Walks about Washington

by Francis E. Leupp

The first great reception in Jefferson’s administration occurred on the fourth of July next following his inauguration. For some reason, possibly because the novelty of his sweeping invitation prevented its being generally understood by the populace, only about one hundred persons presented themselves. A luncheon was served, in the midst of which the Marine Band entered, playing the “President’s March,” or, as we call it, “Hail Columbia.” The company fell in behind and joined in a grand promenade, with many evolutions, through the rooms and corridors of the ground floor, returning at last to the place whence they had started and resuming their feast of good things.

As he was a widower when he succeeded Adams at the head of the Government, and it was not feasible, most of the time, for either of his daughters to preside over his public hospitalities, Jefferson naturally turned for aid to Mrs. James Madison, wife of his Secretary of State. He despised empty precedent; and when, at a diplomatic dinner, he led the way to the dining-room with Mrs. Madison instead of offering his arm to Mrs. Merry, wife of the British Minister and dean of the corps, he defied all the old-world canons. Mrs. Merry withdrew in high dudgeon, and her husband made the incident the subject of a communication to the Foreign Office in London.

Dolly Madison’s fondness for society counterbalanced the indifference of her husband—a little, apple-faced man with a large brain and pleasant manners but no presence, of whom every one spoke by his nickname, “Jemmy.” She is described as a “fine, portly, buxom dame” with plenty of brisk small-talk. She knew little of books, but made a point of having one in her hand when she received guests who were given to literature; and she would have peeped enough into it to enable her to open conversation with a reference to something she had found there. One of the celebrities she entertained was Humboldt, the scientist, concerning whom she wrote: “We have lately had a great treat in the company of a charming Prussian baron. All the ladies say they are in love with him. He is the most polite, modest, well-informed, and interesting traveler we have ever met, and is much pleased with America.” Another was Tom Moore, who, though embalming in verse some of the spiteful spirit he had absorbed from the Merrys, in later years recanted these utterances.

As she was praised everywhere for the beauty of her complexion, it is disconcerting to learn from a candid biographer that Mrs. Madison was wont to heighten her color by external applications, and now and then, through an accident of the toilet, gave to her nose a rosy flush that was meant for her cheeks. We are told also that she was addicted to the fashionable snuff habit and kept always at hand a dainty little box made of platinum and lava, filled with her favorite brand of “Scotch,” which she would freely use at social gatherings and then pass around the circle of diplomatists who assiduously danced attendance upon her. This indulgence accounted for her carrying everywhere two handkerchiefs: one a bandanna tucked away in her sleeve, whence she could draw it promptly for what she called “rough work,” and the other a spider-web creation of lawn and lace, which she styled her “polisher” and wore pinned to her side.

Besides the British Minister with his standing grievance, which he advertised by never bringing Mrs. Merry to the President’s House after the fateful dinner, we read of two other foreign envoys who used to appear there spouseless. One was Sidi Mellanelli, who, Dr. Samuel Mitchill tells us, “came from Tunis to settle some differences between that regency and our Government. He is to all appearance upward of fifty years old; wears his beard and shaves his head after the manner of his country, and wears a turban instead of a hat. His dress consists simply of a short jacket, large, loose drawers, stockings, and slippers. When he goes abroad he throws a large hooded cloak over these garments; it is of a peculiar cut and is called a bernous. The colors of his drawers and bernous are commonly red. He seldom walks, but almost always appears on horseback. He is a rigid Mohammedan; he fasts, prays, and observes the precepts of the Koran. He talks much with the ladies, says he often thinks about his consort in Africa, and wonders how Congressmen can live a whole session without their wives.”

The other unaccompanied diplomat was the French Minister, General Turreau, a man of humble birth who had risen to some eminence during the recent revolution in his country. Having once been imprisoned, he improved the opportunity to make love to his jailer’s daughter and marry her; but he appears to have tired of his bargain, and it was no secret that they led a most inharmonious life. According to Sir Augustus Foster, he was in the habit of horsewhipping her to the accompaniment of a violoncello played by his secretary to drown her cries, and the scandalized neighbors had finally to interfere. Doctor Mitchill’s version of the affair is that the Minister tried to send his wife back to France, and that, when she refused to leave and raised an outcry, a mob gathered at their house and enabled her to escape and go to live in peaceful poverty in Georgetown. The Doctor has little to say of Turreau’s ability, but dwells impressively on “the uncommon size and extent of his whiskers, which cover the greater part of his cheeks,” and on the profusion of lace with which his full-dress coat was decorated.

Jerome Bonaparte, a younger brother of the first Napoleon, passed a good deal of time in Washington during the Jefferson administration and was one of the lions at the parties in the President’s House. Meeting Miss Elizabeth Patterson of Baltimore, he succumbed to her attractions and lost no time in suing for her hand. Her father was a bank president and one of the richest men in the United States, and the family, whose social position was unexceptionable, were far from having their heads turned by the proposed match, possibly feeling some misgivings as to future complications; but the young people would listen to no argument and were married. Mr. Jefferson wrote at once to the American Minister at Paris, telling him to lay all the facts before the First Consul and to make it plain that in the United States any marriage was lawful which had been voluntarily entered into by two single parties of full age. Nevertheless, the great Napoleon did not hesitate to treat the marriage as void, and Jerome lacked manliness to defy his brother and fight the matter out; but Mrs. Bonaparte, having spunk enough for two, stood up firmly for her rights as a wife to the end of her days, and commanded recognition for them everywhere outside of the imperial court.

A friend of Jefferson’s who came to Washington during his administration, and whose advent created not a little stir, was a man about seventy years of age, described as having “a red and rugged face which looks as if he had been much hackneyed in the service of the world,” eyes “black and lively,” a nose “somewhat aquiline and pointing downward” which “corresponds in color with the fiery appearance of his cheeks,” and a marked fondness for talk and anecdote. This was none other than Tom Paine, patriot, poet, political pamphleteer, and infidel. He was favorably remembered all over the United States for his writings in behalf of human rights, and for the leaflets and songs which had cheered the hearts of the Continental soldiers at the most discouraging pass in our War for Independence. After the Revolution, he had gone abroad as an apostle of popular liberty, and, though outlawed in England, had been permitted to cross to France to take his seat as a deputy in the proletariat National Assembly. There, among other acts which won him commendation, he raised his voice and cast his vote against the resolution which sent Louis XVI to the guillotine.

Appreciating his services to this country and also strongly sympathizing with the French type of democracy, Jefferson had invited Paine to come back to his native land in a United States war-ship; and the Federalist newspapers seized their chance to make partisan capital by parading Paine’s religious heterodoxy and charging Jefferson with having brought him home to undermine the morals of our people. Jefferson had considerable difficulty in counteracting the effects of the accusation, for his own opinions had been for a good while under fire, and it was not a day of nice distinctions. Probably in this more tolerant age a man like Paine would be given due credit for his practical benevolence even when mixed with a hatred of ecclesiasticism, and Jefferson would find himself not out of place in the Unitarian fold.

When Jefferson was not occupied with affairs of state or entertaining visitors, he was fond of sitting in what he called his “cabinet”—a room which he had fitted up to suit his own fancy. The rest of the house was rather unhomelike. The east room was still unfinished, and through the others were strewn articles of furniture which, though good in their way, were not especially suggestive of comfort; many of them were relics of the Washington régime, brought from Philadelphia. But in the cabinet stood a long table with drawers on each side, filled with things dear to their owner’s heart. One contained books with inscriptions from their authors; another, letters and manuscripts; a third, a set of carpenter’s tools for his amusement on rainy days; a fourth, some small gardening implements, and so on. Around the walls were maps, charts, and shelves laden with standard literature. Flowers and potted plants were everywhere, and in the midst of a bower of these hung the cage of his pet mockingbird; but the door of the cage was rarely shut when the President was in the room, for he loved to have the bird fly about freely, perch on his shoulder, and take its food from his lips.