest and best informed, and he was very careful not to commit himself. He conscientiously let the jury know how very little we know about insanity, but he did bear out the fact that a mind a little off color, or what is vulgarly called a “crank,” for the want of a better term, is not relieved of responsibility and should be punished for crime committed the same as other criminals.

Notwithstanding the prisoner has been allowed better food and has had the stimulant of excitement imparted by his trial, there is a change gradually stealing over his features, which, rightly interpreted, means despair. His naturally pale face has assumed a kind of ashen hue which makes a sombre background for the lightning play of the fierce passions with which he is continually interrupting the court. There are no particular points to mark this man. He is like the great masses of the human family who resemble each other almost as much as do the leaves of the forest.

There is something very touching in the appearance of Mr. Scoville, brother-in-law and counsel for the assassin. He seems to have advanced ten years in age since the trial began. He has grown very much thinner, and a painful, eager, anxious expression is stamped on his otherwise kindly face. And the sister, who comes so regularly and shares the odium and disgrace of the brother! It is said her husband was very much averse to having anything to do with the trial, but when so many lawyers refused he yielded to the earnest entreaties of his wife. But instead of becoming an object of loathing to the ladies of Washington, like her brother, the assassin, her womanly devotion is appreciated. It is true she has not been crowned with laurel or welcomed to hospitable boards, but woman’s heart at Washington beats in sympathy with this sister, for no place can be so vile that it is not purified and uplifted by the presence of the same spirit that qualified Mary to become the mother of Jesus.