“No wife to catch him fish and grind him corn”?
“No wife to catch him fish and grind him corn”?
“No wife to catch him fish and grind him corn”?
When one of the foreigners died it is said that he left Sam Ward a fortune. If his cuisine was not always perfect the host himself made up the imperfection. He had the power to throw his guests out of their shells and by this means adding any amount of heat to the social atmosphere. The last time Sam Ward was seen he was marching across the Capitol Rotunda, his short, full arm around another man’s waist, looking as much like a fat Philadelphia capon as Charlie O’Neill. His round, chubby, boyish face and duck legs bore not the slightest resemblance to the lobby. He is the brother of Julia Ward Howe, the author of the battle hymn of the Republic. The same kind of spiritual essence that enters this poem made the dinners famous, but let no man attempt the same high art. The solitary vase has been broken, but the odor is left and clings to it still.
Olivia.
Mannerisms of These Famous Senators and a Number of Their Colleagues.
Washington,May 14, 1881.
Over the great public squares is spread a royal carpet of greenest verdure. Miles and miles of trees occupying the city “parking” are flaunting their tender leaves in the dazzling sunshine; the fruit trees are a mass of powdery blossom, whilst violets and lilacs fill the market space with delicious perfume. The cold North blast has ceased to blow, and from the sunny South comes the dallying wind, laden with the breath of magnolia and orange blossom; but a cloud which has no silver lining envelopes the National Capitol—lo! as an iron shroud. No precedent in history arises to permit us to judge the future by the past. Within the memory of the writer armed legions with glittering bayonets slept upon the cushioned seats of the Senate chamber, whilst the gallant Colonel Ellsworth, of Zouave fame, spread his soldier’s blanket on the floor. A war as bitter and unrelenting is being fought, but the cold sharp steel is invisible. It is the same old fight which shook the Middle Ages from center to circumference when the sovereign of millions threw down the gauntlet to his feudal chiefs. Senator Conkling could not have sustained his opposition to the President for a single day if the battle of New York did not include every State in the Union. It was the charge of little Rhody on the “big N.” It was to decide whether the two stalwart Senators, like Anthony and Burnside, weighing more than one hundred and eighty pounds each, were not able to look after the political welfare of a State so small that it almost requires a microscopeto find it on the map. Conkling was the great general, stationed in the rear, planning the campaign. Men of the Dawes calibre conduct active operations in the field. To amuse the public firing is kept up between the Democrats and Republicans, but the real war, which means death to one or the other of the combatants, is between the Senate and the White House.
To get a thorough understanding of the machine politician he must be judged entirely by his acts, as a personal acquaintance warps the judgment and destroys what might be a first-class opinion, because the feelings are called into play. Beginning with the pages, who skip and flit like butterflies on the Senate floor, all unite in the worship of Senator Conkling. He never has to clap his hands to bring a page, for the moment he begins work that would require the service two or three of these lynx-eyed dots are at his elbow, all anxious for the honor to serve him. The writer asked a bright little page why the boys were so willing to do his bidding. He replied: “He never said a cross word to a page in his life. He says: ‘My little man, will you do this kindness for me?’ Then we all run!” Just what the sunshine is to the physical world this something which goes from every man and woman in a greater or less degree is what acts upon humanity. It is not love, because it is devoid of passion. It is a force that cannot be estimated or measured and it is given to only a very few in any age. The great Napoleon possessed it in the largest degree of any man in modern times.
A tall Texan comes from the “Lone Star” State and is seen in all the prominent places in Washington. Once observed, he cannot be forgotten, for he is of giant proportions. Colossal is the word, for every limb and feature has been adjusted to the proper scale, as if designed by Randolph Rogers or Vinnie Ream-Hoxie. Handsome is a word not strong enough for justice, but is used because Richard Grant White or the ChicagoTribunehasinvented nothing better. The tall Texan was prowling about the Capitol, and whether by accident or design, the writer knows not, the Texan and Senator came together in the dark shadows of the lobby which leads to the Marble Room. An intense, anxious expression lighted up the features of the Texan as he neared the New York Senator. As they came in close contact Senator Conkling raised his arm, placed his hand around the man’s waist and lifted it to the lofty shoulder, and whilst he drew the colossal figure towards him looked up into his face and said, “You would not ask me to do that.” No quiver of disappointment was visible. The two politicians had met. Size had nothing to do with it. Matter went down before mind and the Darwinian theory was vindicated.
Notable among the men who were prominent in the House are those who migrated to the Senate wing and find themselves frozen stiff in their seats and motionless as so many dead flies. If by accident their bloodless lips are unsealed one day they only live to regret it the next. Conger, whose “horn” is in danger of being forgotten, sits glued to one spot and helps make an admirable picture for the galleries. Daintiest of snowy linen covers a breast which is known to conceal the most ecstatic emotions, whilst the costliest broadcloth serves the purpose of drapery. All that he requires is the addition of spices to make him a mummy that would far eclipse those of Egyptian magic.
Don Cameron sits in his seat, and if he were a woman he would be called “interesting.” In other words, he may be summed up as pale, sad, and extremely nervous. The iron crown which he inherited from his tough old Highland father is too heavy for tender temples and weaker brain. The people of Pennsylvania can afford to bide their time, for when the Winnebago Chief is gathered to his fathers Cameronism is wiped off the face of the State as clean as though it were a wheatfield in thepath of the tornado; but if the old Keystone is not represented by brains in the National Senate she has beauty, and the poet sings, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It is not necessary for Senator Mitchell to make himself felt—he should be seen, and then no fault can be found.
The Senate is like an immense cave and unless a man has an intellect like a calcium light there is no chance for him; the tallow dips sputter for a moment, make themselves ridiculous, then go out in the icy gloom. Except for the warriors, both Union and Confederate, the live element would be entirely wanting. The “Tall Sycamore of the Wabash” will never let himself be forgotten, and he reminds one of an oasis in the Senate desert—land of the delicious date and towering palm.
Most winning, dearest to the heart of woman, are the Senate knights of the “lost cause.” There is a deference and courtly grace which they bestow on the so-called weaker sex which the cold Northman may counterfeit, but never succeed as an original. Whilst the men of colder latitude approach woman as though she were made out of the same kind of stuff as themselves, the Southerner makes her feel that she stands on a higher mark in the ascending scale and that if she is not quite “winged” she is almost an angel. Even Hon. Ben Hill can so deftly manage a woman that she cannot tell whether she is being pummeled or caressed, as our one solitary interview with this illustrious statesman will prove. In an article which was published some months ago inThe Times, when a pen picture was being painted of the lobby, a paragraph was inserted which said, “The queen paused in her triumphal march to speak with Senator Hill.” In vain the writer pleaded that a Senator was not to blame because the “queen” had seized him. He declared that he had been “maligned” for the reason that he avoided all women the day he made speeches, therefore it could not be true. Again the writer pleaded that he was no more to blame for his seizure by the queen of the lobby than abig sunflower when a bumblebee pitches into its heart. His head could not be reached by argument nor his heart by petition. He said the article had been copied in a Georgia paper and used against him in the campaign; at the same time he artlessly confessed his love for his wife and his loathing for the “queen of the lobby.” If that Georgia editor has a soul will he publish our heartfelt desire to cleanse any spot which we have unintentionally cast on the Senator’s record? These Southern men are singularly clean-handed where so many fall. They put the pure woman on a pedestal and worship her, and if there are any bad ones they are carried off to their lairs and devoured and nobody hears of them any more.
Olivia.
Members of the Official Family—A Soldier’s Disappointment.
Washington,August 22, 1881.
A long residence in Washington proves the sad fact that “court life” at the capital of a Republic is precisely the same as in a monarchy, except in the change of its duration. As the time to accomplish results is so very brief the odious process becomes more patent and less care is taken to hide all the art and skill practiced by the parasites who surround the Executive and who change his nature in a very brief time unless, like “Old Hickory” or Abraham Lincoln, he cannot be veneered by his surroundings because the identity is too strong. When a citizen enters the White House as the political head of the nation he never hears another familiar word. From the august Secretary of State to the scullion in the kitchen, it is “Mr. President.” Not only the inclination downward of the head with the bending muscles of the knees, but even the voices of the old friends become humble in tone and deferential in spirit. Cringing servants in the shape of Congressmen—in fact, all other mortals who have favors to crave—creep and crawl before the face of majesty. By and by the strong and designing of either sex elbow all the rest away, and form a cordon around the Executive, coloring all in the shape of everything which reaches his ears and eyes until he is no longer himself and is as blind as a bat hung to the walls of the Mammoth Cave.
In proof of the above assertion the writer will give the readers ofThe Timesa description of the last day at the White House before the attempt was made upon PresidentGarfield’s life. It was Friday, the last “Cabinet day” in the annals of this administration. It was the first day of July, hot and sultry beyond description. The breeze which swept through the open doors of the mansion came like the breath from an open oven. The spray from the fountain turned into vapor in its ascending flight and reminded the beholder of boiling geysers in a volcanic plain. Inside the White House a crowd had congregated to improve the opportunity of the last chance before the President should depart on his summer tour. Both branches of Congress, Army and Navy, governors of States and Territories, with the odds and ends of humanity all unknown to fame, were collected in an indescribable, whirling kaleidoscope. At times the stairs leading to the “throne room” would be turned into a cataract, but instead of animalcules in the water it was humanity in the air. The stairs once free from the descending mass would be instantly filled with the same kind of material in an upward flight, to remain until hope was dead, and the first result would be enacted again. It was understood that the President would see the people between the hours of 10 and 12, although it was “Cabinet day.” But, alas, the “people” meant the Cabinet officers, for not content with seeing their chief at the 12 o’clock council, it appeared that each had a little private business of his own. At 10 o’clock, or rather five minutes after, the coupe of the Treasury Department deposited Secretary Windom, apparently fresh from the hands of his laundress, faultlessly attired in thinnest of summer covering, on the Executive porch. The fragrance of a perfumed bath still clung to his handsome person and nothing could be compared to it but heaven’s own dew clinging to a morning-glory. With mischief dancing in his hazel eyes and a wave of his fragrant hand to the little woman whose duty it is to press his official name between leaves of lavender, he disappeared. Then came Lincoln—“Bob” the people call him, not tall like his late father,but stalwart of limb and broad of shoulder, a strong, handsome face, which lights up with the same expression which we all remember who had the honor of standing in the presence of Abraham Lincoln. A moment and he is gone. And now comes Postmaster-General James, looking neither to the right nor the left, with his eyes bent, as usual, in one direction. Built on the narrow-gauge plan, long, slim, shallow and slender, ophidian and dazzling, one listens for the death-dealing rattle. Cold chills begin to creep along the great nerve centers. He glides up the stairs. Thank heaven, he has gone. A moment later and a prominent governor says: “Garfield never knows what that man is bringing about.” Stand aside! He’s little, but how he can sting! It is MacVeigh—a Scottish chief. The tartan plaid, bare legs and pibroch are invisible. Round, dense and compact as a bullet, with the characteristics of Scotland which mark him as surely as the furze that each season adorns the heather. American-born generations may stand between him and his ancestors, but he is no more changed than an English walnut would be transplanted to the Western continent.
Square, heavy-rigged, sitting low in the water, bearing down under full sail, determined to reach the port in time—this is Secretary Kirkwood. His clothes are thin and fleecy, but more sheepy-looking than cloud-like. He perspires! One is reminded of great drops of rain pattering on a shingled roof, only the noise must exist in the imagination. Homely and plain as a crooked apple tree, and yet the very shade where it would be delightful to linger. Only a rough shell, containing the sweetest of kernels. After 11! The clock hands point to the hour of 12. A moving tableau enters the broad corridor from a side door. Secretary Blaine is the central figure. On his right walks Sir Edward Thornton, in full court dress, dazzling in decorations and gold lace. He has come to take formal leave of the President, as he has been called home by his Queen. On the left of the Secretary walkshis eldest daughter, proudly—Miss Alice Blaine. She is clad in pure white, unrelieved by color. A broad-brimmed chip hat on the back of her head frames her oval brunette face, and with her youth and grace she is a striking addition to the picture. Secretary Blaine looks troubled and worried. The shadows have grown darker under his eyes, while the other portions of his face are far more pallid than of yore. His step is less elastic, but the heat must be considered. The doors close and the curtain falls.
It should have been mentioned before that the officials who guard the front doors of the White House have the power to assign people to different rooms in the order which may seem to them best. Those whom they consider of most consequence are permitted to go up the stairs, whilst the “rabbles,” so called from want of honorary prefixes to their names, must remain below. This is applicable to Cabinet day. When the fortunate arrive up stairs the winnowing process goes on again. The highest privilege is to be permitted to enter the room or headquarters of Mr. J. Stanley Brown, a youth of 22 summers, whose velvet cheeks, destitute of hirsute ornament or manly decoration, is sufficient evidence of his guileless innocence and his willingness to obey the will of others. Mr. Rose, who had been the President’s private secretary for years when he was a Congressman, was found to have opinions of his own, and it did not suit those who have matters in hand to have that kind of material to manage.
Whilst Dr. Bliss has shown the country that he does not believe in having too many doctors around, Swaim and Rockwell are the men who keep guard at the chamber door of the President and will not permit a friendly face to pass. As proof the following fact is given to the readers ofThe Times: When Mrs. Garfield visited New York, before her late illness, she invited her warm personal friend, Miss Ransom, to accompany her. The twointended to visit the art galleries together. Mrs. Garfield wished to have Miss Ransom’s opinion on a picture of Alexander Hamilton that had lately been resurrected and come to light, after lying for many years among the rubbish. Mrs. Rockwell also went along. When the names of the august female Presidential party were made up to be given to the press Colonel Rockwell instructed the correspondent to leave out Miss Ransom’s name, saying that “no names must be mentioned but Mrs. Garfield and Mrs. Rockwell.” All the old trusted friends of the Garfields are thrust aside, whilst Swaim and Rockwell guard the doors. The isolation and cruelty towards the President is not the work of the doctors, for they are only intent on killing off each other, and if the country could be relieved of this surplus material the nation would have cause to rejoice.
But coming back to the White House, among those permitted to wait up stairs was the gallant Colonel Buell, who had come to Washington after an eighteen months’ campaign in the field after the murdering Victoria and his savage band. He waited until the Cabinet meeting was over, and it was well on to 4 o’clock. “Better on an Indian trail in the wilderness than the trail of a President, if this is the experience,” he said. Did President Garfield know that this brave, gallant soldier awaited audience at his door? The writer believes not. Did the soldier depart with his face crisped with disappointment? He did. Who saw the President? One woman of all the women who hung around like the lost souls around the gates of Paradise. This was Mrs. General Morgan L. Smith, the woman who began a suit in the New York courts for $25,000 damages for refusing to pay her for giving a decision of the Supreme Court in advance of its being known through the regular news channel. Mrs. Morgan Smith informed the writer that her interview with the President was perfectly satisfactory. The joy stamped on her beautiful face was sufficientproof. The soldier walked sad and dejected away, but from the window of the Executive Mansion a woman’s eyes filled with tears followed his retreating footsteps; and from the holiest depths of her heart ascended the prayer that God would shield and protect him, and give his brave soul and strong arm the strength to protect the lone settlers from the murderous savages that infest our remote frontier.
Olivia.
The Diplomats and the Public Pay Their Respects to President Arthur.
Washington,January 2, 1882.
According to immemorial usage, the broad doors of the Executive mansion opened their portals to receive the gorgeous pageant that inaugurates the President’s first official reception of the New Year. Thoroughly renovated and partially refurnished, the old historic building appears like an antiquated belle rejuvenated by the modern accessories of the toilet. Oriental designs, artistically arranged, give the surroundings a magnificence never attained since a former White House mistress died. The Red Parlor, where the foreign legations assembled previous to their presentation to the President, has been recently furnished in modern style and with exquisite taste. From the lofty windows fall cascades of ruby velvet and real lace. The furniture is upholstered in ruby plush, and the prevailing tints of the Persian rugs, which cover a large proportion of the floor, have been chosen to harmonize with the ruby surroundings. Potted plants, but not in profusion, were used to ornament the tall mantels and pedestals purposely placed for their reception.
Another marked feature was the absence of the police until the immense unofficial crowd began to pour through the corridor. Then the necessity of keeping the living river within its proper bounds became apparent to the crowd itself, and good nature and kind words for the President were heard on every side.
A New Year’s reception at the White House forms a picture on the mind never to be forgotten. Preciselyat the hour appointed the foreign legations began to assemble and in a brief time the Red Room was filled to overflowing with representatives of the different civilized nations of the globe. The gorgeous costumes worn by these people can only be compared to the plumage of birds which infest the tropical forests. The appearance of the English diplomat is among the most subdued.
The French minister, M. Maxime Outrey, appeared in the usual court dress which the French Republic has adopted. In the dim light its hue could not be detected except that it was very dark, with semi-military appearance. The pants were ornamented with a broad gilt band up the side, with a limited quantity of gilt embroidery. His chapeau, which he carried, looked like that worn by Napoleon I. Monsieur Outrey seemed particularly engaged in playing oak to the vine, for on his arm clung winsome Madame Outrey, clad in a long-trained black velvet dress. When the old minister was balancing his dignity before the red fez of Turkey, the madame, in the sweet language of her native land, had asked after all the seraglios on the banks of the Bosphorus. But the most charming face and figure which shone in the diplomatic throng belonged to Miss Sackville-West, the daughter of the new English minister. In the absence of her father she appeared with one of the attaches of the legation. Imagine a slight, girlish figure, yet perfect in development as a rose in full bloom, with a face cast in the most aristocratic mould, low brow, full, large, almond-shaped eyes, classic nose, the saucy, short upper lip and wonderfully chiseled chin, all animated by the highest grace of expression. If the haughty Victoria has ever looked upon this dainty subject she will not bear too heavily on the lineage of the Sackville-Wests. Miss West was clad in a heavy dark green satin walking dress, with a simple Fanchon bonnet to match, and amidst all the pomp and splendor her presence brought the same sweet emotions which come to mind with an English daisy.
In picturesque effect imperial China glowed in the Red Room like a fireplace in the dark. An imposing figure, clad in a blue satin petticoat, surmounted by a cap, from which trailed gracefully that which might have been clipped from Pegasus. It is said this Chinese minister is of the highest rank ever sent out of his own country, his person more fully representing the permanency, the fixity of purpose, of his imperial master than any of his predecessors. Closely following the mandarin comes South America—land of political turmoil and earthquakes. All these ministers appear to be the descendants of Cortez. A genuine Spanish grandee is represented by Señor Don Simon Camancho, from Venezuela. He is unaccompanied, as Mrs. Camancho still tarries in New York.
It is very hard to leave the Red Room with its striking figures for pen portraits, but the “throne room” must be reached. You pass the threshold which leads from red to blue. The first impression is republican simplicity. An official of the State Department stands at the left of President Arthur and presents the passing throng. The dean of the diplomatic corps is the first to enter, followed very closely by all that is official from other lands. Towering above his associates stands President Arthur, in personal appearance and attitude every inch a ruler, with all the stately courtesy of James Buchanan, the native dignity and warmth of manner of Abraham Lincoln, and a grace which is all his own. He was clad in a simple black full-dress suit.
At the right of the President stood his new Secretary of State, slender, attenuated, but spirituelle and refined. Near by is Secretary Folger. Imagine a man of perfect proportion and exactly the right size, with a face so classic that it might be carved, with iron-gray hair, and this is Attorney-General Brewster.
A long line of ladies had been invited by President Arthur to help him receive. The innovation of numberswas inaugurated by Mrs. Julia Grant, when she presided at the White House. It is not known whether Mrs. Grant meant to emulate Eugenie surrounded by her court, yet the effect is somewhat the same. The leading lady who modestly stood at the head is Mrs. Frelinghuysen, dressed in black silk, without the slightest pretense of doing anything but her duty. How tired and worn every feature of her face seemed, turned into an interrogation point, which asked, what does it all amount to any way? Then came the wife of the Attorney-General. Mrs. Brewster wore a royal robe of ruby velvet. Another lovely face was that of the wife of the young Secretary of War. Mrs. Lincoln wore Spanish lace over old gold satin. Although the youngest of the cabinet circle, Mrs. Lincoln’s whole childhood was associated with official society at the capital. Room only for one more of the stars that compose President Arthur’s galaxy of assistants—Mrs. Senator Logan, most queenly in appearance of all. Slightly taller than the others, with a face lighted with flashing black eyes and snowy hair rolled back in Martha Washington style, with rosy cheeks and pearly teeth, a veritable picture of “roses in the snow.” The saddest picture is Mrs. Blaine in the background, bereft of her official crown, disappointment peeping out of her face covertly, as the picket guard watches for the foe.
The Supreme Court marches by, but some of its members are absent. Afterwards file by the veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, wearing a badge which indicates devotion to a cause. Now a cold, sad wave comes down the long corridors following the gay throng which has just passed. It is the Oldest Inhabitants Association—encased in the frozen armor of age. There is a brush. A sigh that seems to breathe from everything around. It is gone. The beautiful ladies who stood by President Arthur are gone, because all that is “official” has drifted by. There is a muffled sound—the crowd, the strangers,the citizens of the District are coming. Policemen begin to appear, they are strewn around as though a siege were about to begin, but President Arthur shows not the least sign of weariness; he shakes every offered hand. “Where are the ladies who were to receive with the President?” is anxiously asked. “Gone to their own receptions,” is answered from somewhere. A bit of a woman appears leading a little child. It is such a tiny speck, but its sweet face peeps out from its fleecy hood as an angel’s might from under the mist. There are no grand dames around—only the people. President Arthur takes the little one in his hands, then he lifts it high, and gives the humble little tot a kiss. It was so exquisitely done that it seemed the work of inspiration. With this incident the ceremonies came to a close, whilst the Marine Band was playing its choicest airs, composed by its talented leader to inaugurate the new year.
Olivia.
Anecdotes of the Judge, Jury, and Audience.
Washington,January 5, 1882.
A strange tale comes floating down the surface of the centuries. Its strange points assimilate with those associated with the unique criminal trial of to-day. During the period that the Roman inquisition was at the zenith of its power, a Catholic priest invented an instrument of torture. It was in the shape of an iron room, long and narrow, and with seven small windows looking toward the rising sun. By means of noiseless machinery the space contracted so that the wretched prisoner would see by the first light of dawn that a window had disappeared. The torture of the infernal machine could be lengthened or shortened according to the mercy of the executioner. But on the last day, or rather night, the iron bedstead would assume the form of a box, and as the sun appeared in the east the muffled tones of a bell would fall on the ear of the doomed, whilst the lid would fall, and after the clang there would be heard the fastening of screws if insensibility had not previously intervened. To prevent the existence of this instrument being known, the Doge of Venice seized its unfortunate inventor and put him into the machine, that everything connected with it should be destroyed, even to the inventor. Just as the Catholic priest created an instrument of torture and destruction, Guiteau has woven a web from which there is no escape.
The mercy or weakness which Judge Cox is accused of exercising toward the prisoner is the same sort of kindness which the executioner had for the Catholic priest. The windows of the iron cage are a little longer in disappearing. A thoughtful spectator watching the countenanceof Judge Cox will see that he carries all the weight of responsibility which goes with the judicial ermine. Cool, calm, inflexible, he seems to realize that his course in this celebrated case will be put on record to stand as long as the archives of the Republic. No opportunity has been given for the defense to obtain a new trial; no chance for ill-timed sympathy to accuse him of want of clemency or withholding that which is decreed the humblest citizen on trial for his life. In this most trying position in which a man could be placed, Judge Cox has filled all the requirements of the case in a manner which unbiased, unprejudiced posterity will applaud.
Coming to the jury, taken altogether, a clearer-headed set of men could not be found. If the writer was on trial for her life and allowed the privilege to select a jury, a large proportion of those now serving would be chosen for this painful and thankless duty. One of the jurymen has had honors paid him accorded only to the most distinguished men of the world. He has been met at the threshold of the Winter Palace of the Czar of Russia, the great Nicholas, standing with a silver salver in one hand, upon which was placed corn bread, and a golden chair in the other, the seat of which was hollowed out to hold salt. He has sat at the same table with the Emperor, amidst all the splendor and pomp of the Russian court. This gentleman (Mr. Heinline) was engineer of the monitor that carried Assistant Secretary Fox, of the Navy, when he went to take President Lincoln’s dispatches to the crowned heads of Europe during our late war. In charge of this wonderful war craft, he received as much attention and in one sense more than Mr. Fox, for the Czar, like his ancestor, Peter the Great, had unbounded respect for the science of mechanics. During the lifetime of the monitors only the highest talent was employed to manage their machinery. Cool and brave must be the men who went to sea in these iron pots, and who would not choose such a juryman? And yet fate or accident hasdetermined this man should be one to bring his strength of mind to decide in the matter of the assassin’s responsibility. It would make this article too long to make sketches of the different jurymen, but all enjoy the respect of those who know them best, so far as the writer has been able to ascertain. Few men, whether their crimes have been heavy or light, have been so fortunate as the assassin. No mortal hand was extended to help Guiteau in the selection of a jury. To the credit of all the citizens of the District, not a man was chosen that did not bewail his fate and hope that something would prevent his selection. It was claimed at the time that no jurycould be impaneledbecause all had expressed opinions as to the guilt of the prisoner; but whether the assassin was insane or otherwise placed the trial in a different light, and only the repulsion remained in the minds of the people of the capital.
It is cruel slander on the women of the District when it is claimed it is “the same old set” of theater-goers that have gone to the Guiteau trial every day. A very few faces, less than a dozen, have been daily attendants, but these are the suspected adventuresses who come to Washington in advance of Congressmen to get the winter nests well warmed. They stop at the leading hotels, where they behave with that becoming modesty that secures them from molestation. When the real work of the Congressional season begins they flit to the different “boudoirs” in some of the most respectable quarters of the city where carriages going and coming attract not the slightest notice. The women wear “seal skin” and have all the attractive airs of “official life.” Excitement they must have, and the Guiteau trial is an excellent preliminary to the winter festivities.
It is this class of female adventuresses who dog the footsteps of the virtuous Congressmen as well as the other kind. They even have the “cheek” to attend private receptions uninvited, and claim to be on intimate termswith those who compose our most refined circles of “official society.” When these women are excepted it will be found that the surging crowd that fills the court room is composed of strangers visiting the national capital. Our ladies had a desire to look once upon a man who could murder a President, but the desire was gratified with one visit. A glance at the newspapers will prove that this pardonable curiosity pervaded all ranks of the people. Even clergymen have been seen in the small space allotted to spectators of this criminal trial.
All the “star” actors or actresses who have appeared on the stage in Washington since the trial began came to the court room—the Florences, Mary Anderson, Lotta, and a troupe of lesser lights which have escaped the writer’s memory. All seemed seeking to try to solve the problem, whether the assassin is insane, and, with scarce an exception, all believe, as did Frederick the Great of Prussia, that cranks “are responsible.” When Frederick ruled his subjects assassination became a familiar crime, while insanity became the bridge which carried the criminals to safety; but the far-seeing, irrepressible Emperor thought it would be a good plan to crush out this kind of dangerous material by the extreme penalty of the law, and the result was that fanaticism did not bloom out any more in this kind of way. Whilst “experts,” or those who have had experience in the management of insane people, can give their belief, that has little to do with the actual and proper settlement of the question as to the responsibility of the “crank.” An honest man or woman who has been insane, yet restored to health, should be the ones to decide this most important point. Shakespeare settled the subject when he asked “Who can minister to a mind diseased?” Now, this most superior of human beings did not dare to answer his own inquiry. If the “experts” could take hold of a broken mind as the surgeons do of a shattered limb, possibly they might cure it; but if a human soul by some inscrutable means, likea ship at sea, finds its bottom covered with barnacles, or a terrible rent in the hold, torn by a hidden rock, only the Builder can plunge into the vast ocean of mystery and mend the sinking wreck.
Taking the testimony of the “experts,” Dr. Gray seemed wisest and best informed, and he was very careful not to commit himself. He conscientiously let the jury know how very little we know about insanity, but he did bear out the fact that a mind a little off color, or what is vulgarly called a “crank,” for the want of a better term, is not relieved of responsibility and should be punished for crime committed the same as other criminals.
Notwithstanding the prisoner has been allowed better food and has had the stimulant of excitement imparted by his trial, there is a change gradually stealing over his features, which, rightly interpreted, means despair. His naturally pale face has assumed a kind of ashen hue which makes a sombre background for the lightning play of the fierce passions with which he is continually interrupting the court. There are no particular points to mark this man. He is like the great masses of the human family who resemble each other almost as much as do the leaves of the forest.
There is something very touching in the appearance of Mr. Scoville, brother-in-law and counsel for the assassin. He seems to have advanced ten years in age since the trial began. He has grown very much thinner, and a painful, eager, anxious expression is stamped on his otherwise kindly face. And the sister, who comes so regularly and shares the odium and disgrace of the brother! It is said her husband was very much averse to having anything to do with the trial, but when so many lawyers refused he yielded to the earnest entreaties of his wife. But instead of becoming an object of loathing to the ladies of Washington, like her brother, the assassin, her womanly devotion is appreciated. It is true she has not been crowned with laurel or welcomed to hospitable boards,but woman’s heart at Washington beats in sympathy with this sister, for no place can be so vile that it is not purified and uplifted by the presence of the same spirit that qualified Mary to become the mother of Jesus.
John W. Guiteau, the brother, has also won the respect of the community. He is trying to make the public understand that only an idiot or mad man would be guilty of the crime which a brother has committed. He feels the disgrace so deep and burning that all facts connected with the assassin’s life should come to light. Unlike his sister, he has pity, but no affection, and if he can be made to believe his brother is responsible, he, like Mr. Scoville, under the same circumstances, will be among the first to approve the carrying out of the extreme penalty of the law.
Olivia.
Captain De Long’s Departure—The Polaris and Her Commander.
Washington,January 7, 1882.
Since the cablegrams of James Gordon Bennett to the authorities at Washington, no further news has been received of the ill-fated survivors of theJeannette, who are now supposed to be traversing the frozen waste of Northern Siberia in dog sledges to reach once more a welcome home. Sad as the fate of all those who have undertaken to penetrate the secrets which Nature keeps eternally locked in her Arctic jaws, the moment a new expedition for the same purpose is mentioned, the spirit of adventure stirs within the naval breast, and more officers and men are found to offer their services than would man a fleet.
When Commander De Long, of theJeannette, drew the awful prize in the lottery of Arctic exploration, his ambition rose to fever heat. So much so that in a measure it dried away the tears of his almost heart-broken wife, who felt the fate of Lady Franklin wrapping her mind as a dead body swathed in a winding-sheet. Just before Commander De Long left the capital, husband and wife decided to go to the White House and receive the Executive prayers and blessings ere the doomed vessel should unfurl her sails. Arriving at the proper morning hour, they waited and waited until patience was gone, when a messenger returned bringing the sad intelligence that “The President could not be seen, but Mrs. Hayes would soon be at leisure.” Another period of precious time passed, when the rustling of silk was heard in a distant corridor, and at last a huge bouquet “hove” in sight, witha remarkably smiling lady behind it. Without giving Captain De Long an opportunity to get a word in edgewise, Mrs. Hayes seemed determined to let the visitors know that she had mastered the situation and knew all about it; but imagine the consternation of the brave naval commander to find that he had been mistaken for a charlatan who had invented what he believed to be a method of freezing out yellow fever on board of ships irrespective of the vessel’s latitude.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hayes, her soul palpitating with devotion to her fifty million loving subjects, “if you have only succeeded in ridding the world of yellow fever.”
“Breakers ahead!” thought the embryo explorer, whilst the little wife was struck dumb to think her captain, whose name was to be enrolled with Franklin, Kane, Hall and others, and which will last in the world’s archives so long as civilization remains on top, should be the victim of a mistake. It is not known whether Commander De Long piloted Mrs. Hayes from the tropical regions of the yellow fever to the Arctic barriers of the North Pole, but it is certain that both husband and wife left the Executive mansion wiser if not happier than before.
A good sharp taste of Arctic adventure can be obtained by gazing upon a picture of thePolaris, of the late Hall expedition as she lay locked in her frozen bed in the cruel polar sea. The artist has caught the icy atmosphere, with all its bleak, horrible surroundings. If thePolarisremains undisturbed by beast or savage, the centuries will roll by, leaving the vessel intact, like the mastodon, now extinct, but preserved by the glaciers of Siberia. A fiery enthusiasm took possession of the late Capt. C. F. Hall, and he came to the capital to plead his cause before Congress, as did Columbus before Ferdinand and Isabella. This same kind of flame is what lights up the path of progress, and keeps civilization from going down to the tomb. It made Isabella sell her jewels, and it forced our Congress to give Captain Hall an ear, and the consequence was thepurchase by the Government of an ice vessel of the Delaware,Periwinkleby name. She was brought to Washington, where Secretary Robeson caused her very ribs to be taken out and others of the greatest strength put in the place. To finish all, he added to the long rakish sailing body an iron nose. In nautical language seven feet of “dead wood,” or solid timber, protected the forward part of the ship and this was strengthened by a plating of iron. Her sides were from twenty inches to two feet in thickness, whilst she had just twice the number of iron bolts in her carcass that are used for ordinary vessels for whaling purposes. Nearly every dollar of the appropriation was used in the purchase and strengthening of the ships, leaving nothing for ornament; but everything in the shape of comfort and luxury was contributed by the wealthy citizens of Boston, even to musical instruments, which were to pierce the solitudes with cultured airs. ThePolariswas rigged as a foretop-sail schooner, and was able to sail and steer without aid from her engine. The engine could burn either coal or oil, but it was not expected to be of much use in extreme northern latitudes, as the danger was imminent of breaking the paddle-wheels on the ice; and the propeller was arranged in such a way that it could be lifted on deck through a shaft or “propeller-well.” But if the propeller was broken a new one was provided. The cargo was made up of duplicate articles to insure its progress and safety. Most wonderful life-boats were provided. One in particular attracted attention because it was made for sledge journeys. It was constructed of hickory and ash, and folded up like an umbrella, thus occupying one-eighth of the space as when opened for use. It takes only two or three minutes to spread this boat on the water. Its weight was two hundred and fifty pounds. A life-preserving buoy was placed on the outside of the stern of thePolaris, and in case a man fell overboard it could instantly be lowered by touching a spring somewhere near the pilot-house.By touching another spring an electric light was elevated two feet above the buoy, and this would light up the water for yards around.
The vessel was loaded with pemmican, dessicated vegetables, canned meats and fruits. The pemmican was the life of the expedition. The latter is an ugly brownish compound to the eye, disgusting to the taste in civilized regions; but an old whaler says: “It is an entirely different article in the Arctic regions. When exposed to the intense cold it becomes pale straw color, and melts in the mouth like a peach, only ten thousand times more delicious.” It is said to be worth a journey to the North Pole to be able to eat pemmican accompanied by raw walrus liver.
All this frozen knowledge is vividly retained in the writer’s mind, because it was her experience to sit at the same table with Captain Hall at the National Hotel during the time the vessel was being fitted out for her last voyage. This enthusiast had already spent five years of his life with the Esquimaux and looked upon it as the happiest period of his existence. There seemed to be a delightful thrill in his mind when he would relate his escapes from freezing. “One night,” said the Captain, “I had gone to pay a visit to an Esquimaux lodge. I had gone to bed and was enjoying the most sublime dreams. It seemed as if the whole sky in every quarter was blazing with auroral lights, when all at once I felt myself trampled on, rudely shaken and beaten with small fists. For a time I could not collect my mind or understand what it all meant, but as soon as consciousness asserted itself I learned that my kind friends had discovered that I was freezing to death. The lodge was colder than the one I had been accustomed to, and I had foolishly decided to sleep alone, but I had been watched as a mother looks after her child.”
“How did you get through the night, Captain?”
“After that experience I was willing to share the bedswith the Esquimaux, their favorite dogs included. The proprieties of civilized life are entirely wiped out in the Arctic regions. It is merely the animal fighting for existence.”
“But what good will come from this vast expenditure of precious blood and treasure?”
“The stars and stripes must float from the icy pinnacle of the North Pole. Congress has given me the means, and with God’s help I’ll nail our banner there.”
Now that we have so many brave men battling for their lives on their return from the ill-fatedJeannette, the writer thought the readers ofThe Timesmight wish to see recalled a picture of thePolaris, with her intrepid commander, whose bones have been left to crumble in the awful “ice field,” for soil there is none to be reached with pick and shovel—only a snow grave.
ThePolarisleft her moorings at the Washington navy yard with nothing omitted which would detract from her success. Captain Budington, the old whaler upon whom devolved the safety of the vessel, left nothing undone. It was this indomitable seaman who floated the fragment of Captain Hall’s crew home on a cake of ice. The experience of this little band reads like one of Hans Andersen’s fairy tales. The cruise of theJeannettemakes a good advertisement for the New YorkHerald, but what has the Government or nation gained by its outlay in the Bennett scheme? Hereafter the fools must not be permitted to fall into theHerald’strap if the Government is expected to pay the greater part of the bills. Judging the future by the past, an incipient Arctic explorer should be treated as a lunatic and be placed where the contagion can be treated with the freezing process such as Mrs. Hayes understood so well.
Olivia.