Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Social aspect of Washington before the disunion - Part 1
SOCIAL ASPECT OF WASHINGTON BEFORE THE DISUNION.
I write of Washington as it will never be again—ere this disastrous conflict inflamed the passions and excited the animosities of not only the North against South, but of one member of a family against another, dividing the closest ties and embittering all social relations.
It was evident to the reflecting, four years ago, that some great revolution was at hand.
Division of the States was constantly discussed. “A bad sign of the times,” said an old Senator to me, “for, in my youth, any one who had mooted the subject would have been ignominiously scouted in society.”
But it was not to discuss politics I took up my pen, as the subject is trite, and stinks in the nostrils of the superficial reader; my aim was rather to sketch the state of society during the last years of the union—its amusements, its tone, and its effect on the mind of a “Britisher.”
The first social duty was a presentation at the White House, or Executive Mansion, as it had been re-named by Miss Lane.
The President appointed the evening as the time when I was to have the honour of introduction to his presence, and it was a rude shock to British feelings, accustomed to pomp and grandeur, as the natural accessories to power, to find the President of the Republic of the United States living in the palace of the nation much as a bankrupt merchant might, by kind permission of his creditors, occupy the scene of his past glories until his affairs were wound up. Certainly the highest in the land gave example of the strictest economy, one wavering lamp just enabled us to trace the outline of the handsome Greek portico, while awaiting the tardy answer to the bell. At last peered through the door a dirty Irishman, who, having satisfied himself as to our identity, reluctantly half opened the door to let us through, and then preceded us along some dim passages to the presence-chamber. During this rather lengthy walk I had leisure to admire the Republican simplicity of his attire, which was not only dingy and greasy, but boasted of sundry rents and patches.
This functionary, who united in his ragged person the offices of chamberlain and usher of the white rod, having retired, we amused ourselves by criticising the tawdry furniture and decorations, and studying the by no means prepossessing features of the great Washington, founder of the Immortal Republic.
At length in shambled A tall, uncouth figure, arrayed much in the fashion of Dominie Sampson, in ill-made morning clothes, and with huge feet encased in muddy boots; to my surprise, all around me were doing obeisance to President Buchanan. With head on one side, he advanced, shook hands with ungainly courtesy, and begged us to be seated. His venerable grey locks, hanging in waving masses on his shoulders, and his high, bossy forehead, lent him an air of pseudo-benevolence which his sly mouth belied. The audience soon ended, his extreme caution and reserve freezing all efforts at conversation.
The same awkwardness with which he had made his entrance, marked his exit as he shuffled off the scene.
The winter time is the season of gaiety at Washington, and well the Americans economise every moment. They wisely prefer seeing their friends, to being merely acquainted with the outside of their doors, as so frequently happens in London. Instead, therefore, of packs of cards being exchanged—most fruitless folly—each lady proclaims to her acquaintances which day of the week she will receive from twelve till four, and in that way has the pleasure, not only of really meeting her friends weekly, but also has the option of six days to herself unmolested by visitors.
To give an idea of the working of this system—Monday, all the government ministers’ wives receive; Tuesday, all the senators’ wives; Wednesday, the houses of the diplomates are thrown open; Thursday, the judges’ wives entertain; and so on, from one week’s end to another, all the winter.
In this way those who wish can pay eight or ten visits a day in proportion to the time they wish to kill.
Let me briefly describe a morning reception in the height of the season:
At the door stands the lady of the house, resplendent in the last ultra French fashions, ready with a compliment for every new comer, who must return the same, both capital and interest, and besides assuring her she looks “quite lovely,” must titillate her vanity by insinuating how superior her reception is to the eight or ten he has already visited.
Gratified pride and vanity increased the good lady’s complacency, and being profusely bespattered with compliments, and satiated with flattery, she swims about the room like a peacock on a sunny day, with all its plumes spread for admiration. The visitor having discharged his volley of pretty nothings, then rushes boldly into the busy talking throng, which gives the salon the appearance of an auction-room, as the talkers seldom sit down. Such a buzz as there is, such significant little groups, canvassing with the utmost volubility and vehemence the current topics of the day, the last duel murder, row in the House of the Representatives, or savage onslaught in the Senate.
The young ladies generally cluster round the inevitable refreshment-table, and, while distributing broiled oysters, chocolate, cakes, and wine, keep at least six or eight “beaux” each in full talk. Sometimes, in the largest houses—such as that of the late Senator Douglas, the well-known “little giant,”—the shutters would be shut, the gas lighted, the musicians summoned, and a dance got up, which would last with unflagging energy till six in the evening, when the exhausted dancers found a ball-supper prepared to revive them. To see the pretty girls whirling about, some with bonnets and cloaks on, reminded one too much of Cham’s Illustrations of the “Jardin des Fleurs.” Certainly the à-plomb and conversational powers of the American girl makes her more amusing in society than her English cotemporary. There is, in fact, no “missyism” among them, no striving to attract attention by assumed eccentricity or affectation of fastness. They have the utmost latitude conceded to them: a young “gurle” may talk with one or a score of her admirers all the evening without remark, select from among them the most congenial spirit to escort her to balls and to drive her in his “buggy” of an afternoon along Twelfth Avenue. She generally inscribes the name of the favoured one on her cards, as a hint that he is to be included in her invitations. The card itself is a curiosity, the conventional “Miss” being discarded and Molly Magee or Cynthia Graham simply inscribed on it. But of what use are cards, you will say, as they are never left? I forgot to say that on going to a reception you leave your cards with the “waiter” as you go in, and on the departure of the guests the lady counts them with as much eagerness and delight as a Red Indian counts his scalps.
To return to the young ladies, whose breaches of conventionalities would drive the old dowagers of Mayfair and Belgravia mad, I cannot see as much to condemn in this system of perfect liberty as English people generally do. Girls seem thus to acquire a principle of self-reliance and self-respect, and a greater knowledge of the world and their own position, than they do in England. Men meet them on an equal footing, without dreading a scheming mamma in ambush. Cupid has fair play in the United States, and Hymen does not, as is too often the case in England, light his torch for a heartless contract. The young men prove their good title to the confidence reposed in them, and a father would without scruple send his daughter from New York to New Orleans under care of her “beau.” It by no means follows that the young lady marries the said party; he is merely a temporary social convenience, a purveyor of bouquets, favoured partner, and trusted coachman. The old people play a very kindly part, though perhaps there is on their side too entire an abnegation of authority. One lady said to me, “I guess my Narcissa is a right good girl, she always asks me to the parlour the night she receives.” They would on no account interfere to spoil the sports and frolics of the younger members of the society—or, as they emphatically express it by an idiom little known, “put a spider in their dumpling.” Yet all this unshackled liberty produces no bad effects; never did I hear a breath of scandal assail the maidens of Washington. Once married, the girls—particularly the Southern ones—settle into grave and staid matrons, household cares and duties supplant those of society, and, unless the husband holds some public office necessitating hospitality, the gay belle of a few seasons ago becomes a most “domestic” character, and looks back on her past gaiety and whirl of excitement without regret. In Baltimore, marriage almost excludes from society the flattered beauty of yesterday, transformed into Mrs. Greenleaf Parrott; or Mrs. Powhattan Ellis finds herself deserted, and gives up a society where she has no longer a place.
The American type is no longer Anglo-Saxon: it has lost the ruddy freshness, the race is smaller, more fragile; what is in the men meagreness and punyness, becomes littleness and delicate outline in the women. Their figures are very graceful, their complexion pure alabaster, their eyes large and expressive, their mouths well shaped. Classical outline of features is seldom or never seen; their voices are their only defects; perhaps it may be said, as in Gay’s fable, “the smallest speck is seen in snow.” I think especially of one “vision of delight,” whose short life was cut short by cold caught at her first ball. Only child and daughter of Captain Dahlgren, the American Armstrong, her sad fate thrilled every heart with sorrow. On the whole, the social condition of Washington is, or was, simpler than in England—to my mind, happier. You say frivolous—granted; but compare frivolity with frivolity, and is it worse than a London season?
Balls and routs, which are almost the same in every capital, had there an element of originality, as the men came frequently in morning coats and checked trousers, and an Orson, such as “Sam Houston,” is not to be seen every day. His adopted daughter, the child of a Cherokee or Sioux chief, was also unique in her way. Like the immortal Miss Schwartz, in “Vanity Fair,” her hands sprawled in her amber lap. Her large fierce eyes roamed restlessly among the crowd of dancers, and her terpsichorean performances betrayed the wild energy of a half-civilised savage. In the supper-room a young lady might be seen eating gigantic oysters off the same plate as her partner; and after the departure of her guests the careful housewife had to mourn the impressions left by wet ice-plates on her rose-coloured damask lounges.
But there is one entertainment which can be seen nowhere else—a Presidential Reception. Such a motley crew throng in at the door,—rowdies, cab drivers, belles, beaux; diplomates, like the new discovered fossil, half golden-scaled lizard, half-crested bird; last, not least, a troop of Red Indians in war paint, with their best necklaces of bears’ claws, come to do honour to their great father. Having first shaken hands with the President, who stood in the centre of a large saloon, we waited to watch the behaviour of the crowd. One and all insisted on vigorously shaking the poor old President’s hand, holding up afterwards their dirty brats to be kissed. The next day the President had rheumatism in his arm, and no wonder.