Our “mess” at Brown’s Hotel shortly became so well-known, because of the interest attaching to so many of its members, that the enterprising proprietress of (what afterward became known as) the Ebbitt House, Mrs. Smith, came in person, with tempting terms to lure us to her newer establishment.

Heretofore our quarters in the historic old hostelry had been altogether satisfactory. It was the rendezvous of Southern Congressmen, and therefore was “very agreeable and advantageous,” as my husband wrote of it. For thirty-five years Brown’s Hotel had been the gathering-place for distinguished people. So long ago as 1820, Thomas Hart Benton met there the representatives of the rich fur-trader, John Jacob Astor, who had been sent to the capital to induce Congressional indorsement in perfecting a great scheme that should secure to us the trade of Asia as well as the occupation of the Columbia River. Within its lobbies, many a portentous conference had taken place. Indeed, the foundations of its good reputation were laid while it was yet the Indian Queen’s Tavern, renowned for its juleps and bitters. It was an unimposing structure even for Pennsylvania Avenue, then but a ragged thoroughfare, and, as I have said, notable for the great gaps between houses; but the cuisine of Brown’s Hotel, as, until a few years ago, this famous house continued to be known, was excellent.

In my days there, the presence of good Mrs. Brown, the hostess, and her sweet daughter Rose (who married Mr. Wallach, one of Washington’s rich citizens, and afterward entertained in the mansion that became famous as the residence of Mrs. Stephen A. Douglas) added much to the attractions of the old house. Nevertheless, those of the new also tempted us. Thither we went in a body, and there we spent one or two gay winters; but, the Ebbitt becoming more and more heterogeneous, and therefore less congenial to our strictly legislative circles, we retraced our ways, our forces still intact, to good old Brown’s.

In the interim, our continually enlarging numbers found the new quarters convenient and in many respects even desirable. “Our ‘mess,’ so far from being willing to separate,” I wrote to my husband’s father, late in ’57, “has insisted upon becoming enlarged. We are located in a delightful part of the city, on F Street, near the Treasury Buildings, the Court end as well as the convenient end; for all the Departments as well as the White House are in a stone’s throw. Old Guthrie’s is opposite, and we have, within two blocks, some true-line Senators, among them Bell, Slidell, Weller, Brodhead, Thomson, of New Jersey, who are married and housekeeping, to say naught of Butler, Benjamin, Mason and Goode in a ‘mess’ near us. Our ‘mess’ is a very pleasant one. Orr, Shorter, Dowdell, Sandidge and Taylor, of Louisiana, with the young Senator Pugh and his bride, Governor Fitzpatrick and wife, and ourselves compose the party. Taylor is a true Democrat, and Pugh is as strongly Anti-Free-soil as we. We keep Free-soilers, Black Republicans and Bloomers on the other side of the street. They are afraid even to inquire for board at this house.”

To the choice list then recorded were added shortly Congressmen L. Q. C. and Mrs. Lamar, David Clopton, Jabez L. M. Curry and Mrs. Curry, and General and Mrs. Chestnut. Our circle included representatives from several States. Messrs. Fitzpatrick, Shorter, Dowdell, David Clopton and Jabez L. M. Curry were fellow-Alabamians, and had been the long-time friends of my husband and his father, ex-Governor Clay, and of my uncle, Governor Collier; Congressmen Lamar and Sandidge were from Mississippi and Louisiana, respectively; Congressmen Orr and Chestnut represented South Carolina, and Senator Pugh was from Ohio. It was a distinguished company. Scarcely a male member of it but had won or was destined to win a conspicuous position in the Nation’s affairs; scarcely a woman in the circle who was not acknowledged to be a wit or beauty.

When Mrs. Pugh joined us, her precedence over the belles of the capital was already established, for, as ThÉrÈse Chalfant, her reign had begun a year or two previous to her marriage to the brilliant young Senator from Ohio; Miss Cutts, afterward Mrs. Douglas, and Mrs. Pendleton and the beautiful brune, Mrs. Roger A. Pryor, being estimated as next in order of beauty. Like Mrs. Chestnut, also a renowned belle, Mrs. Pugh was something more than a woman of great personal loveliness. She was intellectual, and remarked as such even in Washington, where wits gathered. Both of these prized associates remained unspoiled by the adulation which is the common tribute to such unusual feminine comeliness.

I was not present when the Austrian Minister, the Chevalier Hulseman, paid his great compliment (now a classic in the capital) to Miss Chalfant; but it was soon thereafter repeated to me. It was at a ball at which pretty women thronged. As the Minister’s gaze rested upon Miss Chalfant, his eyes expanded with admiration. Approaching, he knelt suddenly before her, exclaiming, “Madame! I have from my Empress a piece of precious lace” (and he fumbled, but, alas! vainly, in his pockets as he spoke) “which her Majesty has commanded me to present to the most beautiful woman in Washington. You—you are more, the most beautiful in the world! I have not with me the lace, but I will send it if you will permit me!” And he kept his word. We were glad to welcome to our “mess” so lovely and famous a bride. Mrs. Pugh’s beauty was of so exquisite a type, the bodily so permeated by the spiritual, that she shone preËminent wherever she appeared, and this wholly independent of showy attire. Though always presenting an appearance of elegance, Mrs. Pugh’s gowns were invariably of the simplest. Our “mess” soon became aware that our beautiful favourite was primarily a lovely woman, and no mere gay butterfly. Her nature was grave rather than vivacious, the maternal in her being exceedingly strong.

I recall the reply she gave me on the afternoon of a certain Cabinet day. It was the custom on this weekly recurring occasion for several of the ladies of our “mess” to make their calls together, thus obviating the need for more than one carriage. As my parlours were the only ones that boasted a pier-glass, and, besides, had the advantage of being on the drawing-room floor of the hotel, it became a custom for the women composing our circle to come to my rooms before going out, in order to see how their dresses hung. Those were the days of hoop-skirts, and the set of the outer skirt must needs be adjusted before beginning a round of calls. As we gathered there, it was no uncommon thing for one of us to remark: “Here comes Pugh, simply dressed, but superb, as usual. She would eclipse us all were she in calico!” On the occasion alluded to, I commented to Mrs. Pugh upon the beauty and style of her bonnet.

“My own make,” she answered sweetly. “I can’t afford French bonnets for every-day use when I have ’tockies and shoes to buy for my little fellows!”

My friendship for Mrs. Pugh is a dear memory of that life of perpetual gaiety ere the face of Washington society was marred by war and scarred by the moral pestilences that followed in its train; nor can I resist the desire to quote her own remembrance of our association as she wrote it in a letter to Senator Clay late in ’64, when the glories of those earlier days had passed away, and the faces of erstwhile friends from the North were hidden by the smoke of cannon and a barrier of the slain.

“Your dear wife,” she wrote, “was the first and best friend of my early married life; and, when I was ushered into a strange and trying world, she at once took me into her heart and counsel and made me a better woman and wife than I would have been alone. No one in this world ever treated me with the same love outside of my own family. When I cease to remember either of you accordingly, it will be when I forget all things!”

Strangely enough, there comes before my mind a picture of Mrs. Pugh in affliction that overshadows all the memories of the homage I have seen paid to her. It was late in the spring of 1859; Congress had adjourned and many of our “mess” had gone their several ways, to mountain or seashore, bent on rest or recreation, when the little daughter of Senator and Mrs. Pugh was suddenly taken ill. For weeks the distracted mother hovered over the sick-bed of the child, until her haggard appearance was pitiful to see. My husband and I could not bear to leave her, and often I shared her vigils, watching hours beside the dying little Alice.

On an occasion like this (it was evening), my cousin Miss Hilliard, her cheeks glowing and eyes shining with all the mysterious glow of expectant youth, came into the sick-room for a few moments on her way to some social gathering. She was dressed in a pale green, filmy gown, which lent to her appearance a flower-like semblance that was very fresh and lovely. As Miss Hilliard entered, Mrs. Pugh lifted her burning eyes from the couch where the rapidly declining little one lay, and gazed at her visitor like one in a dream. We were all silent for a moment. Then the worn mother spoke.

“So radiant! So beautiful!” she said in a voice of indescribable pathos, “And to think you, too, may come to this!”

I have spoken of Mrs. Pryor, the beautiful wife of the young diplomat, who had won general public approbation for his success in conducting a mission to Greece. Not of our especial mess, Mrs. Pryor frequently mingled with us, being the friend of Mrs. Douglas and Mrs. Pugh. They were, in truth, a very harmonious trio, Mrs. Pugh being a perfect brunette, Mrs. Douglas a blonde, and Mrs. Pryor a lighter brunette with soft-brown hair and eyes. She wore a distinctive coiffure, and carried her head charmingly. Even at that time Mrs. Pryor was notable for the intellectuality which has since uttered itself in several charming books.

Though not members of our resident circle, my memories of dear old Brown’s would scarcely be complete without a mention of little Henry Watterson, with whose parents our “mess” continually exchanged visits for years. Henry, their only child, was then an invalid, debarred from the usual recreations of other boys, by weak eyes that made the light unbearable and reading all but impossible; yet at fifteen the boy was a born politician and eager for every item of news from the Senate or House.

“What bills were introduced to-day? Who spoke? Please tell me what took place to-day?” were among the questions (in substance) with which the lad was wont to greet the ladies of our “mess,” when he knew them to be returning from a few hours spent in the Senate gallery; and, though none foresaw the later distinction which awaited the invalid boy, no one of us was ever so hurried and impatient that she could not and did not take time to answer his earnest inquiries.

It is safe to say that no member of our pleasant circle was more generally valued than that most lovable of men, Lucius Q. C. Lamar, “Moody Lamar,” as he was sometimes called; for he was then, as he always continued to be, full of dreams and ideals and big, warm impulses, with a capacity for the most enduring and strongest of friendships, and a tenderness rarely displayed by men so strong as was he.^[2] Mr. Lamar was full of quaint and caressing ways even with his fellow-men, which frank utterance of his own feelings was irresistibly engaging. I have seen him walk softly up behind Mr. Clay, when the latter was deep in thought, touch him lightly on the shoulder, and, as my husband turned quickly to see what was wanted, “Lushe” or “big Lushe,” as all called him, would kiss him suddenly and lightly on the forehead.

Yes! Mr. Lamar and his sparkling, bright-souled wife, Jennie Longstreet, were beloved members of that memorable “mess” in ante-bellum Washington.

Next to Congressman Lamar, I suppose it may safely be said no man was more affectionately held than another of our mess-mates, Congressman Dowdell, “old Dowdell,” “dear old Dowdell,” and sometimes “poor, dear old Dowdell” being among the forms by which he was continually designated. Mr. Dowdell had a large and loose frame, and walked about with a countryman’s easy indifference to appearances. A born wag, he sometimes took a quiet delight in accentuating this seeming guilelessness.

One evening he came strolling in to dinner, prepared for a comfortable chat over the table, though all the rest of our little coterie were even then dressing for attendance at a grand concert. It was an event of great importance, for Gottschalk, the young CrÉole musician, of whom all the country was talking, was to be heard in his own compositions.

“What!” I exclaimed as I saw Mr. Dowdell’s every-day attire, “You don’t mean to tell me you’re not going to the concert! I can’t allow it, brother Dowdell! Go right out and get your ticket and attend that concert with all the rest of the world, or I’ll tell your constituents what sort of a country representative they’ve sent to the capital!”

My laughing threat had its effect, and he hurried off in quest of the ticket, which, after some difficulty, was procured.

The concert was a memorable one. During the evening I saw Mr. Dowdell across the hall, scanning the performers with an enigmatical expression. At that time Gottschalk’s popularity was at its height. Every concert programme contained, and every ambitious amateur included in her repertory, the young composer’s “Last Hope.” At his appearance, therefore, slender, agile and Gallic to a degree, enthusiasm ran so high that we forgot to hunt up our friend in the short interval between each brilliant number.

When Mr. Dowdell appeared at the breakfast table the following morning, I asked him how he had enjoyed the evening. The Congressman’s response came less enthusiastically than I had hoped.

“Well,” he began, drawing his words out slowly and a bit quizzically, “I went out and got my ticket; did the right thing and got a seat as near Harriet Lane’s box as I could; even invested in new white gloves, so I felt all right; but I can’t say the music struck me exactly! Mr. Gottschalk played mighty pretty; hopped up on the black keys and then down on the white ones” (and the Congressman illustrated by spanning the table rapidly in a most ludicrous manner). “He played slow and then fast, and never seemed to get his hands tangled up once. But for all that I can’t say I was struck by his music! He played mighty pretty, but he didn’t play nary tchune!”

Two interesting members of our “mess” were General and Mrs. Chestnut. The General, a member from South Carolina, who became afterward one of the staff of Jefferson Davis, was among the princes in wealth in the South in the fifties. Approximately one thousand slaves owned by him were manumitted by Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation in 1863, when, childless, property-less, our well-loved Mrs. Chestnut suffered a terrible eclipse after her brilliant youth and middle age. She was the only daughter of Governor Miller, of South Carolina, and having been educated abroad, was an accomplished linguist and ranked high among the cultured women of the capital.

Moreover, Mrs. Chestnut was continually the recipient of toilette elegancies, for which the bazaars of Paris were ransacked, and in this way the curiosity of the emulative stay-at-home fashionables was constantly piqued. Her part in that brilliant world was not a small one, for, in addition to her superior personal charms, Mrs. Chestnut chaperoned the lovely Preston girls of South Carolina, belles, all, and the fashionable Miss Stevens, of Stevens Castle, who married Muscoe Garnett of Virginia. Indeed, the zest for social pleasures among our circle was often increased by the coming of guests from other cities. Among others whom I particularly recall was my cousin Miss Collier, daughter of Governor Collier of Alabama, and who married the nephew of William Rufus King, Vice-President of the United States under Mr. Pierce; and our cousins Loula Comer, Hattie Withers, and Miss Hilliard. The latter’s wedding with Mr. Hamilton Glentworth of New York was one of the social events of the winter of 1859.

Nor should I forget to mention the presence, at the Ebbitt House and at Brown’s Hotel, of another much admired South Carolinian, Mrs. General McQueen, who was a Miss Pickens, of the famous family of that name. My remembrance of Mrs. McQueen is always associated with that of the sudden death of Preston Brooks, our neighbour at Brown’s Hotel. At the time of this fatality, Dr. May, the eminent surgeon, was in the building in attendance upon Mrs. McQueen’s little boy, who was suffering from some throat trouble.

Mr. Brooks had been indisposed for several days, and, being absent from his seat in the House, it was the custom for one or the other of his confrÈres to drop into his room each afternoon, to give him news of the proceedings. On that fatal day, Colonel Orr (“Larry,” as his friends affectionately designated him) had called upon the invalid and was in the midst of narrating the day’s doings, when Mr. Brooks clutched suddenly at his throat and cried out huskily, “Air! Orr, air!”

Mr. Orr hastily threw open the window and began to fan the sufferer, but became bewildered at the alarming continuation of his struggles. Had the Congressman but known it, even as he tried to relieve his friend, Dr. May passed the door of Mr. Brooks’s room, on his way out of the house, his surgical case in hand; but the suddenness of the attack, and a total absence of suspicion as to its gravity, coupled with the swiftness with which it acted, confused the watcher, and, ere assistance could be obtained, the handsome young Southern member had passed away!

Congressman Orr, as has been said, was one of our original “mess” in the capital. From the first he was a conspicuous figure, nature having made him so. He was of gigantic stature, weighing then somewhat over two hundred pounds. His voice was of bugle-like clearness, and when, in 1857, he became speaker of the House of Representatives, it was a source of remark how wonderfully his words penetrated to the farthermost corner of the hall. He was extremely tender-hearted and devoted to his family, around the members of which his affections were closely bound.

Just previous to our arrival in the capital, Mr. Orr had lost a little daughter, and often, ere he brought his family to the Federal City, in a quiet hour he would come to our parlours and ask me to sing to him. He dearly loved simple ballads, his favourite song being “Lilly Dale,” the singing of which invariably stirred him greatly. Often I have turned from the piano to find his eyes gushing with tears at the memories that pathetic old-fashioned ditty had awakened. Mr. Orr was a famous flatterer, too, who ranked my simple singing as greater than that of the piquant Patti; and I question the success of any one who would have debated with him the respective merits of that great artiste and my modest self.

When Mr. Orr became Speaker of the House, Mrs. Orr and his children having joined him, the family resided in the famous Stockton Mansion for a season or two. Here brilliant receptions were held, and Mrs. Orr, a distinguÉe woman, made her entrÉe into Washington society, often being assisted in receiving by the members of the mess of which, for so long, Mr. Orr had formed a part. Mrs. Orr was tall and lithe in figure, of a Spanish type of face. She soon became a great favourite in the capital, where one daughter, now a widow, Mrs. Earle, still lives.

It was at the Stockton Mansion that Daniel E. and Mrs. Sickles lived when the tragedy of which they formed two of the principals took place. Here, too, was run the American career of another much-talked-of lady, which, for meteoric brilliancy and brevity, perhaps outshines any other episode in the chronicles of social life in Washington.

The lady’s husband was a statesman of prominence, celebrated for his scholarly tastes and the fineness of his mental qualities. The arrival of the lady, after a marked absence abroad, during which some curious gossip had reached American ears, was attended by great Éclat; and not a little conjecture was current as to how she would be received. For her home-coming, however, the Stockton Mansion was fitted up in hitherto undreamed-of magnificence, works of art and of vertu, which were the envy of local connoisseurs, being imported to grace it, regardless of cost. So far, so good!

The report of these domiciliary wonders left no doubt but that entertaining on a large scale was being projected. The world was slow in declaring its intentions in its own behalf; for, notwithstanding her rumoured delinquencies, the lady’s husband was high in the councils of the nation, and as such was a figure of dignity. Shortly after her arrival our “mess” held a conclave, in which we discussed the propriety of calling upon the new-comer, but a conclusion seeming impossible (opinions being so widely divergent), it was decided to submit the important question to our husbands.

This was done duly, and Senator Clay’s counsel to me was coincided in generally.

“By all means, call,” said he. “You have nothing to do with the lady’s private life, and, as a mark of esteem to a statesman of her husband’s prominence, it will be better to call.”

Upon a certain day, therefore, it was agreed that we should pay a “mess” call, going in a body. We drove accordingly, in dignity and in state, and, truth to tell, in soberness and ceremony, to the mansion aforenamed. It was the lady’s reception day. We entered the drawing-room with great circumspection, tempering our usually cordial manner with a fine prudence; we paid our devoirs to the hostess and retired. But now a curious retribution overtook us, social faint-hearts that we were; for, though we heard much gossip of the regality and originality of one or more dinners given to the several diplomatic corps (the lady especially affected the French Legation), I never heard of a gathering of Washingtonians at her home, nor of invitations extended to them, nor, indeed, anything more of her until two months had flown. Then, Arab-like, the lady rose in the night, “silently folded her tent and stole away” (to meet a handsome German officer, it was said), leaving our calls unanswered, save by the sending of her card, and her silver and china and crystal, her paintings, and hangings, and furniture to be auctioned off to the highest bidder!

Everyone in Washington now thronged to see the beautiful things, and many purchased specimens from among them, among others Mrs. Davis. By a curious turn of fate, the majority of these treasures were acquired by Mrs. Senator Yulee, who was so devoutly religious that her piety caused her friends to speak of her as “the Madonna of the Wickliffe sisters!” The superb furniture of the whilom hostess was carried to “Homosassa,” the romantic home of the Yulees in Florida, where in later years it was reduced to ashes.

Of the Wickliffe sisters there were three, all notably good as well as handsome women, with whom I enjoyed a life-time friendship. One became the wife of Judge Merrick, and another, who dearly loved Senator Clay and me, married Joseph Holt, who rose high in Federal honours after the breaking out of the war, having sold his Southern birthright for a mess of Northern pottage.

For several years before her death, Mrs. Holt was an invalid and a recluse, yet she was no inconspicuous figure in Washington, where the beauty of the “three graces” (as the sisters of Governor Wickliffe were always designated) was long a criterion by which other belles were judged. Mrs. Mallory, the wife of Senator Yulee’s confrÈre from Florida, was particularly a favourite in the capital. The Mallorys were the owners of great orange groves in that lovely State, and were wont from time to time to distribute among their friends boxes of choicest fruit.

Of our “mess,” Congressman and Mrs. Curry were least frequently to be met with in social gatherings. Mrs. Curry, who was a Miss Bowie, devoted her time wholly to her children, apparently feeling no interest in the gay world about her, being as gentle and retiring as her doughty relative (the inventor of the Bowie knife) was warlike. Mr. Curry was an uncommonly handsome man, who, in the fifties and early sixties, was an ambitious and strenuous politician. He died early in 1903, full of years and honours, while still acting as the General Agent of the Peabody fund.

Nor should I fail to recall the lovely Mrs. Clopton, wife of one of Senator Clay’s most trusted friends, Congressman David Clopton. She joined our “mess” late in the fifties, and at once added to its fame by her charm and beauty. She was a sister of Governor Ligon of Alabama. One of her daughters married the poet, Clifford Lanier, and another became the wife of Judge William L. Chambers, who for several exciting years represented our Government at Samoa.

But my oldest and dearest mess-mate during nearly a decade in the capital was, as I have said elsewhere, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, whose husband, Senator Benjamin Fitzpatrick, was President of the Senate for four consecutive sessions. Senator Fitzpatrick was very many years older than his wife, having, indeed, held office in 1818, when Alabama was a territory, and when few of his Alabamian associates in Congress had been ushered upon the stage of life. Between Mrs. Fitzpatrick and me there was an undeviating attachment which was a source of wonder, as it doubtless was rare, among women in fashionable life. As confrÈres in the Senate, our husbands, despite the disparity in their years, were fully in accord; and a more congenial quartette it would have been hard to find.

I think of all the harmonious couples I have known, Senator and Mrs. Fitzpatrick easily led, though near to them I must place General and Mrs. McQueen. It was a standing topic in Brown’s Hotel, the devotion of the two middle-aged gentlemen—Messrs. Fitzpatrick and McQueen—to their young wives and to their boys, enfants terribles, both of them of a most emphatic type. “The Heavenly Twins” as a title had not yet been evolved, or these two young autocrats of the hostelry would surely have won it from the sarcastic.

Benny Fitzpatrick was at once the idol of his parents and the terror of the hotel; and, as Mrs. Fitzpatrick and I were cordially united in other interests of life, so we shared the maternal duties as became two devoted sisters, “Our boy Benny” receiving the motherly oversight of whichsoever of us happened to be near him when occasion arose for aid or admonition. “Mrs. Fitz” delivered her rebukes with “Oh, Benny dear! How could you!” but I, his foster-mother, was constrained to resort betimes to a certain old-fashioned punishment usually administered with the broadside of a slipper, or, what shortly became as efficacious, a threat to do so.

Benny, like George Washington, was the possessor of a little hatchet, with which he worked a dreadful havoc. He chopped at the rosewood furniture of his mother’s drawing-room, while his proud parents, amazed at his precocity, not to say prowess, stood by awestruck, and—paid the bill! The child was plump and healthy, and boys will be boys! Thus were we all become his subjects; thus he overran Hannah, his coloured nurse, until one day Pat came—, Pat Dolan.

Pat had been a page at the Senate, and in some forgotten way he and little Benny had become inseparable friends. Thereafter, Benny was taken by his fond guardian, into whose hands his three anxious parents consented to consign him, to see the varying sights and the various quarters of the city. As his experiences multiplied, so his reputation for precocity increased in exact ratio.

One day Hannah’s excitement ran high. “Lor! Miss ’Relia,” she burst out impetuously to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “Pat Dolan done carried Benny to the Cath’lic church an’ got him sprinkled, ’n den he brung him to communion, an’ first thing Pat knowed, Benny he drunk up all the holy water an’ eat up the whole wafer!”