patched up, both men publicly withdrawing their offensive remarks, and a brother Senator making some appropriate gratulatory observations on the reconciliation. Then Clay gave the final dramatic touch to the scene by crossing the chamber to where his late adversary sat, saying aloud: “King, give me a pinch of your snuff!” King, surprised, sprang up and held out both a snuff-box and an open hand, while Senators and spectators applauded to the echo.
Clay was a slimly built man who always appeared for action clad in a solemn suit of black, with a claw-hammer coat, a stiff silk stock, and a huge white “choker” with pointed ears. His face was spare and his forehead high, his cheekbones were prominent, the nose between them was slender and forceful, and the mouth wide, thin-lipped, and straight-cut. His lank hair, naturally of a tawny hue, became early streaked with gray and was worn long enough to fringe his coat collar. He was approachable in manner, had a most genial smile, and was ready with a pleasant response to every greeting, its effect being intensified by its musical clarity of enunciation. He was distinctly fond of society and especially enjoyed a game of cards. Although his wife accompanied him to Washington, she appeared little with him in public. She was a good woman with few gifts, but a devoted mother, and her chief joy in life was to sew for her six children. Wherever he went, Mr. Clay was always surrounded by a circle of adoring women, who hung upon every word of the many he uttered as he talked in desultory style with his back against a sofa-cushion. He followed a free fashion of his time in taking toll from the lips of all the young and pretty maidens he met. The first time he saw Dolly Madison, her youthful face and dainty dress misled him into saluting her in this fashion. On discovering his mistake, “Ah, madam,” he pleaded gallantly, “had I known you for whom you are, the coin would have been larger!”
I may add in passing that the American navy owes its monitor type of fighting-craft largely to Henry Clay. Theodore Timby, who invented the revolving turret which Ericsson used during the Civil War, came to Washington bearing a letter of introduction to Clay, who became interested in the idea and helped him get the patent without which it might have been lost to the world.
Webster was cast in quite a different mold from Clay. He was godlike where Clay was human; his eloquence overwhelmed his hearers where Clay’s fascinated them. He had a big head, a big frame, a big voice, a big presence. Emerson speaks of his “awful charm.” Some one who heard him condemn the dishonest gains of a certain financial institution, says that the word “disgorge,” as he uttered it, “seemed to weigh about twelve pounds.” Once Mrs. Webster brought their little son to hear his father deliver an oration. Daniel began a sentence in his thunder-tone: “Will any man dare say—” and the audience were waiting breathless to hear what was coming next, when a wee, piping voice responded from the gallery: “Oh, no, no, Papa!”
His greatest effort in Congress, of course, was his reply to Hayne. Everybody in Washington was eager to hear it, and galleries and floor, including the platform on which the Vice-president sat, were crowded to the last limit. Representative Lewis of Alabama, being unable to gain access to the hall, climbed around behind the wooden framework which flanked the platform and bored a hole through it with his pocket-knife in order to get a view of the great expounder. At a levee that evening at the White House, Webster was besieged by admirers offering congratulations. Among the crowd that drew near him at one time happened to be Hayne himself. “How are you, Colonel Hayne?” was Webster’s greeting. “None the better for you, sir,” answered Hayne, good humoredly but with sincere feeling.
We are treated to another picture of him when he arrived late at a concert given by Jenny Lind. For the benefit of the statesmen who were present, Miss Lind, for an encore, sang “Hail Columbia.” Webster, who had been dining, was on his feet in an instant and added his powerful bass voice to hers in the chorus. Mrs. Webster did all she could to induce him to sit down, but he repeated his effort at the close of every verse, and with the last strain made the songstress a profound obeisance, waving his hat at the same time. Miss Lind curtsyed in return, Webster repeated his bow, and this little comedy of etiquette was kept up for some minutes, to the delight of the audience.
CHAPTER VI
THROUGH MANY CHANGING YEARS
WITH the advent of the Monroes, social life at the President’s House underwent a transformation. Its character could have been forecast from the fact that, although for the six years Monroe had been at the head of the Cabinet his family had been with him in Washington, they were as nearly strangers to the great body of citizens as if they had been living in New York or Boston. If a lady wished to call on Mrs. Monroe, she had to apply for an appointment and have a day and hour fixed, unless she were a member or intimate of some former Presidential family. In this administration, too, was born to Washington its first formal code of social precedence, which, with certain modifications in detail, has remained unchanged to this day. It differs from the codes of other American communities in having official rank as a basis. John Quincy Adams, before becoming Secretary of State, had served at various times as envoy to five European courts. He was therefore ripe with information on the rules observed abroad and resolved on bringing something of the same sort into operation at our capital.
Mrs. Monroe and her daughters made it an absolute rule to pay no visits; so calls made on them, no matter by whom, went unreturned. Their dislike of the underbred caused them to take no part in the preparations for the general levees, which were thronged with anybody and everybody; but their invitation list for select receptions was cut down mercilessly, and the reduced company were treated to supper, an innovation on recent practices. At all such entertainments Mrs. Monroe was so exacting in her demands as to dress that when one of her near relatives presented himself in an informal costume which he had worn without criticism at the best of the Jefferson and Madison functions, she refused him admittance till he should don the regulation small-clothes and silk hose.
The Monroes renamed the east room “the banqueting hall” and had their state dinners there, partly because of its spaciousness, and partly because the dining-room had been so badly damaged in the fire that it took a long time to rehabilitate. The table appointments included a central oval “plateau” twelve feet long by two feet wide, composed of a mirror “surrounded by gold females holding candlesticks.” The china was highly gilt, and the dessert knives, forks, and spoons were of beaten gold. All the plate was the private property of the family and bore the initials “J. M.”; much of it was afterward purchased by the Government and made a part of the official furnishing of the White House, where it remained in use down to Van Buren’s day.