There is something so attractive in this warm, bright looking spot, that I must confess to a fascination here stronger than that inspired by the tiles, mosaics and bric-a-brac found elsewhere. Perhaps every feminine heart is sensitive to the dainty beauty of china, cut glass, and richly chased vessels of silver and gold, but the most unsusceptible would be moved to warmer enthusiasm over the set of Limoges faience, manufactured by the order of Mrs. Hayes. It consists of five hundred pieces, representing the fauna and flora of America, and each is a delicious study, bearing the impress of true artistic skill. The designs were all made by Mr. Theodore Davis, whose studio is upon one of the most romantic portions of the New Jersey coast. There, in his happy home, surrounded by wife, children and mother, far removed from the turmoil of the outer world, and borrowing inspiration from sea, sky and air, he labors, and sends forth the admirable results to an appreciative people. This china is a rich legacy to the White House families.
The grand corridor is hung with portraits of former Presidents; that portion of it from which the private stairway ascends is cut off for the exclusive use of the household. A marvelous light falls through the western window upon the cabinets with their treasures, the many flowering plants and inviting easy chairs. But even here history must intrude; a marble table of hexagon shape is said to have been the property of General Jackson, and tradition asserts that broken places here and there in the smooth surface are the traces of his seal ring when his hand was brought down with that terrible emphasis peculiar to him on certain occasions.
The elevator which was put in for “Grandma Garfield,” she never returned to the White House to use. The dreariest place, perhaps, under the roof, is the shabby, forlorn little cloak room, in which Minister Allen fell dead last January a year ago, at the New Year’s reception.
It is not an uninteresting spectacle, to stand just within the vestibule on Cabinet day, and observe the arrival of the nation’s arbiters, sandwiched between the throng. Perhaps a slight murmur is heard, and strangers turn toward the entrance. It might be a pleasant-faced countryman in his plain black clothes, but instead it is the Honorable Secretary of the Interior. Next, a stylish coupé, with an iron-gray horse, from which Postmaster-General Gresham and his chief clerk alight. The Postmaster-General is in the stalwart prime of life. He is tall and commanding, with strongly marked features. Immediately following him is a British tourist, with a glass screwed in his eye, who pauses to ask, before entering the East Room, “What do you call that cold-looking place there?” Then the Spanish Minister enters and passes so slowly up the stairway that one is involuntarily reminded of the inevitable manana (to-morrow) of his people, not one of whom has ever been in a hurry since the beginning of time. No matter what the service required of these children of the sun, unless a compelling power supplements the order, “Manana, manana,” is the response.
Another carriage rattles over the pavement, and a pale, spare man, with a white fringe under his chin, and close cropped hair, with a mysterious gloom upon his countenance, and bent, as if, like Atlas, he upbore the world upon his shoulders—passes with such an air as has never been known outside of the State Department. There they all have it in greater or less degree, messengers, clerks, and assistant secretaries. It is indescribable, but it is admirable. Even the high-stepping bay horses appear to be distinctly conscious of their position.
Next in order comes Attorney-General Brewster, who is without doubt the most gorgeous man in Washington. I say gorgeous advisedly. He wears an immense expanse of buff vest, a dark necktie, illuminated by a pin of diamonds clustering around a ruby center, light drab pantaloons, and lace ruffles about his wrists.
Secretary Folger has the aristocratic appearance which is the legitimate birthright of those wonderful old Nantucket families and their descendants. I need not ask you to pause longer at the entrance; the other notabilities are out of town to-day.
But after all its artistic finish, its rich decoration, the luxury apparent at a glance, there is a sense of something lacking in this grand habitation. All of these fine apartments leave the impression that they are mere show-places, not the habitual resorts of a family. One of my pet theories is that people’s houses always look like them—they transfer a portion of their personality to everything with which they come habitually into contact. Well, this is nobody’s home; it belongs to the government, and is illustrative of the national wealth and taste, but of no individual peculiarities. The question has often been debated of erecting another residence, which shall literally be the President’s home, while the present mansion shall be devoted exclusively to public receptions and official affairs. Then, and not till then, will the Chief Magistrate taste occasional immunity from outside trespassers, and enjoy a well earned repose.
Angel of Patience! sent to calm