John Neal, one of the most splendid men and brilliant writers that ever put an American pen to paper, was born there, and has spent most of his life in his native place.

N. P. Willis was born in Portland; so was Sebe Smith, who called himself Jack Downing in his letters.

Longfellow's family was rooted in that town long before he honored it by being born.

James Brooks, who was for years a pillar of strength in Congress, and who started the first newspaper correspondence ever thought of, in the _Portland Advertiser_, which he edited before he was twenty years old, was a native of Portland, which city he represented in the legislature, then travelled all over Europe on foot, and settled down in New York before he was twenty-six. After this he spent twelve or fifteen years in Congress--earned a place, second to no man there, as a statesman, travelled over Europe three times, visited Egypt and the Holy Land, and finished his travels by a trip round the world, taken between the sessions of Congress. Beside this, he never ceased to be the leading editor of the New York _Express_, and his book about j.a.pan, China, and so on, which Mr. Appleton, of New York, has published, is one of the best books of travel extant.

Beside all these, Mr. King made his first literary start in Portland, where, as a young man, he edited a weekly paper. But he has lived most of his after-life in Washington, generally holding a high position there. During a portion of Mr. Buchanan's administration, he was Postmaster-General of these United States, and at all times he has been considered a man worth knowing.

LIII.

A LITERARY PARTY.

Dear sisters:--Of course I, being a young girl of New England, felt myself at home in Mrs. King's house the minute I entered it. There is something in the air of a dwelling like that, pure and breezy, like the morning winds on the Green Mountains. I felt myself growing frank and cheerful as I got into the hall. The parlors were crowded full--three of them--with people that one liked to look at, and longed to know; for every face had an idea in it, and, beyond that, a good many were right down beautiful.

But beauty by itself isn't enough to get an invitation here, and good clothes count for just nothing, though there was plenty of them, and I didn't feel as if my pink silk was too much. Something a little more austere, in the velvet or alpaca line, might have been more appropriate to the occasion. Still, there was a rosy brightness about my silk that had a tendency to give a glow of youthful thoughtlessness to intelligence, and combine an idea of high fashion with genius.

Mr. King, and his daughter, a proper, pretty stylish lady, stood near the door when I went in, with the train of my dress streaming back into the hall, and some natural rose-geranium leaves circling my brow in a way that was calculated to remind an observing person of Miss Corinne when she was crowned in the Capitol at Rome.

Mr. King come forward to meet me with his hand held out. He is a thin, spare man, with the sweetest and kindest look in his face that you ever saw. I had intended to just touch his hand, and make a sweeping salute, half bow, half curtsey, that would take in the whole admiring crowd; but his frank, smiling welcome just took me right off from my feet, and I gave his hand a good, hearty New England shake that made him feel to home in a minute.

Mr. King led me into the parlor, and gave me a soft seat among the cushions of a sofa in the middle room, just as Solomon must have waited on the Queen of Sheba. Then, feeling that the eyes of more States than Vermont were upon me, I spread out my skirts, leaned one arm on the sofa cushion, and settled myself just as Mr. Brady had done it when I sat to him for a picture; thus adding an artistic feature to the fashionable and intellectual embodiment of my first appearance. Thus, with downcast eyes and a modest demeanor, which must have been attractive, I waited for the literary programme that lay before us.

It commenced beautifully. Mr. King took his place under the chandelier of the middle room, and welcomed his friends with a very poetic and touching little speech, which ended in a farewell which almost brought tears into my eyes. This was his last reunion for the year, and he seemed to feel the breaking-up a good deal, and his kind voice shook when he mentioned the possibility that death might carry off some of the friends who had brightened his home, before they all met again.

When Mr. King sat down there was dumb silence for a little while; for the whole crowd seemed to feel all he had been saying, deep in their hearts. But this soon changed into smiles and a soft rustle of dresses, for a nice elderly gentleman got up and made a delightful speech, full of cheerfulness and nice friendly feeling, which brightened the whole crowd up like spring winds in a flower-garden.

After this, another pleasant gentleman arose with a written poem in his hand, which he read under the gaslight, filling the whole room with the sound of his friendly voice.

The poem was written to Mr. King. It was full of sweet thoughts and grateful thanks for all he had done to make his friends happy. But he blushed like a girl, for its praises seemed to take him by surprise, and, like all men of real talent, he is modest as can be.

The lady who wrote this sweet poem was Mrs. Neeley, who has been writing to the Washington papers ever so long, in a way, too, that any woman might be proud of. She sat directly behind the gentleman who read her poem, and looked real nice in her crimson velvet dress.

After this a lady got up and read something mournful about three curls of hair that a man had taken from his wife's head--golden when she was a child, brown when she was a bride, and snow-white when she lay dead.

There was a sort of sob went through all the rooms when this poem died out. Then, after a little, every lady began to cheer up and laugh; for the same lady was reading a poem, half Dutch, half English, about a dog howling, which was so funny that I almost forgot my dignity as the representative of your Society, and near about clapped my hands--a thing I should have regretted to the day of my death.

This dog poem set everybody into a state of high gleefulness and some music struck up in the front room, which could be heard a little now and then above the hum and rush of conversation that set in with the crowd, where artists, authors, and statesmen, and scientifics mingled in, and chatted promiscuously, saying such bright and wise and witty things, that they fairly made my eyes snap. I cut in, too.

What is the use of being the emissary of a literary, scientific, and moral inst.i.tution, if one can't hold up her end of the yoke in conversation? I did my best, sisters. An artist stood near me; I talked with him about pictures till, I do believe, he thought that I had been born in Rome, and cradled with Michael Angelo--an old fellow, that both painted and made marble men in Italy years ago. Then I had something to say about flowers to an agricultural bureau scientific, and about the chemistry of something to a savant or savan, or a word like that, of the Smithsonian Inst.i.tution. I tell you, sisters, it was sharp work; but I flatter myself you were not in any way disgraced.

By and by I was introduced to the Chief Justice of the Court of Claims--about as smart a lawyer, and clear headed a judge, as can be found in these parts, I can tell you. He was not long ago United States Senator from Missouri, and has left his mark among the statesmen there; but his genius lay as much in expounding the laws as in making them. He has written some capital law-books, too, and could mate with any judge, statesman, or author that came across his track. His wife joined in a little now and then, as only a right down sensible and handsome woman could. It does one's heart good to see a great man and most lovely woman mated so for once.

That was just what I did in Mr. King's parlors, and, when we stopped talking, it struck me that the gentleman knew a great deal more of literature than your missionary has yet learned of statesmanship or law.

In fact, an evening in Mr. King's parlors does teach one humility, and I begin to discover that a person may be capable of writing poetry, and making a fair report, without being able to teach science to a professor, jurisprudence--I hope I have got the word right--to a judge, or high statesmanship to a senator. In fact, in the present state of society, it seems to me that the best of us have got to live and learn--live and learn.

LIV.

DRESSING FOR A PARTY.

My dear sisters:--You have no idea how many kinds of parties there are in Washington. Some are called receptions, because they take place in the daytime, in houses where every mite of sunshine is shut out, and the gas set to blazing as if it were midnight. That is, night isn't turned into day here one bit oftener than day is turned into night.

Then there are ladies' lunch parties, where the daylight is allowed to shine in; and picnics, where one gets a little too much of it, besides being tired to death, and nothing to show for it.

Besides these, there are political parties, where men get up entertainments that are called caucuses, which no lady is allowed to join in. Besides dinners and breakfasts, and so on, without end, which makes life in this city just one rush and tumult--to say nothing of Congress, which is just that, and a good deal more so.

Last week, Cousin E. E. and I had so many invitations that we didn't know what to do with them. We should have had to go out to three breakfasts, two dinners, and six parties a night, if we had attempted to do more than read them all. For since Mr. King's literary reunion, the popularity of your missionary has increased like a rolling s...o...b..ll, and her invitations came by the peck and half bushel.

Well, out of this heap, there was one or two places that I felt like honoring with my presence. So E. E. and I sat down and wrote a little note--all ladies write _little_ notes nowadays--and relieved the intense anxiety of the people who had invited us, by saying, in the most polite way, that we would come.

This act of kindness had its reward in the feeling that we had relieved more than one anxious host, and given certainty of a brilliant success to parties that must necessarily have been in doubt until certain of our coming. With my usual modesty, I say "our," wishing to give E. E. her little chance, you know.

The invitation we resolved to honor was from one of the foreign ministers. Of course I expected that there would be a good many religious people there, and, as I hadn't mingled much with persons who were over pious for some time, I antic.i.p.ated a refreshing season; for a foreign minister must have a n.o.ble missionary spirit, and, no doubt, came to Washington on purpose to reform the members of Congress, which is a work of Christian mercy, if ever there was one.

For this reason, my spiritual nature was aroused, and I was burning with desire to help in the n.o.ble cause, and let foreign nations know that we had women in this country that could be at once brilliant and devout, celebrated and conscientious; in fact, women who could gracefully combine two characters, hitherto supposed to be opposite.

Yes, I was resolved to go to this ministerial reunion. Had I not been at Mr. King's literary gathering, which lifted me, as it were, out of a frivolous, fashionable life into the purely intellectual, and now, should I refuse to bathe my soul in the purer element of high Christian fervor? No, a thousand times no!

On a religious occasion like this, I felt that a modest dress--simple black alpaca, for instance, with a pink bow at the neck--would be about the thing; but Cousin E. E. got almost huffy about it.

"Why," says she, "at the Foreign Minister's a full toilet is expected, always. It is but proper respect."

"Cousin," says I, "no one can have more respect for the ministerial functions than I have; no one ever attended meeting more faithfully. Am I not a missionary myself? Do you think I would or could fall short of the mark of the prize of the high calling? If alpaca isn't the thing, I am open to reason and pink silk."

"That will do," says she, a-brightening up, "looped up with black velvet and bows, and _decollette_."

"Dic o' nonsense?" says I, riling a little.

"Well, low neck and short sleeves," says she.

"At a meeting of ministers?" says I. "Cousin E. E., are you crazy?"

"Well, do as you please," says she, "only I tell you it will be expected. I intend to be very low, with a strap for a sleeve, and all my jewels."

"I shall be content with the jewels of the soul," says I, with an austere rebuke in my voice; for if there is anything that riles me up more than another, it is flashy dressing where one's mind should be given up to solemn thoughts. "Cousin E. E., there are times when levity of dress and lightness of speech are to be excused, but this isn't one of them. Put a bridle on your tongue, and something more than a strap over your shoulder."

E. E. colored up, and gave her head a toss.

"Phmie," says she, "you are past finding out. Do as you please, and just let me do as I please."