Chapter XV: Part 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLIVIA.

LACK OF A LEADER.

SOCIETY WITHOUT A RULING SPIRIT TO TAKE THE INITIATIVE.

WASHINGTON, _February 18, 1881_.

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

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.

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.