The Cabinet Circles of the Pierce and Buchanan Administrations  
Writing to my father-in-law, ex-Governor Clay, on Christmas night, 1856, of the deep inward excitement of the times, I said: “We feel a little as Fanny Fern says Eugénie felt when she espoused Louis Napoleon, as if we are ‘dancing over a powder magazine!’ Everything is excitement and confusion. I tell you Fusion reigns in truth, and Southern blood is at boiling temperature all over the city, and with good cause, too. Old Giddings, Thurlow Weed, Sumner, Seward, Chase (who is here for a few days prior to his inauguration[3]) are daily taunting and insulting all whom they dare. There is no more prospect of a Speaker now than there was at first; indeed, less, and our men have despaired of Christmas holidays at home. Desertion of their post would mean death to their party and themselves, and they know and appreciate it, and, so far, stand firm as a Roman phalanx. Should there prove one deserter, the ‘game is up,’ for there is a Black Republican at every corner of our political fence, and if ever the gap is down we are gone. I wish you could be here to witness the scenes daily enacted in the halls of Congress, to hear the hot taunts of defiance hurled into the very teeth of the Northerners by our goaded but spirited patriots. I expect any day to hear of bloodshed and death, and would not be surprised at any time to witness (repeated here) the Civil War of Kansas! We still hope for Orr, though he is not sanguine. 59The President still holds his message, fearing to give it to the press, and it is thought it will go to Congress in manuscript. He, poor fellow, is worn and weary, and his wife in extremely delicate health.”
President Pierce was, in fact, a very harassed man, as none knew better than did Senator Clay. My husband’s friendship was unwearying toward all to whom his reserved nature yielded it, and his devotion to Mr. Pierce was unswerving. Though twelve years the President’s junior, from the first my husband was known as one of the President’s counsellors, and none of those who surrounded the Nation’s executive head more sacredly preserved his confidence. Senator Clay believed unequivocally that our President was “not in the roll of common men.”
Bold and dauntless where a principle was involved, Mr. Pierce’s message of ’5 fell like a bombshell on the Black Republican party. Its bold pro-slaveryism startled even his friends; for, never had a predecessor, while in the Executive Chair, talked so strongly or so harshly to sectionalists and fanatics. To this stand, so bravely taken, his defeat at the next Presidential election was doubtless at least partially attributable. Meantime, the South owed him much, and none of its representatives was more staunchly devoted to President Pierce than was the Senator from northern Alabama. How fully Mr. Pierce relied upon Senator Clay’s discretion may be illustrated by an incident which lives still very vividly in my memory.
My husband and I were seated one evening before a blazing fire in our parlour at the Ebbitt House, in the first enjoyment of an evening at home (a rare luxury to public folk in the capital), when we heard a low and unusual knock at the door. My trim maid, Emily, hastened to open it, when there entered hastily a tall figure, wrapped in a long storm-cloak on which the snow-flakes still lay thickly. The new-comer was muffled to the 60eyes. He glanced quickly about the rooms, making a motion to us, as he did so, to remain silent. My husband rose inquiringly, failing, as did I, to recognise our mysterious visitor. In a second more, however, perceiving that we were alone, he threw off his outer coat and soft hat, when, to our astonishment, our unceremonious and unexpected guest stood revealed as the President!
“Lock that door, Clay!” he said, almost pathetically, “and don’t let a soul know I’m here!” Then, turning, he handed me a small package which he had carried under his coat.
“For you, Mrs. Clay,” he said. “It is my picture. I hope you will care to take it with you to Alabama, and sometimes remember me!”
I thanked him delightedly as I untied the package and saw within a handsome photograph superbly framed. Then, as he wearily sat down before our crackling fire, I hastened to assist Emily in her preparation of a friendly egg-nog.
“Ah, my dear friends!” said Mr. Pierce, leaning forward in his arm-chair and warming his hands as he spoke; “I am so tired of the shackles of Presidential life that I can scarcely endure it! I long for quiet—for—” and he looked around our restful parlours—“for this! Oh! for relaxation and privacy once more, and a chance for home!”
His voice and every action betrayed the weary man. We were deeply moved, and my husband uttered such sympathetic words as only a wise man may. The egg-nog prepared, I soon had the pleasure of seeing the President and Mr. Clay in all the comfort of a friendly chat. Primarily, the object of his visit was to discuss an affair of national moment which was to be brought before the Senate the next day; but the outlook of the times which also fell naturally under discussion formed no small part in the topics thus intimately scanned. Both were men to whom the horrid sounds of coming combat were audible, and both were patriots seeking how they might do their part to avert it. It was midnight ere Mr. Pierce rose to go. Then, fortified by another of Emily’s incomparable egg-nogs, he was again, incognito, on his way to the White House.
 
FRANKLIN PIERCE
 
President of the United States, 1853–57
61My remembrances of that secret visit have ever remained most keen. Often, when I think of the lonely grave on the quiet hillside at Concord, I recall the night when weariness of body and State formalities impelled the President to our cozy fireside, though he beat his way to it through snow and winds, stealing from the trammels of his position for the mere pleasure of walking the streets unimpeded and free as any other citizen.
President Pierce entered the White House in 1853, full as a youth of leaping life. A year before his inauguration I had seen him bound up the stairs with the elasticity and lightness of a schoolboy. He went out after four years a staid and grave man, on whom the stamp of care and illness was ineradicably impressed.
I often contrasted the pale, worn, haggard man whose “wine of life was drawn, and the mere lees left i’ the vault,” ere his term (so coveted by many) was spent, with the buoyant person I first met on the breezy New Hampshire hills!
Especially a lovable man in his private character, President Pierce was a man of whom our nation might well be proud to have at its head. Graced with an unusually fine presence, he was most courtly and polished in manner. Fair rather than dark, of graceful carriage,[4] he was also an eloquent speaker, and, though reserved to a degree, was very winning in manner. He was still in middle life when elected to the 62Presidency, being less than forty-nine years of age when inaugurated.
Taken all in all, the Cabinet circle formed by Mr. Pierce was one of the most interesting bodies that has ever surrounded an American Chief Magistrate. Selected wisely, the ministerial body remained unchanged throughout the entire Administration, and this at a time of unceasing and general contention. But three such instances are recorded in the histories of the twenty-six Presidents of the United States, the others occurring in the terms of J. Q. Adams and James A. Garfield. The tie which bound President Pierce and his Cabinet so inalienably was one of mutual confidence and personal friendship. Perhaps the closest ally of the President’s was his Secretary of State, William L. Marcy. That great Secretary was a man whose unusual poise and uniform complacency were often as much a source of envy to his friends as of confusion to his enemies. I commented upon it to my husband on one occasion, wondering interrogatively at his composure, whereupon Senator Clay told me the following story:
Some one as curious as I once asked the Secretary how he preserved his unvarying calmness. “Well,” he answered, confidentially, “I’ll tell you, I have given my secretary orders that whenever he sees an article eulogistic of me, praising my ‘astuteness,’ my ‘far-seeing diplomacy,’ my ‘incomparable statesmanship,’ etc., he is to cut it out and place it conspicuously on my desk where I can see it first thing in the morning; everything to the contrary he is to cut out and up and consign to the waste-basket. By this means, hearing nothing but good of myself, I have come naturally to regard myself as a pretty good fellow! Who wouldn’t be serene under such circumstances?”
 
MRS. WILLIAM L. MARCY
 
of New York
63To add to his contentment thus philosophically assured, the Secretary’s home surroundings were peculiarly satisfactory to him. Mrs. Marcy was a demure and retiring woman, taking little part in the gayer happenings of the city, but on Cabinet days her welcome was always diplomatically cordial and her full parlours gave evidence of her personal popularity. A charming member of her family, Nellie, daughter of General R. B. Marcy, became the wife of General McClellan, whose son, named for that military hero, at this writing is Mayor of America’s metropolis. Between President and Mrs. Pierce and Secretary and Mrs. Marcy a firm friendship existed. It was to the home of the Secretary that President and Mrs. Pierce retired while the White House was being rehabilitated for the occupancy of Mr. Buchanan, who had just returned from his residence abroad, where, as Mr. Pierce’s appointee, he served as Minister to the Court of St. James.
On the day of Mr. Buchanan’s inauguration a curious oversight occurred which demonstrated in marked manner how eagerly a populace hastens to shout “The king is dead! Long live the King!” The procession of carriages had already formed and the moment for beginning the march to the Capitol had almost arrived ere it was observed that the vehicle set apart for President Pierce was unoccupied. Inquiry was hastily instituted, when it was discovered that, owing to some omission on the part of the Master of Ceremonies, his Excellency had not been sent for! The horses’ heads were turned in a trice, and they were driven furiously to the Marcy residence, where the quiet gentleman who was still the President of the United States awaited them.
Late in the afternoon my husband called upon Mr. Pierce, and, during the conversation that followed, Mr. Clay referred indignantly to the unfortunate affair.
“Ah, Clay!” said Mr. Pierce, smiling quietly. “Have you lived so long without knowing that all the homage is given to the rising sun, never to the setting, however resplendent its noonday?”
64Of Secretaries Campbell and McClelland, the gay, and especially the Southern world, saw but little; nor did Caleb Cushing, the Attorney-General, for whom every Southerner must ever feel a thrill of admiration for his spirited speech on their behalf in Faneuil Hall, mingle much with the lighter element. He was a silent man, a bachelor, who entertained not at all, though paying dutifully such formal calls as seemed obligatory; and Senator Clay, whose delicate health and naturally studious mind made continual attendance upon society an onerous and often shirked duty, had much in common with and greatly esteemed Mr. Cushing, at that time regarded as one of the most earnest statesmen in the capital.
In later life, one who had been a conspicuous Senator from Mississippi in ante-bellum days, appraised him differently, for in 1872 he wrote to my husband in this wise: “I had no confidence in Cushing beyond that of a follower to a quicker intellect and a braver heart. He could appreciate the gallantry and fidelity of Pierce, so he followed him. Like the chameleon, he was green, or blue, or brown, according to what he rested upon.”
An affable young man, Mr. Spofford, member of Mr. Cushing’s household, and serving as that gentleman’s secretary, was no inconsiderable figure in Washington. He became a great favourite in all the notable drawing-rooms, especially with young ladies, and the names of a half-dozen belles were given who had fallen in love with him; but he remained invulnerable to the flashing eyes and bright spirits about him, and married a clever authoress, whose writings, as Harriet Prescott Spofford, have become familiar to a large class of American readers.
My personal favourite of all the Cabinet Ministers was the Secretary of the Navy, J. C. Dobbin. He was a North Carolinian, and the children of my native State were always dear to me. Being a widower, Mr. Dobbin’s 65home was also closed from formal entertainment, but the Secretary was seen now and then in society, where he was much sought after (though not always found) by the leading hostesses, whenever he consented to mingle with it. In his parlours, which now and then he opened to his most favoured friends, he kept on exhibition for years, sealed under a glass case, the suit in which Dr. Kane, the Arctic explorer, had lived during his sojourn among the icy seas.
Secretary Dobbin was a small man; in truth, a duodecimo edition of his sex, and exquisitely presented—a fact which was as freely yielded by his confrères as by his gentler admirers. A man of conspicuous intellectuality and firmness in the administration of his department, his heart was also very tender. Of this he once gave me an especially treasured demonstration.
My friend, Emily Spicer, wife of Lieutenant William F. Spicer, afterward Commander of the Boston Navy Yard, at a very critical time, was suddenly obliged, by the exigencies of the Naval Service, to see her husband prepare for what promised to be a long, and, it might prove, a final separation. Tenderly attached to each other, the young husband at last literally tore himself from his wife, leaving her in an unconscious state, from which she did not recover for many hours. Grave fears were entertained as to the disastrous effect the parting would have upon the young matron.
Having witnessed the sad scene, I went at once to Secretary Dobbin and told him of it. His eyes lighted up most sympathetically, even while he explained to me the necessity for adhering strictly to the rules of the Service, but, even as he marshalled the obstacles to my plea, by intuition I knew his heart was stirred, and when I parted from him, he said, “Comfort her, dear Mrs. Clay, with this assurance: If Spicer is on the high seas he shall be ordered home; if he has arrived in Italy” (for which 66coast the Lieutenant’s ship was booked) “he shall remain there and his wife may join him.” I went away grateful for his sympathy for my stricken friend, and hastened to soothe her.
The Secretary kept his word. In a few passing weeks the young couple were reunited on the coast of Italy. “God bless you, my dear Madame,” wrote Lieutenant Spicer, thereupon. “I am forever thankfully yours!” And they kept a promise I had exacted, and named the baby, which proved to be a boy, after my dear husband! Long after his distinguished namesake had vanished from the world’s stage, a bearded man of thirty came across the ocean and a continent to greet me, his “second mother,” as he had been taught to think of me by my grateful friend, his mother, Mrs. Spicer.
Once more I called upon Secretary Dobbin, on behalf of a young naval officer, but this time with a less pathetic request. Our young friend Lieutenant ——, having returned from a long cruise (which, while it lasted, had seemed to be all but unbearable because of its many social deprivations), upon his arrival was so swiftly enthralled by the attractions of a certain young lady (who shall be as nameless as is he) that in his augmenting fervour he proposed to her at once.
The lady accepted. She was very young, very beautiful, very romantic, and, alas! very poor! He was scarcely older, fully as romantic, and also, alas! was, if anything, poorer than she—a fact of which his swashing and naval display of gold-plated buttons and braid gave no hint.
The romance lasted about two weeks, with waning enthusiasm on the youth’s side, when, in great distress, he came to see me. He made a clean breast of the dilemma into which he had plunged.
“I beg you will rescue me, Mrs. Clay,” he said. “Get me transferred, or sent out anywhere! I’ve made a 67fool of myself. I can’t marry her,” he declared. “I haven’t income enough to buy my own clothes, and, as for providing for a girl of her tastes, I don’t know whether I shall ever be able to do so.”
“But,” I remonstrated, “how can I help you? You’ve only just returned, and in the ordinary course of events you would remain on shore at least six weeks. That isn’t long. Try to bear it a while!”
“Long enough for a marriage in naval life,” he declared, ruefully. “And I can’t break it off without your assistance. Help me, Mrs. Clay! If you don’t—” He looked sheepish, but dogged. “I’ll do what the Irishman did in Charleston!”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Well! he was in exactly the same pickle I am in, so he hired a man and a wheel-barrow, and lying down, face up in it, had himself rolled past the lady’s house at a time when he knew she was at home. Then, as the barrow arrived at this point, he had his man stop for a few moments to wipe the sweat of honest toil from his forehead, and, incidentally, to give the lookers-on an opportunity for complete identification.... Only difficulty with that is, how would it affect me in the service?” And the Lieutenant became dubious and I thoughtful.
“If I knew on what grounds to approach Secretary Dobbin,” I began.
“There aren’t any,” the Lieutenant answered eagerly. “But there are two ships just fitting out, and lots of men on them would be glad to get off from a three-years’ cruise. I would ship for six years, nine—anything that would get me out of this fix!”
On this desperate statement I applied to the Secretary. Within ten days my gallant “friend” was on the sea, and one of Washington’s beautiful maidens in tears. Glancing over my letters, I see that at the end of ten years the young Naval officer was still unwed, though not altogether 68scarless as to intervening love affairs; but the lady was now the happy wife of a member of one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the United States!
Secretary Dobbin was my escort on my first (a most memorable) visit to Fort Monroe. The occasion was a brilliant one, for the President and his Cabinet had come in a body to review the troops. Jefferson Davis, then Secretary of War, and but recently the hero of the battle of Buena Vista, directed the man?uvres, his spirited figure, superb horsemanship, and warlike bearing attracting general attention. An entire day was given up to this holiday-making, and the scene was one of splendid excitement. At night the Fort and the waters beyond were lit up by a pyrotechnic display of great gorgeousness, and enthusiasm rose to its highest when, amid the booming of cannon and the plaudits of happy people, an especially ingenious device blazed across the night sky the names of Franklin Pierce and Jefferson Davis!
Always a man of distinguished appearance, Secretary Davis at that time was exceedingly slender, but his step was springy, and he carried himself with such an air of conscious strength and ease and purpose as often to cause a stranger to turn and look at him. His voice was very rich and sonorous, his enunciation most pleasing. In public speech he was eloquent and magnetic, but, curiously enough, he was a poor reader, often “mouthing” his phrases in a way that would have aroused Hamlet’s scorn. Though spoken of as cold and haughty, in private his friends found him refreshingly informal and frank. From their first meeting, Secretary Davis was the intimate friend of my husband, whose loyalty to Mr. Davis in the momentous closing days of the Confederacy reacted so unfortunately upon his own liberty and welfare.
Neither the Secretary of War nor his wife appeared frequently in society in the earlier days of his appointment, the attention of Mr. Davis being concentrated 69upon the duties of his office, and a young family engaging that of his wife. I have heard it said that so wonderful was Mr. Davis’s oversight of the Department of War while under his charge, that it would have been impossible for the Government to have been cheated out of the value of a brass button! So proud was his adopted State of him, that at the close of Mr. Pierce’s administration, Mississippi promptly returned Mr. Davis to Washington as Senator. Almost immediately thereafter he became the victim of a serious illness, which lasted many weeks, and a complication of troubles set in which culminated in the loss of sight in one eye. During that period my husband gave up many nights to the nursing of the invalid, who was tortured by neuralgic pains and nervous tension. Senator Clay’s solicitude for Mr. Davis was ever of the deepest, as his efforts to sustain and defend him to the last were of the most unselfish.
Aaron V. Brown, who became Postmaster-General in 1857, was at once one of the kindest-hearted and simplest of men, loving his home and being especially indifferent to all things that savoured of the merely fashionable and superficial. He occupied a house which by long association with distinguished people had become prominently known. Not infrequently the Brown residence was alluded to as the “Cabinet Mansion.” Here, among other celebrities, had lived Attorney-General Wirt, and in it Mrs. Wirt had compiled the first “Flora’s Dictionary.” The hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Brown, being boundless, served to accentuate its reputation, for, unlike her husband, Mrs. Brown was socially most industrious, and, being exceedingly well-to-do, was full of enterprise in the invention of novel surprises for her guests. Mrs. Brown, who was the sister of the afterward distinguished Major-General Pillow, of the Confederate Army, was the first hostess in Washington, I think, to introduce orchestral music at dinner, and her daughter, Narcissa Sanders, 70with as pronounced a spirit of innovation,[5] sent out enormous cards of invitation in her own name, inviting the distinguished folk of the capital to the house of the Postmaster-General to meet—herself!
I remember a dinner at this luxurious home of Mr. Brown, at which my host, who took me in, amused me immensely at the expense of the elaborate feast before us, and at some of his wife’s kindly, if costly, foibles. Behind a barrier of plants a band played softly; around us were the obsequious waiters from Gautier’s.
“All from Gautier’s!” sighed the Postmaster-General, in mock despair. “My wife’s napery is the best to be had, but she will have Gautier’s! Our silver is—certainly not the plainest in the city, but Mrs. Brown must have Gautier’s! We have an incomparable chef, but nothing will please my wife but these”; and he scanned the mysterious menu with its tier after tier of unknown French names. Then he turned suddenly and asked me, pointing to a line, “My child, what’s this? Don’t know, eh? Well, neither do I, but let’s try it, anyway. I don’t suppose it will kill us,” and so on, the good old gentleman keeping me in a continual bubble of smothered laughter to the end of the dinner.
A member of Mr. Pierce’s Cabinet, whose house was as conspicuous for its large and lavish entertaining as was Mr. Brown’s, was the Secretary of the Treasury, Guthrie, the wealthy Kentuckian. Mr. Guthrie was no society lover (it was a time when statesmen had need to be absorbed in weightier things), but he entertained, I always thought, as a part of his public duty. His was a big, square-shouldered and angular figure, and his appearance, 71it was obvious, at receptions was perfunctory rather than a pleasure. A widower, his home was presided over by his two daughters, Mrs. Polk and Mrs. Coke, both also widowed. I often thought Secretary Guthrie’s capacious ballroom suggestive, in its proportions, of a public hall.
Here, one evening, I had my never-to-be-forgotten rencontre with Chevalier Bertinatti, the Sardinian Minister. Dear old Bertinatti! In all the diplomatic circle of the Pierce and Buchanan administrations there was not to be found a personage at once more dignified and genial. Serious, yet enthusiastic, his naturally kind heart adding warmth to the gallantry for which foreigners are famous, the Chevalier was a typical ambassador of the Latin people. He was a learned man, especially in matters American, and knew our Constitution better than did many of our native representatives in Washington. He encountered bravely, though not always successfully, the difficulties of the English language, and his defeats in this field (such is the irony of fate) have served to keep him longer in the minds of many than have his successes.
Upon the occasion to which I have referred, a soirée was held at Secretary Guthrie’s house, at which half the world was present. I wore that evening a gown of foreign silk, the colour of the pomegranate blossom, and with it a Sardinian head-dress and ornaments which had been sent me by a Consular friend. Seeing me at some distance, the Chevalier failed to recognise me and asked one of the hostesses, with whom he was conversing, “Who is zat lady wis my kontree-woman’s ornaments?”
Upon learning my identity he came forward quickly and, gazing admiringly at me, he threw himself on his knee before me (kissing my hand as he did so, with ardent gallantry) as he exclaimed: “Madame, you are charming wis zat head-dress like my kontree-women! 72Madame! I assure you, you have conquest me behind and now you conquest me before!” and he bowed profoundly.
This remarkable compliment was long remembered and recounted wherever the name of the kind-hearted diplomat was mentioned. A great many ties bound Monsieur Bertinatti to Washington society, not the least of which was his marriage to Mrs. Bass of Mississippi, an admired member of the Southern and predominating element in the capital. Her daughter, who returned to die in her native land (she was buried from the Cathedral in Memphis, Tennessee), became the Marquise Incisa di Camerana.
When, after decades of political strife, the crucial time of separation came between the North and the South, and we of the South were preparing to leave the Federal City, I could not conceal my sorrow; and tears, ever a blessed boon to women, frequently blinded me as I bade first one and then another of our associates what was to be a long good-bye. At such an expression of my grief the Chevalier Bertinatti was much troubled.
“Don’t weep,” he said. “Don’t weep, my dear Mrs. Clay. You have had sixty years of uninterrupted peace! This is but a revolution, and all countries must suffer from them at times! Look at my poor country! I was born in revolution, and reared in revolution, and I expect to die in revolution!” And with this offering of philosophic consolation we parted.