Attractive Gatherings of the Nation’s Celebrities.

Washington, February 11, 1874.

On a vein leading off the great artery of Seventh street may be seen a modest mansion of four stories, yet better known and more highly appreciated in this curious city than far more pretentious piles of brick and mortar. For more than a quarter of a century the occupant of that point of the compass has clung to this spot and proved to the country that the character and qualities of an American citizen, independent of his opinions, decide his standing in the community. Belonging to the old Democratic regime, yet always opposed to slavery, like President Grant, he conceived the idea that it was best “to unload to save the party.” When a member of Mr. Buchanan’s Cabinet, he wrote a letter to Secretary Toucey, which should be printed to-day, to show the people that the country is safe in the hands of men of high character, irrespective of race, color, creed or politics.

Let us modestly ask what draws the intellectual cream to the modest house 707 H street? The press, artists, scholars, travelers, the President, members of the Cabinet, and the portable brains of both branches of Congress; the real heads of the Departments; the cultivated and most highly appreciated of our Washington citizens, go there as the “faithful” enter a Mahommedan mosque. The eye is not dazzled with satin and ebony. The feast or collation is invisible. Would you know the secret, reader? The master and his daughter are the magnets, and this is the explanation. A certain human quality is possessed by the Hon. Horatio King unlike the usual gems which comprise our national crown jewels. He is the only instance of the kind since our Government was founded where a man began with the lowest clerkship, salary $1,000 per year, and was promoted step by step, without political influence, simply by the force of integrity of character, until he stood on the last round, a full-fledged Cabinet minister. It was his mind that moulded, in a great measure, our foreign postal relations as they existed a few years ago. In manner he reminds one of the late William H. Seward, possessing in a remarkable degree the same simplicity, dignity, and grace. Now add the courtliness of the English nobleman without the condescension, and the role is filled. This delightful compound makes the highest title a citizen can win. It is called the true American gentleman.

And the daughter, Mrs. Annie King, for though a widow she retains the family name. Who remembers Miss Harriet Lane when she presided at the White House, her regal manners, her queenly beauty, her high tone of character? The sun by day or the moon by night would as soon be a subject for the scandalmonger as the accomplished niece of the President. Have we any such women left in Washington? It is true they are rare, but they are here, just as diamonds of the first water are found in remote parts of the earth. The portrait of Mrs. King bears a striking resemblance to those of Miss Harriet Lane taken when she was “the leading lady of the land.” Mrs. King is the favorite “American lady” with the foreign legations. Her residence abroad made her familiar with the French language, which she speaks as fluently as English. Some great writer has said “that all we have to show for the civilization of five thousand years is the difference between a wigwam and a lady’s parlor.” Let us beg to differ with the man who wrote that. At least, before the writer gave such a final decision about civilization, he should have come to Washington and attended a President’s levee, a Cabinet crush, and then beached himself high and dry at 707 H street.

In the early part of the nineteenth century, the French painter, Gerard, who was a resident of Paris, opened his salon and held what he termed “reunions.” To these gatherings came all that was refined, elegant, and distinguished at this gayest of capitals. Gerard’s salon consisted of a floor of four rooms, with an ante-room. At 12 o’clock he gave his guests a cup of tea and the same everlasting cakes, says Madame Ancelot, the whole year round. Monsieur Gerard had no help from his wife so far as the entertainment was concerned, for she took her seat at a whist table and kept it until the last guest was gone. But Gerard’s “reunions” became known all over Europe, for the man had the talent to draw all that was celebrated in literature, science, and art to his humble headquarters. “From Madame de Stael down to Mlle. Mars, from Talleyrand and Pozzo di Borgo down to M. Thiers, there were no celebrities, male or female, that during thirty years (from 1805 to 1835) did not flock to Gerard’s house, and all, no matter how different might be their characters or position, agreed in the same opinion as to their host.”

Monsieur Gerard termed his modest entertainments “reunions,” and this must be the original from whence the Hon. Horatio King took the name. Transplanted, it flourishes at our own crude capital.

At the last Saturday evening “reunion” Grace Greenwood in her inimitable way, gave us dramatic readings in costume. Her personations exceeded anything the writer has seen either on the stage or in private life. Charlotte Cushman, Fanny Kemble, Scott Siddons, last but not least, our own Grace Greenwood, make all the stars of the first magnitude that we have now in this particular heaven of genius. Attorney-General Williams says that “he looks upon Grace Greenwood as the best writer and the most gifted woman in the country.” This decision is legal, and may be considered final. Years ago the great and good Horace Mann said that she was not only the most gifted, but that she was “the most beautiful woman he had ever seen;” and his passion for her in youthful days was as pure as though she had been a disembodied spirit. It is so rare that beauty and genius are wedded to one soul. In the opinion of the writer, Grace Greenwood is a handsomer woman at 50 than in the “long ago.” It is the difference between the budding green of April and the garnered glory of September. If her portrait was taken as she stands before us to-day and hung in the Corcoran gallery, the spectator would say, “This must be a Roman matron who lived before the pall of the Middle Ages darkened the earth.” How does she look? A brunette of the purest type, with clear-cut features, sorrowful, inquiring eyes, that shine as though a quenchless flame burned somewhere in the solitude of her own soul. There are some pictures which are burned into the human mind. We shall never forget her personation of “Over the Hills to the Poor House,” one of Carleton’s poems. The poverty-stricken outfit, the worn carpet-bag, the iron-bowed spectacles, the gray hair. When the propriety of “readings” was canvassed at Plymouth Church, Henry Ward Beecher said, “Object to it! I never object to one of the best sermons that can be preached.” From the highest to the humblest of that goodly company scarce a dry eye was to be seen. Then she told us what Miss Tattle, from Buttonville, saw at a “Rejective Session of the Senate.” This was followed by that which proves man to have been the only “created laughing animal.”

Among those who enjoyed the delightful evening were Mrs. Senator Stewart, the daughter of ex-Senator Foote, as all the world knows who reads the newspapers. Mrs. Stewart has recently returned from abroad and brought back with her the polish of Continental Europe. Perhaps she has returned with only that which she took away, for she has the same frank, winning address that used to distinguish Madame Slidell, and which is seen in the highest state of perfection in Madame Le Vert, who was also present.

What is that quality which makes the Northern and Southern women so unlike? It cannot be tasted. It cannot be described. It is the same kind of difference which exists between a white, mealy Northern potato and a Southern yam; a Baldwin apple and a banana in the Northern woods and Southern jungle—but only a man’s descriptive powers can do this subject justice.

Mrs. Attorney-General Williams was there, most talked about, most superb woman, in some respects, in Washington. One of your Cleopatras. Such a creation requires a separate paper, just as some gems must have a solitaire setting. And there was Mary S. Nealy, so well-known in letters and art at the capital. There was Mrs. Ames, the amiable and accomplished daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, as well as the widow of the late Admiral Dahlgren, who by the way, is fast earning a place in literature by her perseverance and talent. Possessing an ample fortune, a leader in the fashionable world whenever she chooses to reign, yet, like Lady Jane Grey, she chooses the solitude of the scholar, and delights in the labor of her pen. But newspaper letters must come to an end, because there is no space to write what might be said about the gentlemen who were there. Attorney-General Williams and Senator Stewart alone are as much as one newspaper can carry, if all their good deeds are related. So this will end with a little paper which Mr. King read between the “acts.” He said it had been “picked up in the hall,” in all probability where he dropped it.

Olivia.