Chapter XI: Part 11

The most perfect entertainments of the winter have been given at the handsome mansion of Senator Chandler. A card reception at a Senator’s residence partakes more of the nature of a private party, consequently painfully crowded rooms are avoided. For this reason the finest toilettes of the winter are brought out, because they can be worn without danger of serious damage. The costliest dresses of the winter have been sported by Mrs. John Morrissey and Mrs. Fernando Wood. Mrs. Morrissey wore a black thread-lace dress, over heavy white moire, with solitaire diamonds only for ornament, at the Corcoran ball. Mrs. Morrissey has never been seen in general society in Washington. A party given by the Chinese embassy, and Mr. Corcoran’s entertainment planned to complete the Washington monument, as well as to make the beau-monde merry and glad, are the only social places known to the writer where the Hon. John Morrissey and his pretty, unobtrusive wife have been seen.

The rarest dress noticed this winter has been worn by Mrs. Fernando Wood. Take up your finest collar, my lady reader--“old point,” by the way. Now imagine a whole dress, with any quantity of ferns and palms running over it--waist, sleeves, skirt, all complete--with pink silk underneath. Could anything more exquisite in the shape of a dress be conceived? Stop a moment. Let us see! It certainly bears inspection. Let us move away and examine it as one would a picture. We are writing for a newspaper, and the truth must be told. It looks at this distance as if Mrs. Wood had rolled herself up regardless of expense in one of her own parlor window-curtains.

It is true that silk is worth its weight in silver the world over. We might as well talk of cheap silver as cheap silk. When we buy a heavy dress for a small sum of money we are paying for dye-stuff, and the dye-stuff we buy very soon destroys the silk. But costly as the article is with which we love to decorate ourselves, it is within the reach of every industrious single woman in the country. It is worn as every-day apparel by the fashionable women of Washington. When a dress becomes too well known, or has lost its freshness, it is taken for every-day wear. This is a great mistake for more than one reason. By making silk so common it detracts from its elegance and beauty. The only difference between a woman in full dress and when she is not--in the first instance she wears a clean garment, and in the latter, one that has seen the vicissitudes of life. Oh! blessed are the charms of the laundry. Better all cotton than all silk.

Because silk is so common, fashion has decided that the superior excellence or elegance of a woman’s wardrobe must consist in her rare and costly laces. But against this extravagant innovation good taste has set her face. A moderate amount of lace adds additional charms to a handsome dress, but when we come to make the entire garment of the material the effect is lost. Queen Augusta, of Germany, who ranks next to Eugenie in matters pertaining to the toilet, prefers tulle dresses to wear over her silks and satins. Sometimes these are ornamented with field grasses, at least this was the case in her younger years. In latter days her tulle garments are trimmed with pearls. The most exquisite taste delights in simplicity. The more barbarous a nation the more it revels in gorgeous and costly ornament; but when every American woman lays her earrings aside forever the tranquillity and peace of the Republic is assured.

OLIVIA.

MEETING OF OCCIDENT AND ORIENT.

RECEPTION OF THE IMPERIAL EMBASSY OF JAPAN BY PRESIDENT GRANT.

WASHINGTON, _March 4, 1872_.

Another interesting ceremony has taken place which marks an epoch in the civilization of the world. To-day the Occident and the Orient has an official greeting. The fluttering petticoats of the East have bowed before the scant, ungraceful pantaloons of the West, and history records the performance. The event was stately and solemn, and nothing occurred to mar or disturb the feelings of those present, except the cold and disdainful way in which the press was treated. These scions of republican royalty were kept outside, whilst such crumbs of information fell to our lot as the powers that be chose to bestow.

Before the magic hour of 12, for the royal time of day was chosen, ten of the Japanese highest in power, accompanied by Mr. Mori, the Japanese minister, descended from their carriages and in single file marched slowly into the Executive Mansion. Previously everything had been prepared for their reception. The broad halls and the great vestibule had been reduced to excruciating neatness. The air was laden with the odor of tropical exotics. Above the central part of the great ottoman, in the Blue Room, arose a pyramid of flowers composed of Japanese lilies, birds of paradise, and the long, dreamy, pendant leaves of the Eastern fern. Daylight, which was not considered quite good enough for such an occasion, had been carefully excluded, like the press, but, like this mighty engine, it managed to struggle in, or at least enough of it for all practical purposes.

Whilst all these things were in preparation Secretary Fish came rushing in and seized an unfortunate servant, who had accidentally put the right flower-pot in the wrong place. This was quickly adjusted and the Secretary left the place. Then Mrs. Secretary Fish, swathed in pearl-colored silk, trimmed with the costliest lace, sailed through the rooms. A lackey followed her with fear and trembling. As near as could be ascertained in the distance, the hair on his head stood upon end. All at once dulcet sounds were heard, “Take it away.” The servant stood terror-bound until the lady said: “Too much mignonette. We cannot be too careful. Perfume is a good thing in the right place. The danger is, everything is becoming too common.” The flower-basket was removed, and the rooms were pronounced all ready for the ceremony.

First of all Secretary Robeson sailed in, and following in his wake were the heads of the Navy Department, in their brilliant regimentals. As these were not the men who distinguished themselves in the late war, the people have no care to hear about them. But their shining shoulder-straps and other finery helped to make the occasion brilliant, the same as a shoal of dolphins at sea on a hot summer’s day. Secretary Robeson looked as handsome and happy as could be expected.

Then came Minister Boutwell, in white choker and pale pearl-colored kids, closely followed by that interesting old greenback known as General Spinner. Then Spinner was brought up by the heads of the Treasury Department, and they stretched out until it seemed as if it was intended they should represent the “crack of doom.”

Then came the handsome Saxon Secretary of War, with his officers, followed by Cresswell and the Post Office, and Attorney-General Williams and his “heads.” The heads of the Attorney-General’s office are men who have blossomed, fruited and now ought to be gathered and put in the cellar for future use. Delano, of the Interior, was there with his force, the most dignified magnate present.

Spilled around promiscuously were Judge Holt, Cameron, Casserly, with nose at an angle of forty-five degrees; Banks, with a new shade to his hair, called “Paris in Ashes;” Professor Henry, with any amount of electricity in his pockets; Speaker Blaine and Colfax--dear Colfax! who came out and said he felt sorry for the press; he knew how it was himself before greatness was thrust upon him.

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

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

OLIVIA.

THE PUBLIC GREET THE JAPANESE.

UNDER ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES EASTERN ROYALTY IS WELCOMED.

WASHINGTON, _March 6, 1872_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLIVIA.

SAMUEL F. B. MORSE.

MEMORIAL SERVICES HELD AT THE CAPITOL.

WASHINGTON, _April 17, 1872_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLIVIA.

ON THE PROMENADE.

A SATURDAY HOLIDAY WITH ITS STROLLERS AND EQUIPAGES.

WASHINGTON, _April 22, 1872_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLIVIA.

CHARLES SUMNER.

AN INTERVIEW IN THE WORKSHOP OF THE VETERAN STATESMAN.

WASHINGTON, _April 15, 1873_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like that. No! It cannot be possible that her face is as wide as it is long; that these are her eyes, that her nose, that her mouth--why, this is the face you see looking out of the moon!”

“It may be a plain face,” says Mr. Sumner, “but then it is so strong and noticeable, a face once seen that will never be forgotten.”

“But her hair is cut short like a man’s.”

“That is a matter of taste. You see at a glance that she lacks vanity, which is another sign of a great woman. I also met Mr. Lewes, her husband, at the same time. He is noted for his German studies, but he is not so eminent as his wife.”

“About her age, Mr. Sumner?”

“That is a very hard point to settle, but without flattery I should think her beyond 50.”

“Beyond 50, and still writing the best love stories that the world enjoys?”

“Why not? Genius never grows old.”

“But about George Sand?”

“I met this famous woman many years ago on a steamer. We were going from Marseilles to Genoa. Among the passengers this woman in particular attracted my attention, because she held by the hand a very beautiful child. I have never observed such hair on a child’s head. It was the real gold in color, and fell to his knees, not in curls, but in waves. The lady wore the Spanish costume. I now recall her Spanish mantilla. She was short, we might call her thick-set, not handsome, yet holding her child by the hand. I had a curiosity to find out her name. She was accompanied by a tall, slender gentleman. They kept aloof from the other passengers, and seemed to find society enough in each other. Upon inquiry I found her to be the celebrated George Sand. At that time she was a topic of conversation everywhere. She made a very distinct impression on my mind. She was comparatively a young woman. On board the same ship I was interested in two other passengers. This time it was quite an aged couple. The old gentleman carried his gold-headed cane and bustled around as if it was his mission to entertain everybody. One would almost think that he thought himself in his own house and the people around him his guests. His aged wife was at his side, helping in the good work. I noticed a respect shown them which age alone cannot always command. I soon learned the man to be one of Charles the Tenth’s Ministers, I am not quite certain which, but I think his minister of finance. I shall always remember the extreme courtesy and politeness of these old people and their endeavors to make everybody happy around them.”

“Did they talk to George Sand?”

“No! for the lady and her cavalier kept to themselves, and did not seem to need any exertions in their favor.”

In the conversation about the private lives of writers, a query came up of this kind: “Will a woman of good judgment marry a man fifteen years younger than herself?”

“I shall have to refer you to Mr. Disraeli. I know that to have been a very happy marriage. I met Mr. Disraeli and his wife at Munich, when they were on their wedding tour. At the principal hotel we met at the breakfast table. Mr. Disraeli sat by the side of his newly made wife. He might have been, or at least looked, about 30 years old. His intensely black hair smoothed to perfection. At that time he had become famous as an author. Everything seemed noticeably new about him. Mrs. Disraeli appeared like a kind-hearted, middle-aged English woman, and Disraeli seemed the one to carry the idea that he had drawn the prize. Time has shown how devoted they were to each other. In the last few months we hear of his walking by her side and supporting her tenderly. She must have been nearly, if not quite, 80. In my opinion Disraeli is one of the most remarkable men of this age when we remember the obstacles he had to overcome to reach the position he occupies in England. The prejudice which exists there against his Jewish faith alone is enough to chill the most ambitious.”

A book was drawn from a side table which had been printed in 1460. It was in the German language, and, with one exception, it is as perfect as a book published yesterday. Its binding would shame our best modern work.

“This,” said the man in gray, “reminds me of a conversation I once had with Macaulay, as well as an incident of my school-boy days. The master once said to the scholars, ‘Can any of you tell me in which year printing was invented?’ No answer. ‘Remember, children, it was the year which contains the figure 4 three times.’ The small brains were greatly puzzled. At last one little fellow answers ‘1444’. When I grew older I tried to ascertain the proof of this; but I have never been able to find which year printing was invented. It was somewhere about 1450, and, from all I can learn, I am inclined at times to think the Dutch instead of the Germans made this discovery. I remember a long talk I had with Macaulay on this subject. I was on the side of the Dutch; he was for the Germans. At last he proposed that we should adjourn to the British Museum and search the authorities, and have this weighty matter decided. I did not go, but I have always regretted it. We all remember Macaulay’s Essay on Milton. I think it ranks with the best of his writings; yet he told me that he regretted nothing so much as its publication; and this proves the incompetency of authors to judge their own works.”

We spoke about the changing seasons of human life, and the writer asked the statesman a question which lies very near to every woman’s soul.

“Is beauty confined to one period of our existence? Infancy and childhood are only promises; the summer is something more; but give me the golden reality of October or the bracing chill of a December landscape if the intellectual powers are not on the wane.”

“I have known beauty to go with the years, but this I fear is the exception, not the rule. One of the handsomest women I ever knew was the mother of Lord Brougham. At the time I met her she must have been over 80 years of age. I was then quite a boy, and abroad for the first time, and met with the kindness to be invited to the castle of this nobleman. The manners and figure of Mrs. Brougham betrayed none of the decrepitude of age. I never shall forget her extreme kindness and efforts to entertain a young American. I remember that amongst other things she brought the bag which her son wore at the time he was Lord High Chancellor. This bag is worn around the neck of this exalted officer of the British Government. It is an elaborate affair, made of silk, gold lace, and embroidery. When the Lord Chancellor goes into the official presence of his sovereign this bag rests upon his breast, and it contains the petitions which the loyal subjects desire to be laid before the throne. Every new Chancellor must have a new bag, and these are always retained as the precious heirlooms of the family. The great seal of England is always kept in the bottom of this bag. Lord Brougham’s mother related an incident connected with this small affair of silken embroidery:

“‘When my son Henry was in the presence of the King this bag was crammed full of petitions, and he became very tired taking them out. At last he said, “I hope this bag will soon be emptied.”

“‘“Empty it of everything except the great seal of England,” said his majesty.’”

But the picture which illustrates the man is not completed, and newspaper letters must come to an end.

OLIVIA.

WOMAN’S INFLUENCE FOR GOOD.

SHAPING LEGISLATION FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.

WASHINGTON, _April 29, 1873_.

Before the present form of government was inaugurated, Washington, in every respect, resembled a gambling or watering spa. A session of Congress might be termed “the season.” It was called a city through courtesy, because in reality it was only a straggling, awkward village. The brute creation traversed its streets, whilst forlorn pedestrians picked their way over disjointed sidewalks. The greater proportion of its people were made up of “birds of passage.” The citizen proper, if caught, was found to belong to one or the other of the two extremes of the social scale. He might be of the line of Lord Baltimore, with the blue blood of a foreign aristocracy coursing through his attenuated frame; but the chances are that he was some poor artisan or shopkeeper, who picked up a precarious living existing on the double-distilled crumbs which fell from Uncle Sam’s table.

Washington had no such electric life as Philadelphia enjoys, imparted to her by her commerce and manufactures. When Congress expired, the city, like a lazy bear, snuggled down to its long, snoozey sleep, and when waking-time came, like poor Bruin, it found nothing left but its claws. In its famished condition it took a great many strangers and Congressmen to fill the aching void. But gone are the lawmakers and Credit Mobiliers! Vanished the bare shoulders and Paris frippery! But Washington, newly baptized and regenerated, takes her place in the long line of sister cities whose foundations are securely laid by the strong hands of her permanent citizens.

Yesterday our new legislature met for the third time. The hall consecrated to the delegates and members of the council was filled with well-dressed, fine-looking men, adorned with shining beavers and immaculate boots. They occupied all available space on the floor; they poured over long flights of stairs, and spread out in a broad expanse of human life on the pavement below. “These,” said a bystander, “are taxpayers of the District,” and the response came quick, “This is the real Washington, wide-awake!”

In an upper room of the same building at the same hour the council meet. This nice little body is called together by the governor, a president is then elected who presides during the session, and altogether considerable honor is evoked from a small outlay, and in the meantime the siestas and summer comforts of the principal heads of the government need not be disturbed.

Below, in the house of delegates, the excitement deepens. The opposing candidates seem to have equal strength. The fight is all within the limits of one party. The three Democrats look around as innocently as if they were not inwardly praying for the fate of the Kilkenny cats to overtake their opponents. Two women are seen, each with a delegate fastened securely by the buttonhole. They are both genuine ladies--one being the wife of a leading United States Senator, the other known in Washington and elsewhere for her disinterested labors in behalf of the poor and unfortunate of her own sex. What does it all mean? One of the gentle lobbyists is interrogated:

“We have two men up as candidates for speaker; one is a good husband and father. He is with us in all our works of reform. He believes in doing as much for women as for men. The other is bad--just as bad as he can be. He loves women because they are women.”

“Isn’t that every man’s fault?”

“Oh, yes! but just look at him. He believes in keeping us women down, denying us the rights which the Creator designed for us.”

“If we are to judge men by their looks I cannot see where the other candidate has the advantage. They both look as if they didn’t exactly realize the difference between women and peaches.”

The woman continued: “I know one to be a good man, and I am going to work for him. Excuse me, here comes one of the doubtful delegates. I must speak to him.”

The delegate is arrested in his onward flight, and proves to be one of the ablest men in the house, as well as an accomplished gentleman.

“I learn, Mr. H----, that you are going to desert us?”

“Desert the ladies?--never!”

“I mean that you are going for Shepherd?”

“That is another thing. I have thought the matter over seriously, and whilst I don’t approve of all the deeds done by the board of public works, upon the whole I must give them my hearty support.”

“But you know my candidate is a good man.”

The tall, handsome biped looked down on the little woman, and his eyes twinkled whilst he said: “We are all good men.”

At this moment the other candidate came up--the poor, bad man who had no woman like Mungo Park to bring him milk and grind him corn.

“You know, Mr. Shepherd, that I have opposed you from the start. I have been doing all I could; I don’t deny it.”

The great, sharp, white teeth close over the red under lip, as if a laugh must be strangled regardless of consequences.

“I know it; but I cannot understand your opposition. I love the ladies; I always have.”

“That may be; but you opposed our movement. When you were editor of the _Republican_ you made fun of me.”

“But you must know an editor cannot oversee everything that goes into his paper.”

“But the tone of the paper I complain of.”

“I do not oppose the movement of reform, but I earnestly object to the manner in which you intend to bring it about! but I must go. I hope you will think better of me,” and the jolly figure and winning face disappears.

The delegate who spoke so earnestly in favor of the board of public works pauses to be introduced to the Senator’s wife. As he is about to depart the writer asked his opinion in regard to woman coming to such a place to influence “legislation.”

“I rather like it.”

“Do not let your gallantry get the better of truth. For my part I oppose it, for this reason, we accomplish nothing. Every Samson on this floor ought to have had his ambrosial locks sheared before he came here. Would the old Scriptural giant have held still in public whilst that sly puss, Delilah, was engaged in her artistic work?

“I cannot think of anything that would tempt me to be found here to influence legislation. I came with my pen to make a picture for _The Press_, just as I shall go to the Virginia hills, with my pencil and portfolio, when the weather becomes fine.”

“This is a serious subject; but I am inclined to ask the women to go with us wherever we are obliged to go. I have had a good deal to do with politics since the new government was inaugurated, and we have had some pretty stormy times. We have had our meetings broken up with howls and hootings, and it seemed as if anarchy had come. One night we called a meeting in one of the worst wards of the city, where we had all along been able to accomplish little or nothing. I knew something out of the ordinary way must be done. So a short time before the call was made I gave out that upon such an evening there would be a meeting at a certain church in the neighborhood; that a portion of the gallery would be set aside for the ladies. The colored men were especially invited to bring their wives and daughters. I then called upon my political friends and told them how matters stood, and urged them to tell their wives what we were trying to do. The ladies, God bless them! put on their Sunday bonnets and good dresses and came out; the colored women did the same, and the meeting in that ward was the event of the season. Everything passed off pleasantly, and we went home better men.”

“According to your story, not quite all of you are good men.”

“Yes; in the presence of some women we are all good men; the night I have been talking about proves it.”

All this took place before the gavel sounded. When the last blow fell, Edwin L. Stanton arose in his seat and called the assembly together. From various directions came twenty-two men differing in race, color, condition, and servitude. The tall, haughty Caucasian, with his thin nostril and flowing beard, was followed by the inky African so lately held in bondage; but the procession was finished by the chain which the Almighty has forged to bind the white parent to the black one in the shape of a man in bronze. In the solemn stillness a semi-circle was formed, and twenty-two right hands pointed upward whilst Justice Carter administered the oath to support the Constitution. Whilst the Judge was reading, the circle began to melt, and when he came to the part which relates to the taking of bribes in exchange for votes, every white man and black man had disappeared. But that most solemn obligation was to be subscribed to by a solitary mortal who stood like a fixed star in his place. Down on your knees to the man who stands by the _right_! God help us! It was the man in bronze.

OLIVIA.

THE KING REUNIONS.

ATTRACTIVE GATHERINGS OF THE NATION’S CELEBRITIES.

WASHINGTON, _February 11, 1874_.

On a vein leading off the great artery of Seventh street may be seen a modest mansion of four stories, yet better known and more highly appreciated in this curious city than far more pretentious piles of brick and mortar. For more than a quarter of a century the occupant of that point of the compass has clung to this spot and proved to the country that the character and qualities of an American citizen, independent of his opinions, decide his standing in the community. Belonging to the old Democratic regime, yet always opposed to slavery, like President Grant, he conceived the idea that it was best “to unload to save the party.” When a member of Mr. Buchanan’s Cabinet, he wrote a letter to Secretary Toucey, which should be printed to-day, to show the people that the country is safe in the hands of men of high character, irrespective of race, color, creed or politics.

Let us modestly ask what draws the intellectual cream to the modest house 707 H street? The press, artists, scholars, travelers, the President, members of the Cabinet, and the portable brains of both branches of Congress; the real heads of the Departments; the cultivated and most highly appreciated of our Washington citizens, go there as the “faithful” enter a Mahommedan mosque. The eye is not dazzled with satin and ebony. The feast or collation is invisible. Would you know the secret, reader? The master and his daughter are the magnets, and this is the explanation. A certain human quality is possessed by the Hon. Horatio King unlike the usual gems which comprise our national crown jewels. He is the only instance of the kind since our Government was founded where a man began with the lowest clerkship, salary $1,000 per year, and was promoted step by step, without political influence, simply by the force of integrity of character, until he stood on the last round, a full-fledged Cabinet minister. It was his mind that moulded, in a great measure, our foreign postal relations as they existed a few years ago. In manner he reminds one of the late William H. Seward, possessing in a remarkable degree the same simplicity, dignity, and grace. Now add the courtliness of the English nobleman without the condescension, and the role is filled. This delightful compound makes the highest title a citizen can win. It is called the true American gentleman.

And the daughter, Mrs. Annie King, for though a widow she retains the family name. Who remembers Miss Harriet Lane when she presided at the White House, her regal manners, her queenly beauty, her high tone of character? The sun by day or the moon by night would as soon be a subject for the scandalmonger as the accomplished niece of the President. Have we any such women left in Washington? It is true they are rare, but they are here, just as diamonds of the first water are found in remote parts of the earth. The portrait of Mrs. King bears a striking resemblance to those of Miss Harriet Lane taken when she was “the leading lady of the land.” Mrs. King is the favorite “American lady” with the foreign legations. Her residence abroad made her familiar with the French language, which she speaks as fluently as English. Some great writer has said “that all we have to show for the civilization of five thousand years is the difference between a wigwam and a lady’s parlor.” Let us beg to differ with the man who wrote that. At least, before the writer gave such a final decision about civilization, he should have come to Washington and attended a President’s levee, a Cabinet crush, and then beached himself high and dry at 707 H street.