Miss Jenny Lowry was among the belles of this season. I had known her brother when he was at Harvard and took a great liking to the beautiful sister, who, with her soft Andalusian eyes, looked like a Murillo Madonna.
The house of Senator Frelinghuysen of New Jersey was made attractive by his three daughters, all much liked and admired. There were pleasant Saturday afternoons at Brentwood, the home of Mrs. Carlyle Patterson, and Thursday “At Homes” at Mrs. William Richardson’s; best of all were the historic Sunday evenings at the Loring’s on K Street. The elder Miss Loring was a close student of political history. At the Loring salon one met the leading statesmen and diplomats, many of whom, it was said, consulted Miss Loring with reference to the political events she followed so intelligently. I have grateful memories of a son of the house, Doctor Frank Loring, the oculist, who took my friend Helen Gardner and myself under his wing and introduced us to the young dancing set, in whose company we played happily through several blissful weeks. In reward for all his kindness, we gave him the title of “Mother in Israel” and never spoke of him by any other name.
An old visiting list helps me to recall this Washington visit. Until I unearthed the little morocco book with my name written on the flyleaf in Uncle Sam’s hand, I had quite forgotten I had ever known some of the people who called upon and entertained us, though some stand out strong and clear. “Major General Fremont” rouses no flash of memory, whereas “Mr. Thomas F. Bayard” evokes the shade of one of the most exquisite of gentlemen, of such winning personality that he was beloved even by those politically opposed to him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carl Schurz.” I can remember nothing of the lady, but the strongly marked features of Schurz, harsh but intelligent, his keen hard eyes behind the gleaming glasses, his foreign accent, are as fresh as if I had met him yesterday. He was then Senator from Missouri, a marked man. His most important work for civil service reform came later, when he was Secretary of the Interior under President Hayes.
James G. Blaine, the “Plumed Knight”, then speaker of the House, was much in evidence. I never missed a chance to hear him speak. He was a natural orator, swaying his audience exactly as a good actor does. Mr. Blaine was then trying for the Republican nomination for President in the coming campaign of 1876, another bitter contest like the election of 1872. This was before Blaine, as Secretary of State under Garfield, had begun the great constructive policy of Pan-Americanism with which his name will always be linked. Though I remember the Blaines in Washington I saw them later more familiarly at their pleasant old house at Augusta, Maine, overlooking the Kennebec. Here I came under the magnetic influence for which Blaine was famous, and can testify to its control over his political friends and followers, whose devotion to their leader I have only once known surpassed. Walker Blaine, the oldest son, was a brilliant man, with his father’s fluency and grasp. The second son, Emmons, I knew better, and he once made a visit at Oak Glen; he was a genial, delightful young fellow, with certain quaint turns of speech I have never forgotten.
At the time I was far more interested in the young diplomats and officers with whom I danced than with the men who were making history in Washington. To-day, I can hardly recall the name or face of one of my dancing partners, while President Grant, Vice President Wilson, Mr. Fish, Senator Boutwell (Charles Sumner’s successor) and the other prominent figures of the time are perfectly clear to me. It may be because I have frequently seen portraits of them, but I am inclined to believe it is a case of subconscious self taking notice and registering impressions, while conscious self danced the german!
I remember interesting gatherings at George Bancroft’s house on H Street. Uncle Sam had been a scholar at Round Hill School, kept by Doctor Coggeshall and Mr. Bancroft when they and the century were young. Mr. Bancroft seemed to me very old, though he still had a good many years of life before him. He was a small man with the nearsighted eyes of a scholar, a white beard, and rather an argumentative manner. I remember hearing him say that the first ten volumes of his History of the United States were published exactly forty years before the last volume. He was fond of young company, and I was more than once flattered by his talking with me when there were older and wiser people present; he knew what I am now learning, that the elixir of youth can only be administered by the young!
There was more ceremony in Mrs. Bancroft’s ménage than was then common; once an ambassadress always an ambassadress. One did not forget that with her husband she had represented our country at the Courts of St. James and Potsdam. Mrs. Bancroft’s son, Alexander or “Sandy” Bliss, a friendly soul who went by the sobriquet of “Arabia Felix”, was very kind in keeping me supplied with partners at the Washington balls.
Helen Gardner, who was with us on our Washington visit, was then in her first bloom, a slender brunette with a sparkling personality, a wit, a charm, an originality that made her a prominent figure wherever she was. I like to remember Helen’s hazel eyes at this time, before they had shed the many tears that must have been her portion, though I never saw a trace of one! Helen, the reserved, the high-spirited, was full of distances that sometimes made her seem beyond the reach of human sympathy. Her hazel eyes were covered by the smoothest eyelids I ever saw; when she looked down, they were like the petals of a white magnolia blossom. Her sense of humor was so subtle that it carried her lightly over disasters that would have overwhelmed another. She was a born princess, and though most of her life she lacked a court, she never lacked courtiers. She had the “fatal fascination” of the other Helen, though it was she who suffered from it, not her suitors. It never hurt any man to have loved Helen, but it interfered with much that she might have accomplished. It takes a deal of time and power to be fascinating, and yet who of her generation who remembers her bright willful presence, her whimsical talk, would have changed her an iota?
Washington without Charles Sumner was to my mother “Hamlet” with Hamlet left out. Sumner had died during my parents’ absence in Santo Domingo the year before. At the time of his death, Sumner’s sister, Mrs. Hastings, telegraphed from San Francisco, asking me to place a wreath upon her brother’s grave. A public funeral was given him by the State of Massachusetts, from which women were excluded. When the authorities heard of Mrs. Hastings’ request they decided that it must be honored. I well remember that March day when I drove to Mt. Auburn in the first carriage behind the hearse, the only woman in the funeral procession. The black horses walked the entire way from the State House to Mt. Auburn, six or seven miles; the tramp, tramp of the military escort, the feet of that great host of mourners, seemed to beat out the refrain: