The next social event after this grand ball was a large breakfast the great journalist gave for the Duke of Beaufort, at Southwick’s Grove. We all sat at tables under the trees, and we had what the French so aptly term a _déjeuner dinatoire_. At it the Duke was most eloquent in his wonderful description of a fishing exploit he had had that morning; rising at 2 A.M., and driving to “Black Rock,” he groped his way to the farthest point, and had the satisfaction of hooking an enormous bass. In his own words, “As I saw him on the crest of the wave, I knew I had him, and then my sport began.” Hearing that President Arthur would visit Newport, as I felt greatly in his debt I resolved to do my share in making his visit pleasant and agreeable. He was to be the guest of Governor Morgan, whom I at once buttonholed and to him gave the above views. I found, like all these great political magnates, that he preferred to have the President to himself, and rather threw cold water on my attempting anything in my humble way at entertaining him. “Why, my dear sir,” he replied, “the President will not go to one of your country picnics. It is preposterous to think of getting up such a rural thing for him. I shall, of course, dine him and give him a fête, and have already sent to New York for my Madeira.” “Sent for your Madeira!” I exclaimed. “Why, my dear Governor, it will not be fit to drink when it reaches you.” “Why not?” he asked. “Because it will be so shaken up, it will be like tasting bad drugs. Madeira of any age, if once moved, cannot be tasted until it has had at least a month’s repose. President Arthur is a good judge of Madeira, and he would not drink your wine.” “Well, what am I to do?” said he. “Why, my dear Governor, I will myself carry to your house for him a couple of bottles of my very best Madeira.” This I did, sitting in the middle of the carriage, one bottle in each hand (it having been first carefully decanted), and into the Governor’s parlor I was ushered, and then placed my offering before the President, telling him that I well knew he loved women, as well as song and wine; prayed him to honor me with his presence at a Newport picnic, promising to cull a bouquet of such exotics as are only grown in a Newport hothouse. The invitation he at once accepted, much, I thought, to the chagrin of the Governor, who, accompanying me to his front door, said: “My dear sir, one must remember that he is the President of the United States, ruling over sixty millions of people. He is here as my guest, and now to go off and dine on Sunday with a leader of fashion, and then to follow this up by attending one of your open-air lunches, seems to me not right.” (I must here say in his defense, that the Governor had never been to one of my “open-air lunches,” and knew not of what he spoke.)