The question of the annual diner diplomatique was cleverly managed by Mr. Evarts.  Mr. Hayes wanted to suppress wine and give tea and mineral water, but Mr. Evarts put his foot down.  He said that the diplomats would not understand an official dinner without wine, and proposed, instead, a soiree musicale—­in other words, a rout.  The diplomats had a separate entrance (a novelty) from the garden side.  There was an orchestra at the end of the Blue Room which drowned conversation when you were near it.  I noticed that most of the young ladies found it too near, and sought other corners.

The supper ne laissait rien a desirer, and there was a sumptuous buffet open the whole evening; punch-bowls filled with lemonade were placed in the different salons.  On the whole, it was a great success.

I think that the teetotality of the White House displeases as much our country-people as it does the foreigners.  At one of our musical parties Mr. Blaine came rather late, and, clapping his hands on Johan’s shoulder, said, “My kingdom for a glass of whisky; I have just dined at the White House.”  Others call the White House dinners “the life-saving station.”

Mrs. Hayes was very nice to me.  She sent me a magnificent basket of what she called “specimen flowers,” which were superb orchids and begonias.  On her card was written, “Thanking you again for the pleasure you gave me by your singing.”

WASHINGTON, March, 1877.

My dear Mother,—­We are now having a visit of the Queen of the Sandwich Islands.  I suppose in Europe she would show to great advantage, but here her blackness is at a low premium.  There was a large reception for her Royal Blackness at the White House, where all the diplomats were present.  The queen talked with people with the aid of an interpreter.  Her remarks necessarily being restricted, she said about the same thing to every one.  She was bristling with jewelry, and the large white pearls on her broad, black bosom took on extra splendor.  Robert (our colored valet), who was waiting in the corridor, caught sight of her as she walked by, and remarked, when he reached home, to my maid that he was “surprised that they should make such a fuss over a colored person”; and he attempted to turn his flat nose in the air; but, as it is not the kind that turns, it refused.

Robert wears a conspicuous decoration in his buttonhole whenever we have a dinner.  The first time Johan noticed it he almost fainted away, as he knows every decoration under the sun, and, thinking it looked like the Legion d’Honneur, he proposed to question Robert about it; but Robert eluded the master’s clutch as the door-bell was ringing.  Johan was considerably disturbed until he learned the truth, which was that Robert belonged to a reading-club—­a Browning and Tennyson club—­and this was its badge.  Our colleagues thought he was the Minister from Hayti!

WASHINGTON, Spring, 1877.