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.
A long line of ladies had been invited by President Arthur to help him receive. The innovation of numbers was inaugurated by Mrs. Julia Grant, when she presided at the White House. It is not known whether Mrs. Grant meant to emulate Eugenie surrounded by her court, yet the effect is somewhat the same. The leading lady who modestly stood at the head is Mrs. Frelinghuysen, dressed in black silk, without the slightest pretense of doing anything but her duty. How tired and worn every feature of her face seemed, turned into an interrogation point, which asked, what does it all amount to any way? Then came the wife of the Attorney-General. Mrs. Brewster wore a royal robe of ruby velvet. Another lovely face was that of the wife of the young Secretary of War. Mrs. Lincoln wore Spanish lace over old gold satin. Although the youngest of the cabinet circle, Mrs. Lincoln’s whole childhood was associated with official society at the capital. Room only for one more of the stars that compose President Arthur’s galaxy of assistants—Mrs. Senator Logan, most queenly in appearance of all. Slightly taller than the others, with a face lighted with flashing black eyes and snowy hair rolled back in Martha Washington style, with rosy cheeks and pearly teeth, a veritable picture of “roses in the snow.” The saddest picture is Mrs. Blaine in the background, bereft of her official crown, disappointment peeping out of her face covertly, as the picket guard watches for the foe.
The Supreme Court marches by, but some of its members are absent. Afterwards file by the veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, wearing a badge which indicates devotion to a cause. Now a cold, sad wave comes down the long corridors following the gay throng which has just passed. It is the Oldest Inhabitants Association—encased in the frozen armor of age. There is a brush. A sigh that seems to breathe from everything around. It is gone. The beautiful ladies who stood by President Arthur are gone, because all that is “official” has drifted by. There is a muffled sound—the crowd, the strangers, the citizens of the District are coming. Policemen begin to appear, they are strewn around as though a siege were about to begin, but President Arthur shows not the least sign of weariness; he shakes every offered hand. “Where are the ladies who were to receive with the President?” is anxiously asked. “Gone to their own receptions,” is answered from somewhere. A bit of a woman appears leading a little child. It is such a tiny speck, but its sweet face peeps out from its fleecy hood as an angel’s might from under the mist. There are no grand dames around—only the people. President Arthur takes the little one in his hands, then he lifts it high, and gives the humble little tot a kiss. It was so exquisitely done that it seemed the work of inspiration. With this incident the ceremonies came to a close, whilst the Marine Band was playing its choicest airs, composed by its talented leader to inaugurate the new year.
Olivia.
[AT THE TRIAL OF GUITEAU.]
Anecdotes of the Judge, Jury, and Audience.