The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3
LETTER XCVI.
DEVOTED PRINCIPALLY TO SOCIAL MATTERS, AND THE BENIGNANT BEARING OF V. GAMMON AT A DIPLOMATIC SOIREE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., July 3d, 1863.
Social life at our National Capital, my boy, as far as the nativeelement is concerned, has not been refined by the war; and even at theWhite House it is scarcely possible to collect an assemblage of personssufficiently genteel by education to speak familiarly of Europeannoblemen of their acquaintance. At the last dinner given by theSecretary of State, there were actually three Western persons of muchcheek-bones, who dissented from the very proper idea that Earl Russel'sCarlton-house sherry is superior to anything we have in this country;and my disgust intensified to hopeless scorn, when an Eastern chap in anankeen vest was brazen enough to confess that he could not tell howmany pieces the Emperor of the French had in the wash on the last weekof Lent. At other social gatherings in Washington I have noticed thesame evidences of growing vulgarity; and I greatly fear, my boy,--Igreatly fear that a knowledge of Europe will yet be more prevalentamongst Europeans than Americans. O my country, my native land! has itindeed come to this at last? In thy loftiest social circles shall we nomore behold that beautiful flesh-colored being in lavender gloves anddress-coat whose etherealized individuality broke rapturously forth inthe thrilling words, "When I was in Paris last summer"? Are we no moreto palpitate with ecstasy at the tones of that voice which was wont totrill forth in liquid music from a curl-crested fountain of whiteshoulders, saying: "Don't you remember, Mr. Thompsion, how the Guke ofLeeds larfed that day, at the Reception, when I told him that weAmerican ladies thought it was vulgar to say 'garters' out loud?" Alas!my boy, our aristocracy is fading away like an abused exotic, and it isnot oftener than once in a season that the frequenter of our RepublicanCourt witnesses one incident to make him recognize the polished peoplehe once knew. About two months ago, at an evening party given by Mrs.Senator ----, I did witness a social incident, showing that there isstill hope for the Republic. An interesting young mother, of not morethan sixty-two summers, attired in a babywaist and graduated flounces,was standing near one of the doors of the music-room conversing with meupon the moral character of her dearest female friend, when her gushingdaughter, a nymph not more than six pianos old, came pressing to herside, and whispered behind her fan,--
"Mamma _cheri_, may I donse with young Waddle?"
The maternal girl smiled grimly at the fragile suppliant, and asked:
"How much is his celery, _ma petite_?"
"Nine hundred, mamma, in the Third Auditor's."
"Then tell him, _mon ange_, that you are engaged for the next set, andwait until the thousand-dollar clerks come in. You know, _ma petite_,what the Count Pistachio said to you at Avignon about givingencouragement to anything less than four figures."
I could not avoid overhearing this conversation, my boy, for it was notheld in whispers, and I thought to myself, as I eyed the fashionablepair, "The Republic still lives."
It is, however, with the foreign embassies at Washington, that thegenuine aristocratic spirit still holds its normal own; and when Ilately received an invitation from a certain convivial diplomatist ofthe Set to be one of a select party of distinguished gentlemen at hisresidence on a certain evening, I felt that there was still anavailable balm in Gilead. Arriving in the rooms shortly before teno'clock, I found seven middle-aged gentlemen in cambric ruffles andscratch-wigs assembled around the wine-table, all pledging the healthof the Venerable Gammon, who had come up from Mugville expressly to bepresent. There was the French Marquis Non Puebla, on a visit to thiscountry to search for traces of one of the lost gravies of Apicius;Milord Gurgle, who had been deputed to convey to New York a pair ofSouthdown sheep, presented by the Zoological Gardens to Central Park;the Honorable Peter Pidger, who had once been to Europe to negotiatethe sale of some railroad stock; the Ambassador in person; and threeother respectable persons with no names, whose sole duty it was toindorse the Ambassador whenever he said anything about "datsigneeficant commencement of dees war at Bool Run." But the greatest ofthem all, my boy, was the Venerable Gammon, who smiled fatly as theydrank his health, and emptied his own crystal with a soft benignitywhich seemed to consecrate that brand of liquor forever.
"My friends," says the Venerable Gammon, waving an unctuous hand aroundthe board in a manner to confer blessings on the very nutcrackers,--"myfriends, I accept the honor for my country, and not for myself. Yourcountries bask in the sunshine of a powerful peace, while mine growsweak in despotic war. But do not spit upon us, my friends; do not crushus. We will do whatever you want us to do. War," says the VenerableGammon, beaming thoughtfully at the nearest wine-cooler,--"war may becalled the temporary weakness of a young country like ours; and if welearn not to value peace more than war as we grow older, it will onlybe because we do not learn to value war less than peace as we advanceto riper years."
Then all the respectable middle-aged gentlemen nudged each other tonotice _that_; and the Honorable Peter Pidger observed, in anundertone, to Milord Gurgle, that if the Government was only guided bysuch wisdom as that, the country might yet hope for favor from Europe.
"Ah!" says the Ambassador, reflectively, "I cannot help to recollectdat signeeficant commencement of dees war at Bool Run."
Whereupon the three middle-aged gentlemen with no names noddedmeaningly to each other, and murmured, in pitying chorus:
"Ah, yes indeed."
As I rode home to my hotel that night, my boy, and reflected upon thepolished observations I had listened to, it seemed to me that Europemust indeed be superior to a weak young country like ours, and thatSecretary Seward was but showing a proper respect for the dignity ofmonarchies in yielding gracefully to them whatever they asked, andestablishing in American history its first creation of knighthood,under the title of Sir Render. The Sword of '76 would have refused theaccolade; but that of '63 is of a milder temper.
On Wednesday, as I strolled lazily along the shore of Awlkuyet River,listlessly tossing pebbles into the placid stream, and paying noattention to any visible object save the severed branches of trees andbroken fragments of artillery-wheels which occasionally barred myprogress, a Mackerel picket suddenly touched me on the shoulder, andsays he, in a whisper,--
"You mustn't be chucking stones into that air water, or you'll wake upthe Captain which is asleep."
I glanced askance at him from under my vizor, and says I, "WhatCaptain, my trooper?"
"Why," says he, "the Captain of the Blockade, over yonder."
I looked in the direction indicated by his finger, my boy, and beheldthe sloop-of-war Morpheus at anchor near a small inlet leading to theriver from the up-country.
"Why, my Union champion," says I, wonderingly, "I should like to knowat what time the Captain makes it a practice to retire?"
"Ah!" says the Mackerel picket, leaning upon his musket, and lookingdreamily over the water, "he's all the time retiring--he's been putupon the 'Retired' list."
Here was a man, my boy, an American, like you or me, brought up in acountry where education is free to all, and yet he had no clearer ideaof the functions of our Naval Retiring Board than such as happened tobe suggested to his instinct by what he could see of the nationalblockade service!
Yours, amazedly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.