THE WHITE HOUSE.
By Mrs. PATTIE L. COLLINS.
When Washington was in its infancy, and the patriots of that early day bethought themselves of the propriety of building a residence for the President, it was with some difficulty that they could decide what it should be called. In truth, this seemed a more serious question than location, expense, or architecture. Anything that suggested monarchies or kingdoms, such as the word “palace,” could not be entertained; not a trace of the effete despotisms of the Old World should be tolerated, even in our nomenclature. At last “Executive Mansion” was settled upon as a proper title. Any gentleman, provided it was sufficiently pretentious, might style his house a “mansion,” and the chosen executor of laws for the nation was not therefore set apart and above his fellow countrymen, when installed as chief magistrate. In the course of a few years, when only its blackened walls were left standing as mute witnesses that our British cousins still loved us, so much paint was required to efface the marks of the destroyer, when it was restored, that it gleamed white as snow in the distance, and naturally, nay almost inevitably, came to be called the “White House” by popular consent. And by this pretty, simple name the home of the Presidents will doubtless continue to be known as long as republican institutions endure. It is as different as possible in external appearance from the habitations of royalty in European cities; no iron-barred windows, better fitted for a fortress than ordinary outlook, no gloomy, gray walls, chilly and forbidding, frowning down upon you, no squalid tenements thronged with degraded specimens of humanity press upon its outskirts to accentuate the beauties of the one and the miseries of the other. Instead of this, the White House rises fair and inviting from an elevation which seems just sufficient to bring it into relief as a conspicuous feature of the landscape. Its north front looks toward Pennsylvania Avenue, commanding a view of Lafayette Square—itself a most interesting spot, containing the celebrated equestrian statue of Jackson, by Clark Mills, and grouped about it the cannon captured at the battle of New Orleans—while around it stand some of the many historic residences of the capitol. To the east and west of the President’s grounds, respectively, may be seen the Treasury, and the War, State and Navy Departments; the southern aspect is the most charming of all; flowers, trees and emerald lawn, with the music of falling water make up a picture as bewildering in loveliness as it is arcadian in simplicity, its boundary line being the Potomac, shining in the distance like a bit of blue sea, but disfigured by no great iron hulks or other sea monsters; only a modest little excursion steamer, now and then a tall three-masted schooner lazily rocking and glancing skyward, impatient to set sail.
With these surroundings a President must be singularly oblivious to the voices of nature, art and patriotism if he does not find about his temporary abode everything to minister to his higher nature.
At present, on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, the President usually receives from twelve to one o’clock; Tuesday and Friday are Cabinet days, and Monday he claims as absolutely his own. Of course if a Secretary, Senator or Representative should present himself upon urgent business, that would not admit of delay, the rule would be violated, but not otherwise.
The official etiquette of the White House remains about the same from generation to generation, but the social regime varies very much, according to the tastes of the temporary occupants. If, by a combination of fortuitous circumstances, an unpretending woman of limited education and provincial habits finds herself suddenly thrust into a position for which she is wholly unprepared by previous training, she fills it more or less acceptably, as she has tact and adaptability. These seem qualities which have not of late years been conspicuously characteristic of the “first ladies” of the land, no matter what their previous station; unless, indeed, an exception be made in favor of a certain beautiful woman, who was herself a more priceless treasure than any the White House contained.
A visitor going for the first time to the White House would suppose at a casual glance that it was a gala day, and all the world was thronging thither. It is rather surprising to learn that it is always the same. There are fine ladies and gentlemen who come in great state, foreigners of all nations, rustics from the depths of the forest, the perfectly blasé, the ignorant clown, the ubiquitous, irrepressible American child—all running rampant over the President’s house. Perhaps it would be just as well to go back to the very beginning, when this surging crowd presents itself at the main entrance. Few, fortunately, make the mistake of the intoxicated straggler who found his way into the grounds, and perceiving the three harmless gilded shells used in the way of very questionable ornamentation in front of the mansion, thus accosted a door-keeper: “Old man in?” Receiving only a look of dazed inquiry by way of reply, he continued, “Old ten per cent. money bags, I say?” At this juncture it dawned upon the official, so far as his sense of shocked dignity permitted him to receive any impression, that this besotted wretch actually supposed himself at a pawnbroker’s shop! But a much prettier story than this can be told of these empty shells: Formerly the birds built their nests in them, and now that the holes have been filled so that they can not, they yet come and perch and twitter and circle around their former dwelling-place.
Eight persons are required to stand guard at the entrance; not all at once, but to alternate and keep a sufficient number on duty. An imperative necessity has drawn the line of demarcation for White House sight-seers. Entering the hall they are ushered at once into the East Room, and having inspected it to their heart’s content, return by the same way they came, unless choosing to ascend to the waiting room on the second floor, and risk an opportunity of seeing the President. In this case, to a student of human nature a rare opportunity for study is presented. Hardened, chronic office-seekers, schemers, conscienceless plotters, shabby women, forlorn, dismal, nay, often heart-broken, pert, self-assured youth, and even the small boy, with ragged jacket, one illy-adjusted suspender and rusty shoes walks in with an air that could only have been begotten by the consciousness that he was a part of the republic. Much patience brings the vigil of each to a close, and if the business be simply to shake hands with the President, that ceremony is speedily accomplished. At present it would be something like this: Entering as other people go out (for the other people are always there, going out before you, and coming in after you), a tall gentleman, very grand and very dignified, quite like a gigantic icicle—but no, that comparison is derogatory—let us say like Pompey’s Pillar—stands Chester A. Arthur. He glances at your card mechanically, he takes you by the hand most indifferently, and in an inexpressible broad voice, without a single inflection, he says, “It is a very pleasant day.” You may say that you are charmed to have an opportunity to pay your respects to Mr. President, or any such nonsense that comes uppermost, but it is not of the least consequence what you say, or whether you say anything at all. That is all, and you may salaam yourself out of the side door.