The Olivia Letters - Emily Edson Briggs

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a governor—none of your milk-and-water kind—and who looks every inch a governor, as much as the great Napoleon looked like an emperor. We have so many “figure-heads,” which are the result of the appointing power, that when the real article turns up let us thank President Grant for his act, for it makes no difference to us whether he does the right thing by design or mistake. But the governor’s ball. Everybody was there. The governor stood at the entrance of the broad door that led to the right of the hall, arrayed with the usual ministerial black-looking robe, and acting only as a governor should. By his side stood my lady, tall, elegantly dressed in charming simplicity. She is still very youthful to be called to occupy so prominent a place. Her dress was simple white muslin with an overdress of black velvet, white ruche at the throat with tiniest of rosebuds in the pleatings; no jewels, no gewgaws. She must have taken Madame Thiers, the wife of the early President of the French Republic, for her model, or, later still, Madame MacMahon, not only the first lady but one of the most sensible women in France.

      The governor’s mansion is admirably arranged for entertaining large companies. The rooms seemed to be fastened to the arc of a circle. The guests entered the broad folding doors, followed on from room to room, and came out near the point where they started; a turning wheel of glaring colors, a huge human kaleidoscope—what better comparison? We will suppose you are behind the governor, as Mephistopheles is said to have stood behind Faust. But then you are only a harmless correspondent, and the image is in the very worst taste; and yet, even in newspaper comparisons, it is well to keep all the best things for one’s self. You are behind the shadow of the governor—invisible, you see nothing, but you feel a great deal. A turn of the wonderful kaleidoscope and there comes to view the great warrior Tecumseh, sometimes called General Sherman, the Beau Brummel of fashionable life in Washington. Straight as one of those guns he carried so successfully to the sea, and just about as useful at the present day, yet very dear to us, because he is the best paid for the least work of any man in the Union. And yet he was seen at the Burns Festival, as well as many other places, with Vinnie Ream on his arm, and who knows what the veteran warrior may have suffered? Vinnie is not large, neither is a Minie ball, and yet if either one should hit the mark the most direful consequences might follow. When we compare Vinnie Ream to the great men who work in stone she grows beautifully less, but when we compare her with women she rises almost beyond feminine proportions. She is a very small man, but a very great woman. Go ahead, Vinnie! Bust Tecumseh, or somebody else will! Our great men must be busted by some one, and women ought to have a hand in that kind of work. We intend to write a book about the famous women of Washington, and you, dear, persecuted, self-sacrificing little sprite, shall have almost the best place.

      Another turn of the wheel. Who comes there? It is our tall, lordly speaker of the House—our handsome would-be next President—polished as steel, and Colfaxian to the last degree, except the smile. But he is our Speaker of the House, and, as Don Quixote said about his own Dulcinea, we challenge the world in his defence, and if an enemy chooses to break a lance they can do so at their own risk.

      Here comes Mrs. Blaine, frozen as a New England landscape in midwinter. The salt mist of the gray sea! Ugh! ugh! Turn the kaleidoscope quick. The air is so cold the artificial flowers are nipped by the frost.

      And here is the sunny, laughing Gail Hamilton. Her warm face and yellowish hair would melt an iceberg. Even her dress is the color of sunbeams. Why is she not sent to open the Northwest passage? It is true Franklin, Kane, and Hall have failed, but that is because they did not take along enough fire. And yet we could not spare Gail, for what single woman would be left to teach married ones how to manage their husbands? Who would teach us how to bring up our children in a bazaar-like way? It is true Gail Hamilton is not a mother, but this may be her misfortune, besides she may not be old enough to assume such enormous responsibilities in a small way.

      A galaxy of stars blaze in the neighborhood of Gail Hamilton. The woman in black with such elegant lace is Mrs. Lander, of histrionic fame. Queen Elizabeth on the stage! Queen Elizabeth in private life! This is her court—dukes, lords, princes of republican blood. A wave of the jeweled hand and they are gone.

      A ship full-rigged, with a fair wind, in the offing. It is great and good Mrs. Ann S. Stevens, Philadelphia’s fair jewel; long may she blaze. What a faultless costume! Quaker color, and such glorious lace. By her side stands her slender, amber-haired daughter, clad in white satin and tarletan, with pearls at her snowy throat and thin ears; “blooded,” you may be sure of that.

      Who next? Octavia Le Vert, only child of Madame Le Vert—scarlet satin gown, great, black Oriental eyes, exotic of the South. She makes you think of a magnolia blossom, even the perfume in imagination stifles you. This is Madame Le Vert, sweet, loving, trustful woman—hurt her? Not much, if you only knew how to avoid it. She steals your heart out of your bosom, you cannot tell how; you only feel that you have missed something, you search for it and it is gone. Oh! these Southern women, so savage in war, so loving, so winning in peace. Our John used to say “you can’t trust ’em.” But who wants to trust ’em. We never expect to marry a woman if life and death were staked on the result.

      Another turn of the human kaleidoscope, lo! here is Congressman Harmer, of Philadelphia, with his handsome wife. What a superbly matched pair. Quicker than electric flash the mind goes back to Eden, to the first Adam and the first Eve, and you are comforted with the proof that creation goes on in pretty much the same faultless way, making pairs, each half for the other. It is true there is often a missing link, but that makes the union all the more beautiful by comparison of the broken parts tossed helplessly on a sea of trouble. But Mrs. Harmer, her dress must have been faultless, for alas, nothing is remembered but her fine figure and handsome face.

      General and Mrs. Albright were there. Pennsylvania at large had to be represented, and who could do this so well as this kind-hearted, able, and accomplished woman, with her husband to do all the heavy work. She reminds one of a piece of sterling gold. In the course of years she will lose no appreciable weight. How about increasing in value? She will increase just like this precious metal, for suppose we drain the country for exports, and water the currency, and the bottom of the mines fall out? This is a fruitful subject, but no time to do it justice.

      But there was a woman there whose gorgeous outfit reminded one of the tales in the Arabian Nights. Her jewels were of the rarest and most costly kind. With the exception of a necklace worn by a Peruvian beauty, and the Russian gems which used to adorn Madame Bodisco, nothing has been seen lately at the capital so dazzling. A pendant pearl, which hung from the centre of the enchanted string around her neck, was as large as the egg of a humming-bird. Oh, the diamonds, the emeralds, and all the other precious stones! There was a mass of silk, feathers, and lace, and no doubt a woman swaddled somewhere, but she could not be seen for the imprisoned glory of those shining stones. She went away before 12 o’clock, else no doubt her godmother would have turned her fine horses into mice. Who was she? Listen, now; hold your breath! if we must tell—the wife of the correspondent of the New York Herald!

      “Who is that man, did you say?” This is he whom the cruel Don Piatt has dubbed the “Mighty Mullet,” and yet the facetious Don may be telling more truth than he intends, for, like the noiseless coral, he is at work rearing his strongholds all over the land. Think how many glorious tombstones he will have, pyramids that will last hundreds of years. He is our Ptolemy. Who dares dispute it? When asked his opinion of a celebrated beauty he replied: “If she only had a southern exposure and that attic story was removed and a French roof put in its place, she would be all right.” Architecturally speaking, I mean. A man never should have but one idea, if it is the right one, and a great architect should have nothing but a house in his head.

      But the saddest part was when this great performance was drawing to a close. The writer, in company with Colonel Magruder, went down to the subterranean regions below. Such a sight met the eye of the spectator. Colonel Magruder said that nothing had ever been done in comparison to it by the board of public works. “It is a matter of money. I can tell you that,” said he, “and no appropriation.” The tables still groaned under the fragments of the enormous feast. But the caterers and waiters were in a fainting condition. For hours they had gallantly stood at the plates, and still the coming of morn would insure safety to the enemy advanced, and it was feared that only besieged. The first three hours exhausted the vast

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