f light. Decently as I might I
looked about. I was forced to stifle the exclamation of surprise which
rose to my lips.

We were plain folk enough in Washington at that time. The ceremonious
days of our first presidents had passed for the democratic time of
Jefferson and Jackson; and even under Mr. Van Buren there had been
little change from the simplicity which was somewhat our boast.
Washington itself was at that time scarcely more than an overgrown
hamlet, not in the least to be compared to the cosmopolitan centers
which made the capitals of the Old World. Formality and stateliness of a
certain sort we had, but of luxury we knew little. There was at that
time, as I well knew, no state apartment in the city which in sheer
splendor could for a moment compare with this secret abode of a woman
practically unknown. Here certainly was European luxury transferred to
our shores. This in simple Washington, with its vast white unfinished
capitol, its piecemeal miles of mixed residences, boarding-houses,
hotels, restaurants, and hovels! I fancied stern Andrew Jackson or plain
John Calhoun here!

The furniture I discovered to be exquisite in detail, of rosewood and
mahogany, with many brass chasings and carvings, after the fashion of
the Empire, and here and there florid ornamentation following that of
the court of the earlier Louis. Fanciful little clocks with carved
scrolls stood about; Cupid tapestries had replaced the original tawdry
coverings of these common walls, and what had once been a dingy
fireplace was now faced with embossed tiles never made in America. There
were paintings in oil here and there, done by master hands, as one could
tell. The curtained windows spoke eloquently of secrecy. Here and there
a divan and couch showed elaborate care in comfort. Beyond a
lace-screened grille I saw an alcove--doubtless cut through the original
partition wall between two of these humble houses--and within this
stood a high tester bed, its heavy mahogany posts beautifully carved,
the couch itself piled deep with foundations of I know not what of down
and spread most daintily with a coverlid of amber satin, whose edges
fringed out almost to the floor. At the other extremity, screened off as
in a distinct apartment, there stood a smaller couch, a Napoleon bed,
with carved ends, furnished more simply but with equal richness.
Everywhere was the air not only of comfort, but of ease and luxury,
elegance and sensuousness contending. I