Society as I Have Found It

But to return to our Cotillion Dinners. A friend thought they were impracticable on account of the expense, but I had remembered talking to the proprietor of the famous Restaurant Phillipe in Paris, as to the cost of a dinner, he assuring me that its cost depended entirely on what he called les primeurs, i.e. things out of season, and said that he could give me, for a napoleon a head, an excellent dinner, if I would leave out les primeurs. Including them, the same dinner would cost three napoleons. “I can give you, for instance,” he said, “a filet de bœuf aux ceps at half the cost of a filet aux truffes, and so on, through the dinner, can reduce the expense.” Submitting all this to my friend Delmonico, I suggested a similar inexpensive dinner, and figured the whole expense down until I reduced the cost of a cotillion dinner for seventy-five or a hundred people to ten dollars each person, music and every expense included. Calling on my friends, they seconded me, and we then had a winter of successful cotillion dinners. It was no easy task, however. How I was beset by the men to give them the women of their choice to take in to dinner! and in turn by the ladies not to inflict on them an uncongenial partner. The largest of these dinners, consisting of over a hundred people, we gave at Delmonico’s, corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, in the large ball-room. The table was in the shape of a horseshoe. I stood at the door of the salon, naming to each man the lady he was to take in to dinner, and well remember one of them positively refusing to accept and take in a lady assigned to him; and she, just entering, heard the dispute, and, in consequence, would never again attend one of these dinners. Sitting at the head of the table, with the two young and beautiful women who were then the grandes dames of that time, one on either side of me, we had opposite to us, on the other side of the narrow, horseshoe table, a young blonde bride, who had just entered society. I well remember the criticisms these grand ladies made of and about her. The one, turning to me, said, “And this is your lovely blonde, the handsomest blonde in America!” The other, the best judge of her sex that I have ever seen, then cast her horoscope, saying, “I consider her as beautiful a blonde as I have ever seen. That woman, be assured, will have a brilliant career. Such women are rare.” These words were prophetic, for that beautiful bride, crossing the ocean in her husband’s yacht, wholly and solely by her beauty gained for her husband and herself a brilliant position in London society. Turning to me, the lady who had made this remark asked me how she herself looked. I replied, “Like Venus rising from the sea.” My serenity was here disturbed by finding that one of the ladies, disliking her next neighbor, as soon as she discovered by the card who it was, had quietly made an exchange of cards, depriving a young gallant of the seat he most coveted, and for which he had long and earnestly prayed. Of course, I was called to explain, and quiet the disturbed waters. The gentleman was furious, and threatened dire destruction to the culprit. I took in the situation, and protected the fair lady by sacrificing the waiter. After the ladies left the table, at these dinners, the gentlemen were given time to smoke a cigar and take their coffee. On this occasion, the Earl of Roseberry was a guest. Whilst smoking and commenting on the dinner, he said to me, “You Americans have made a mistake; your emblematic bird should have been a canvasback, not an eagle.”

It was either to this distinguished man or the Earl of Cork, at one of these after-dinner conversations, that I held forth on the treatment of venison, asserting that here, we always serve the saddle of venison, whilst in England they give the haunch. And when they send it off to a friend, they box it up in a long narrow box, much resembling a coffin. The reason for this was given me,—that their dinners were larger than ours, and there was not enough on a saddle for an English dinner. Again, I called attention to the fact that here we eat the tenderloin steak, there they eat the rump steak, which we give to our servants. The reason for this, I was told, was that they killed their cattle younger than we killed ours, and did not work those intended for beef. On Madeira, I stated, “we had them,” for, I said, “You have none to liken unto ours”; though later on, at another dinner, when I made this assertion, the Duke of Beaufort took me up on this point, and insisted upon it that in many of the old country houses in England they had excellent Madeira.

The following anonymous lines on this dinner were sent to me the day afterwards:

One of the events of this winter was a grand domino ball, the largest ever given here. Our Civil War was then raging; a distinguished nobleman appeared at that ball with his friend, a member of Parliament. Before he could enter the ball-room, a domino stepped up to him and had an encounter of words with him. “Are you as brave as you look?” she asked; “will you do a woman’s bidding? I challenge you to grant me my request!” “What is it?” he asked. “Allow me to pin on this badge?” “Certainly,” was the gallant reply. As he passed through the rooms, it was seen that he was wearing a Secession badge. It was thought to be an intended affront to Northern people, and was immediately resented. His friend, the member of Parliament, hearing of it, at once went up to him and removed the badge. Many felt that this distinguished man was simply the victim of a cruel, mischievous, and silly woman.

The following summer, as I had been so hospitably entertained in Nassau, at Government House, I invited my old friend, the Governor of the Bahamas, to pay me a visit at Newport. On a beautiful summer afternoon, I drove up to the Brevoort House, and there I found him literally surrounded by all his worldly goods, his entire household, with all their effects. It took two immense stages and a huge baggage wagon to convey them to the Fall River boat. Imagine this party coming from an island where it was a daily struggle to procure food, viewing the sumptuous supper-tables of these magnificent steamers (which certainly made a great impression on them, for it caused them to be loud in their expressions of astonishment and admiration). Reaching Newport at 2 A.M., on attempting to go ashore, I found His Excellency had lost all his tickets. Our sharp Yankee captain took no stock in people who did such things; so out came the Englishman’s pocket-book to pay again for the entire party, the dear old gentleman declaring it was his fault, and he ought to be made to pay for such carelessness. It did not take me long to convince our captain that we were not sharpers; that we had paid our passages, and we must needs be allowed to go ashore.

I was determined to evidence to my guests that they had reached the land of plenty, and before they had been with me a week, the Governor declared, with a sigh, “That he detested the sight of food.” I put him through a course of vapor baths, and galloped him daily. On one occasion, we visited the beach together, when the surf was full of people. We saw an enormously tall, Rubens-like woman, clad in a clinging garment of calico, exhilarated by the bath, jumping up and down, and in her ecstasy throwing her arms up over her head. “Who is the creature?” he exclaimed. “Is this allowed here! Why, man, you should not tolerate it a moment!” I gave one look at the female, and then, convulsed with laughter, seized his arm, exclaiming, “It is your wife’s English maid!” If I had given him an electric shock, he could not have sprung out of the wagon quicker. Rushing to the water’s edge, he shouted, “Down with you! down with you, this instant, you crazy jade! how dare you disgrace me in this way!” The poor girl, one could see, felt innocent of all wrong, but quitted the water at lightning speed when she saw the crowd the Governor had drawn around him.

The first Cotillion Dinner ever given at Newport, I gave at my Bayside Farm. I chose a night when the moon would be at the full, and invited guests enough to make up a cotillion. We dined in the open air at 6 P.M., in the garden adjoining the farm-house, having the gable end of the house to protect us from the southerly sea breeze. In this way we avoided flies, the pest of Newport. In the house itself we could not have kept them from the table, while in the open air even a gentle breeze, hardly perceptible, rids you of them entirely. The farm-house kitchen was then near at hand for use. You sat on closely cut turf, and with the little garden filled with beautiful standing plants, the eastern side of the farm-house covered with vines, laden with pumpkins, melons, and cucumbers, all giving a mixture of bright color against a green background, with the whole farm lying before you, and beyond it the bay and the distant ocean, dotted over with sailing craft, the sun, sinking behind the Narragansett hills, bathing the Newport shore in golden light, giving you, as John Van Buren then said to me, “As much of the sea as you ever get from the deck of a yacht.” Add to this, the exquisite toilets which our women wear on such occasions, a table laden with every delicacy, and all in the merriest of moods, and you have a picture of enjoyment that no shut-in ball-room could present. No “pent-up Utica” then confined our powers. Men and women enjoyed a freedom that their rural surroundings permitted, and, like the lambs gambolling in the fields next them, they frisked about, and thus did away with much of the stiff conventionality pertaining to a city entertainment.

On this little farm I had a cellar for claret and a farm-house attic for Madeira, where the cold Rhode Island winters have done much to preserve for me wines of seventy and eighty years of age. On this occasion, I remember giving them Amory of 1811 (one of the greatest of Boston Madeiras), and I saw the men hold it up to the light to see its beautiful amber color, inhale its bouquet, and quaff it down “with tender eyes bent on them.”

A marked feature of all my farm dinners was Dindonneaux à la Toulouse, and à la Bordelaise (chicken turkeys). In past days, turkeys were thought to be only fine on and after Thanksgiving Day in November, but I learnt from the French that the turkey poult with quenelle de volaille, with either a white or dark sauce, was the way to enjoy the Rhode Island turkey. I think they were first served in this way on my farm in Newport. Now they are thus cooked and accepted by all as the summer delicacy.

After dinner we strolled off in couples to the shore (a beach three-quarters of a mile in length), or sat under the group of trees looking on the beautiful bay.

My brother, Colonel McAllister, had exercised his engineering skill in fitting up my barn with every kind and sort of light. He improvised a chandelier for the center of it, adorned the horse and cattle stalls with vines and greens, fitted them up with seats for my guests (all nicely graveled), and put a band of music in the hay-loft, with the middle part of the barn floored over for dancing. We had a scene that Teniers has so often painted. We danced away late into the night, then had a glorious moonlight to drive home by.

I must not omit to mention one feature of these parties. It was the “Yacht Club rum punch,” made from old Plantation rum, placed in huge bowls, with an immense block of ice in each bowl, the melting ice being the only liquid added to the rum, except occasionally when I would pour a bottle of champagne in, which did it no injury.

AN ERA OF GREAT EXTRAVAGANCE.

CHAPTER XIV.

Let us now return to New York and its gaieties. The Assemblies were always given at Delmonico’s in Fourteenth Street, the best people in the city chosen as a committee of management, and under the patronage of ladies of established position. They were large balls, and embraced all who were in what may be termed General Society. They were very enjoyable. A distinguished banker, the head of one of our old families, then gave the first private ball at Delmonico’s to introduce his daughters to society. It was superb. The Delmonico rooms were admirably adapted for such an entertainment. There were at least eight hundred people present, and the host brought from his well-filled cellar his best Madeira and Hock. His was the pioneer private ball at this house. Being a success, it then became the fashion to give private balls at Delmonico’s, and certainly one could not have found better rooms for such a purpose. One of the grandest and handsomest fancy balls ever given here was given in these rooms a little later. Absent at the South, I did not attend it. Then came in an era of great extravagance and expenditure.

A beautiful woman, who was a nightingale in song, gave a fancy ball. It was brilliantly successful, and brought its leader to the front, and gave her a large following. It made her, with the personal attractions she possessed, the belle of that winter. Among other accomplishments, she drove four horses beautifully. I remember during the summer passing her on Bellevue Avenue as she sat perched up on the box-seat of a drag, driving four fine horses, handling the ribbons with a grace and ease that was admirable. All paid court to her. She won the hearts of both men and women.

At this time a man of great energy and pluck loomed up, and attracted, in fact absorbed to a great extent, the attention of society. Full of energy and enterprise, and supplied with abundant means, he did a great deal for New York, much that will live after him. He created Jerome Park; and not only created it, but got society into it. He made it the Goodwood of America, and caused society to take an interest in it. He opened that park most brilliantly, and, by his energy and perseverance, rendered it for years a most enjoyable place for all New Yorkers. Admiring the beautiful cantatrice, he proposed to her to turn his luxurious stables into a theatre, and ask the fashionable world to come and see her act “for sweet charity’s sake,”—to raise funds for the sick and wounded soldiers. In doing this, he assured her that she would literally bring the fashionable world to her feet to petition and sue for tickets of admission to this theatre. And so it proved. All flocked to see this accomplished woman act. The work of this energetic man was admirably done. He made a gem of his stable. I can but compare it to a little royal theatre. As you entered you were received by liveried servants, and by them conducted to your seat, where you found yourself surrounded by a most brilliant assemblage; and on the stage, as amateur actresses, supporting the fair singer, the fashionable beauties of that day. This was not the least of this generous man’s performances. Being an admirable four-in-hand driver, he at once revived the spirit for driving four horses. He turned out daily with his drag or coach loaded with beautiful women, and drove to every desirable little country inn in and about the city, where one could dine at all well, crossing ferries, and driving up Broadway with the ease and skill of a veteran whip, which he was. His projects were, if anything, too grand. He lavished money on all these things; his conceptions were good, but, like many great minds, at times he was too unmindful of detail. On one occasion, at Newport, he came to me, and told me he had mapped out a country fête, asked my advice about getting it up, but failed to take it, and then brought about his first fiasco. He asked the beau monde to embark on the yachts then lying in the harbor, and go with him to Stone Bridge to a dance and clambake. All the yachtsmen placed their yachts at his disposal. At 12 M., all Newport, i.e. the fashion of the place, was on these yachts. At the prow of the boats he had placed his champagne. Down came the broiling sun, and a dead calm fell upon the waters. Tugs were called in to tow the yachts. Orders had been given that not a biscuit or glass of wine was to be served to any of the party on these boats, that we might reach the feast at the Bridge with sharp appetites. The sun went down, and the night set in before we landed. We were then taken to an orchard, the high grass a foot deep all wet, and saw before us great plates of stewed soft clams and corn that had been cooked and ready for us at 2 P.M. The women put their plates on the grass, and their feet in them, so at least to have a dry footing. The champagne was parboiled, the company enveloped in darkness, and famished, so that all pronounced this kind of clambake picnic a species of fête not to be indulged in knowingly a second time. The great wit of the day, his boon companion, called it “The Melancholy Fête.” The following anonymous lines on this clambake were sent me:

Not in the least discouraged by this failure, returning to New York, he planned three dinners to be given by himself and two of his friends, to be the three handsomest dinners ever given in this city. Lorenzo Delmonico exclaimed, “What are the people coming to! Here, three gentlemen come to me and order three dinners, and each one charges me to make his dinner the best of the three. I am given an unlimited order, ‘Charge what you will, but make my dinner the best.’” Delmonico then said to me, “I told my cook to call them the Silver, Gold, and Diamond dinners, and have novelties at them all.” I attended these three dinners. Among other dishes, we had canvasback duck, cut up and made into an aspic de canvasback, and again, string beans, with truffles, cold, as a salad, and truffled ice cream; the last dish, strange to say, very good. At one dinner, on opening her napkin, each fair lady guest found a gold bracelet with the monogram of Jerome Park in chased gold in the centre. Now it must be remembered that this habit of giving ladies presents at dinners did not originate in this city. Before my day, the wealthy William Gaston, a bachelor, gave superb dinners in Savannah, Ga., and there, always placed at each lady’s plate a beautiful Spanish fan of such value that they are preserved by the grandchildren of those ladies, and are proudly exhibited to this day.

ON THE BOX SEAT AT NEWPORT.

CHAPTER XV.

It seemed at this time, that the ingenuity of man was put to the test to invent some new species of entertainment. The winter in New York being so gay, people were in the vein for frolic and amusement, and feeling rich, as the currency was inflated, prices of everything going up, Newport had a full and rushing season. The craze was for drags or coaches. My old friend, the Major, was not to be outdone, so he brought out four spanking bays; and again, an old bachelor friend of mine, a man of large fortune, but the quietest of men, I found one fine summer morning seated on the box seat of a drag, and tooling four fine roadsters. But this did not satisfy the swells. Soon came two out-riders on postilion saddles, following the drag; and again, several pairs of fine horses ridden by postilions à la demi d’Aumont. A turnout then for a picnic was indeed an event. In those days, a beautiful spot on the water, called “The Glen,” was often selected for these country parties. It was a romantic little nook, about seven miles from Newport, on what is called the East Passage, which opens on the Atlantic Ocean.

A young friend of mine, then paying court to a brilliant young woman, came to me for advice. He wanted to impress the object of his attentions, and proposed to do so by hiring two of the fastest trotting horses in Rhode Island, and driving the young lady out behind them to the “Glen” picnic. His argument was, that it was more American than any of your tandem or four-in-hands, or postilion riding; that the pace he should go at would be terrific, and he would guarantee to do the seven miles within twenty minutes. He was what we call a thorough trotting-horse man; much in love; worshipped horses; disliked style in them, going in for speed alone. I tried to dissuade him.

“It will never do,” I said; “it is not the fashion; the lady you drive out will be beautifully dressed, and you will cover her with dust; besides, the pace will alarm her.”

“Never fear that, my man,” he answered. “The girl has grit; she will go through anything. She is none of your milk-and-water misses; I can’t go too fast for her.”

“Have it as you will, then,” I said; and off he went to Providence to secure, through influence, these two wonderfully speedy trotters.

We were all grouped beautifully at the Glen, when, all of a sudden, we heard something descending the hill at a terrific pace; it was impossible to make out what it was, as it was completely hidden by a cloud of dust. Down it came, with lightning speed, and when it got opposite to the Major and me, we heard a loud “Whoa, my boys, whoa!” and the vehicle came to a stop. The occupants, a man and woman, were so covered with mud and dust that you could barely distinguish the one from the other. I ran up to the side of the wagon, saw a red, indignant face, and an outstretched hand imploring me to take her out. Seizing my arm, she sprang from the wagon, exclaiming, “The horrid creature! I never wish to lay eyes on him again,” and then she burst into tears. Her whole light, exquisite dress was totally ruined, and she a sight to behold. Turning to him, I saw a glow of triumph in his face; his watch was in his hand. “I did it, by Jove! I did it, and ten seconds to spare!—they are tearers!”

I quietly replied, “They are indeed tearers, they have torn your business into shreds.”

“Fudge, man!” he said; “she wont mind it; she was a bit scared, to be sure; but she hung on to my arm, and we came through all right.” He then sought his victim. I soon saw by his dejected manner that she had given him the mitten, and, as I passed him, slowly walking his horses home, I philosophized to this extent: “Trotting horses and fashion do not combine.”

Our next great day-time frolic was at Bristol Ferry. There we had a large country hotel which we took possession of. We got the best dinner giver then in Newport to lend us his chef, and I took my own colored cook, a native of Baltimore, who had, at the Maryland Ducking Club, gained a reputation for cooking game, ducks, etc. We determined, on this occasion, to have a trial of artistic skill between a creole woman cook, the best of her class, and the best chef we had in this country. We were to have sixty at dinner; dishes confined to Spanish mackerel, soft-shell crabs, woodcock, and chicken partridges. It is needless to say, the Frenchman came off victorious, though my creole cook contended that the French chef would not eat his own cooked dishes, but devoured her soft-shell crabs.

On this occasion we had a grand turnout of drags, postilions à la demi d’Aumont, and tandems. I led the cotillion myself, dancing in the large drawing-room of the inn; and it all went so charmingly that it was late into the night when we left the place. It was as dark as Erebus. We had eleven miles to drive, and I saw that some of our four-in-hand drivers felt a little squeamish. My old bachelor friend had in his drag a precious cargo. On the box-seat with him sat our nightingale, and I had in my four-seated open wagon our queen of society and a famous Baltimore belle. “Is the road straight or crooked?” I was asked, on all sides. Having danced myself nearly to death, and being well fortified with champagne, I found it straight as an arrow, as I was then oblivious to its crooks and turns. Off we all started up the hill at a canter. I remember my friend, the Major, shouting to me, “The devil take the hindmost,” and the admonition to him of his old family coachman, who accompanied him that day, “Be careful, sir, the road is not as straight as it might be.” Driving along at a spanking pace, the horses fresh, the ladies jubilant, I as happy as a lord,—there was a scream, then another, then a plunge, and a splash of water. Dark as it was, standing up in my wagon, I shouted, “By Jove! he has driven off the bridge,”—and off the bridge he was, drag upset and four horses mired in mud and water. One young fellow, in the excitement of the moment, sprang to the side of my wagon, and tried to wrench off one of my lamps. How then I admired the plucky, cool little woman at my side! She never lost her presence of mind for a second; gave directions quietly and effectively, and soon brought order out of chaos. From a jolly, festive procession, we were turned into a sad, melancholy species of funeral cortège. The ladies were picked out of the wreck, and placed in the different drags and wagons, and we wended on our way at a walk, ten dreary miles to Newport. One brilliant youth of the Diplomatic Corps, as we passed a farm-house, making it just out in the dark, was asked to procure for our invalids a glass of water. He rushed to the house, banging against the door, and shouting, “House, house, house, wont you hear, wont you hear?” The old farmer poked his head out of the window, answering him, “Why, man, the house can’t talk! what do you want here at this time of night? I know who you are, you are some of McAllister’s picnickers. I saw you go by this morning. I s’pose you want milk, but you wont get a drop here.”

As picnics, country dinners, and breakfasts were then Newport’s feature, they took the place of balls, all the dancing and much of the dining being done in the open air. I would here say that as every family took to these parties their butler, and carried out the wines and all the dishes, their cost in money was insignificant. We would pay twenty-five dollars for the farm or grove to which we went for the day. Twenty-five dollars for the country band, as much for the hire of silver, linen, crockery, etc., and ten dollars for a horse, wagon and man to take everything out, making the entire outlay in money on each occasion eighty-five to a hundred dollars. A picnic dinner and dance at my farm, furnishing everything myself, no outside contributions, for fifty or sixty people, would cost me then three hundred dollars, everything included. What a difference to the present time! I got up one of these country dances and luncheons summer before last at my farm, where, under a pretty grove of trees, I had built a dancing platform from which you can throw a biscuit into the beautiful waters of Narragansett Bay. Lending the farm to the party, every one bringing a dish, hiring the servants and music, cost us in money eight hundred and six dollars and eighty-four cents. There were 140 people present. The railroad running through the farm, the train stopped on the place itself within a few rods of the group of trees. Leaving Newport at 2 P.M., in six minutes we are on the place, and at a quarter of five the train returned to us, thus ridding ourselves of coachmen and grooms, finding them all at the railway station when we reached Newport on our return at 5 P.M., to take us for our usual afternoon drive.

But to return to the past. When Newport was in its glory, and outshone itself, the young men of that day resolved to give me a lesson in picnic-giving. What they had done well in and about New York, they felt they could do equally well in Newport, so they sent to the city for Delmonico with all his staff, and invited all Newport to a dance and country dinner at a large teahouse some six miles from Newport, adjoining Oaklands, the then Gibbs farm, later on the property of Mr. August Belmont, and now belonging to Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, being his model farm, one of the loveliest spots on Newport Island. Delmonico took possession of this huge barrack of a house, and to work his waiters went to arrange in the large, old dining-room his beautiful collation, which was all brought from New York. The entire party were dancing the cotillion in the front parlor of the house, and grouped on its front piazzas. As 5 P.M. approached, an irresistible desire, an inward craving for food, became apparent. Committeemen were beset with the question, when are we going to have the collation? They rushed off to hurry up things, and then one by one reappeared with blanched faces, and an unmistakable anxious, troubled look. Finally they came to me with, “My dear fellow, what is to be done? Come and see for yourself.” Dragging me into the dining-room and pantries of the hotel I there indeed saw a sight to behold. All the coachmen and grooms had made a foray on the abundant supplies, tumbled Delmonico’s French waiters into the cellar of the hotel, and locked them up; then, taking possession of the dining-room, held high carnival. Every mouthful of solid food was eaten up, and all the champagne drunk; the ices, jellies, and confectionery they left untouched. As I viewed the scene, I recalled Virgil’s description of a wreck, “Apparent rari in gurgite nantes.” Every coachman and groom was intoxicated, and, as the whole party at once took flight to secure dinner at home, the scene on the road beggared description. The coachmen swayed to and fro like the pendulum of a clock; the postilions of the demi d’Aumonts hung on by the manes of their horses, when they lost their equilibrium. The women, as usual, behaved admirably. As one said to me, “My man is beastly intoxicated, but I shall appear not to notice it. The horses are gentle, they will go of themselves.” My old friend, the Major, at once held a council of war, and it was suggested that all turn in and thrash the fellows soundly, but prudence dictated that at that work man was as good as master, that the result might be doubtful; so all dolefully got away in the best manner possible. The Major thus harangued his old family coachman: “Richard, I am astonished at you; the other men’s rascally conduct does not surprise me, but you, an old family servant, to so disgrace yourself, shocks me.” The reply was, “I own up, Major, but indade, I am a weak craythur.

”

SOCIAL UNITY.

CHAPTER XVI.

Now, all was to expand into noble womanhood, and she must needs put away childish things and bid a sweet farewell to all who had worshipped at her shrine. This worshipper wanted to make this an occasion in her life, as well as his; so with Delmonico’s genius we were to conceive a banquet for this fair maid, at which, like a Queen of May, she was to sit in a bower of roses. And this she literally did, placed there by her host, a scion of one of New York’s oldest families, whose family was interwoven with the Livingstons, and by marriage closely connected with the great Robert Fulton. It was the first of these lavish and gorgeous entertainments, known as Banquets. Fifty-eight guests dining in Delmonico’s large ball-room; the immense oval table filling the whole room, and covered with masses of exquisite flowers. There were three fountains, one in the centre, and the others at each end of the table, throwing up a gentle spray of water, but always so planned that nothing on the table in any way impeded the sight; one from all sides of it could see over these beautiful flower-beds and through the spray. A cotillion followed the dinner, and then back all returned to the dining-room and supped as the early dawn crept on us.

Close association at a small watering-place naturally produces jars. People cannot always agree. When you become very rich and powerful, and people pay you court, it follows in many cases that you become exacting and domineering. It soon became evident that people of moderate means, who had no social power to boast of, must needs be set aside and crowded out if the one-man power, or even the united power of two or three colossally rich men, controlled society. One reflected that that would not work. The homage we pay to a society leader must come from the esteem and admiration which is felt for him, but must not be exacted or forced. It occurred then to me, that if one in any way got out with the powers that be, his position might become critical, and he so forced out of the way as to really lose his social footing. Where then was the remedy for all this? How avoid this contingency? On reflection I reached this conclusion, that in a country like ours there was always strength in union; that to blend together the solid, respectable element of any community for any project, was to create a power that would carry to success almost any enterprise; therefore, returning to New York for the winter, I looked around society and invoked the aid of the then quiet representative men of this city, to help me form an association for the purpose of giving our winter balls.

As a child, I had often listened with great interest to my father’s account of his visit to London, with Dominick Lynch, the greatest swell and beau that New York had ever known. He would describe his going with this friend to Almack’s, finding themselves in a brilliant assemblage of people, knowing no one, and no one deigning to notice them; Lynch, turning to my father, exclaimed: “Well, my friend, geese indeed were we to thrust ourselves in here where we are evidently not wanted.” He had hardly finished the sentence, when the Duke of Wellington (to whom they had brought letters, and who had sent them tickets to Almack’s) entered, looked around, and, seeing them, at once approached them, took each by the arm, and walked them twice up and down the room; then, pleading an engagement, said “good-night” and left. Their countenances fell as he rapidly left the room, but the door had barely closed on him, when all crowded around them, and in a few minutes they were presented to every one of note, and had a charming evening. He described to us how Almack’s originated,—all by the banding together of powerful women of influence for the purpose of getting up these balls, and in this way making them the greatest social events of London society.

Remembering all this, I resolved in 1872 to establish in New York an American Almack’s, taking men instead of women, being careful to select only the leading representative men of the city, who had the right to create and lead society. I knew all would depend upon our making a proper selection.

There is one rule in life I invariably carry out—never to rely wholly on my own judgment, but to get the advice of others, weigh it well and satisfy myself of its correctness, and then act on it. I went in this city to those who could make the best analysis of men; who knew their past as well as their present, and could foresee their future. In this way, I made up an Executive Committee of three gentlemen, who daily met at my house, and we went to work in earnest to make a list of those we should ask to join in the undertaking. One of this Committee, a very bright, clever man, hit upon the name of Patriarchs for the Association, which was at once adopted, and then, after some discussion, we limited the number of Patriarchs to twenty-five, and that each Patriarch, for his subscription, should have the right of inviting to each ball four ladies and five gentlemen, including himself and family; that all distinguished strangers, up to fifty, should be asked; and then established the rules governing the giving of these balls—all of which, with some slight modifications, have been carried out to the letter to this day. The following gentlemen were then asked to become “Patriarchs,” and at once joined the little band:

The object we had in view was to make these balls thoroughly representative; to embrace the old Colonial New Yorkers, our adopted citizens, and men whose ability and integrity had won the esteem of the community, and who formed an important element in society. We wanted the money power, but not in any way to be controlled by it. Patriarchs were chosen solely for their fitness; on each of them promising to invite to each ball only such people as would do credit to the ball. We then resolved that the responsibility of inviting each batch of nine guests should rest upon the shoulders of the Patriarch who invited them, and that if any objectionable element was introduced, it was the Management’s duty to at once let it be known by whom such objectionable party was invited, and to notify the Patriarch so offending, that he had done us an injury, and pray him to be more circumspect. He then stood before the community as a sponsor of his guest, and all society, knowing the offense he had committed, would so upbraid him, that he would go and sin no more. We knew then, and we know now, that the whole secret of the success of these Patriarch Balls lay in making them select; in making them the most brilliant balls of each winter; in making it extremely difficult to obtain an invitation to them, and to make such invitations of great value; to make them the stepping-stone to the best New York society, that one might be sure that any one repeatedly invited to them had a secure social position, and to make them the best managed, the best looked-after balls given in this city. I soon became as much interested in them as if I were giving them in my own house; their success I felt was my success, and their failure, my failure; and be assured, this identifying oneself with any undertaking is the secret of its success. One should never say, “Oh, it is a subscription ball; I’m not responsible for it.” It must always be said, “I must be more careful in doing this for others, than in doing it for myself.” Nothing must be kept in view but the great result to be reached, i.e. the success of the entertainment, the pleasure of the whole. When petitioned to curtail the expense, lower the subscription, our reply has always been, “We cannot do it if it endangers the success of the balls. While we give them, let us make them the great social events in New York society; make our suppers the best that can be given in this city; decorate our rooms as lavishly as good taste permits, spare no expense to make them a credit to ourselves and to the great city in which they are given.”

The social life of a great part of our community, in my opinion, hinges on this and similar organizations, for it and they are organized social power, capable of giving a passport to society to all worthy of it. We thought it would not be wise to allow a handful of men having royal fortunes to have a sovereign’s prerogative, i.e. to say whom society shall receive, and whom society shall shut out. We thought it better to try and place such power in the hands of representative men, the choice falling on them solely because of their worth, respectability, and responsibility.

A GOLDEN AGE OF FEASTING.

CHAPTER XVII.