Messrs. Gould, Huntingdon, and Dillon and their Cohorts.
Washington,February, 1869.
Winding in and out through the long, devious basement passage, crawling through the corridors, trailing its slimy length from gallery to committee room, at last it lies stretched at full length on the floor of Congress—this dazzling reptile, this huge, scaly serpent of the lobby. It is true, Senator Thurman is on hand fully equipped with his judicial arrows; but what is Thurman—dear old Thurman—in the face of such a statesman. Philadelphia’s charming daughter—fair, fat and forty—embraces him with eyes whose seductive powers have only been intensified by the years. A luscious, mellow banana; a juicy, melting peach; a golden pippin, ripened to the very core. From India’s coral strand comes the two thousand dollar cashmere wrap that snuggles close to her fair shoulders. Diamonds, brilliant as the stars in Orion’s jewelled belt, adorn her dainty ears, whilst silk, satin, velvet, feathers, and laces prove what a railroad can do when its funds are applied in the proper direction.
To-day a remarkable set of men are engaged in digging, burrowing, and blowing up senatorial rock—men whose faces seem carved out of the very granite that kissed of the Mayflower many years ago. Is it possible that all the iron endurance and savage aggressiveness so necessary to make indomitable character has been entirely absorbed by the railroad kings?
In the Senate wing, in a room so perfect in its appointments that it might be taken for a jewel casket, may be seen Jay Gould, the Napoleon of the hour. A small picture,but a great deal of time spent on the work. How elaborately and how exquisitely finished. About the height of the Little Corporal, but more delicate and slender. A rare head, well rounded, with ears such as all blooded animals possess. Pallid in complexion, like every other mortal whose blood is pumped up into the brain to keep the huge mental fires blazing. Eyes radiant and piercing and hair tinted like the locks of the Prince of Darkness. If Samson’s strength lay in his curls, Jay Gould’s must be found in his nose, for it is a feature that betrays the whole character of the man. As there is but one Jay Gould on the face of the earth, there is but this solitary nose, which is neither Grecian, Roman, aquiline nor pug, but a nose abundantly able to poke into every earthly matter and manage to come out victorious in the end. His mouth is another extremely attractive feature—the kind, however, that is not given to talk. It is more useful as a dainty receptacle for terrapin and champagne, though it may be considered a chasm of another dangerous kind, from which women are warned for all time to keep modestly away.
For many months Jay Gould has kept one of the most beautiful women in Washington busily employed on the Congressmen, and, astonishing to relate, the Senators seem rather to enjoy it than otherwise. Before Senator Ben Hill made his late exhaustive railroad speech—in fact, just before he arose on the Senate floor—a woman, the most notorious of the lobby, had his ear. A Northern Senator may listen to the “queen,” but it takes the courage of the sunny South, the rare chivalry for which that clime is noted, to permit the contact in the broad, open light of the day, with the eye of the press of the whole country upon him.
Floating in Congressional waters, but unlike his awful prototype which is securely fastened to the bottom of the sea, at all hours of the legislative day may be seen the burly form of Huntington, the great, huge devil-fish ofthe railroad combination, bearing not the slightest resemblance to his elegant associates, so far as grace of manner or personal appearance is concerned. Cast in the same colossal mould as William M. Tweed, with all the grossness exaggerated and all the majesty left out, he ploughs the Congressional main, a shark in voracity for plunder, a devil-fish in tenacity of grip; for once caught in the toils of the monster for the helpless victim there is no escape. At the beginning of every session this representative of the great Central Pacific comes to Washington as certain as a member of either branch of Congress; secures his parlors at Willard’s, which soon swarm with his recruits, both male and female, until scattered in the proper direction by order of the commander-in-chief. What a motley collection of camp followers. To the naked eye are visible ex-senators and ex-members, discharged Capitol employees who are thoroughly informed as to the “ropes,” whose business it is to warn those who have the privilege of the floor the auspicious moment for a successful raid. Every weakness of a Congressman is noted, whilst the wily Huntington decides whether the attack shall be made with weapon of the male or female kind. Tall and broad, both round and square, a quivering mass of concentrated sensuality, bold enough to appear in public with the scarlet woman on his arm, a heroism which daunts the courage of the vilest of his own sex, not content with his already princely gains he now seeks, like the late Jim Fisk, to lay a whole continent under his avaricious tribute. Said a member of Congress: “He can draw his check for hundreds of thousands of dollars; everything which is in the market he can buy.” During his life the time is too short for the people to learn how to checkmate him. He is to this age what Alexander, Hannibal, and the great Napoleon were to the past. He governs, but not with cold iron or steel; he uses keener and more subtle weapons. Instead of the bullet which cleared the way in a former age, man’s honor is the point whichreceives the poisoned poniard. What will be the fate of the Republic when all national legislation is permitted to become defiled? Within the memory of middle-aged men foreign ministers were not allowed the privilege of the floor. These sacred aisles have now become headquarters for the kings of lobby, who are as much at home there as the Senators of the widest fame.
This is Sidney Dillon, president of the Union Pacific, and one of the most superb creations to be found within the marble walls of Congress. What a princely presence and distinguished bearing, towering far above the average of his sex in height, with features as classic and clear cut as a cameo gem. In action, the embodiment of an Achilles, and in repose as graceful as the statue of the Greek slave. Can it be possible there is warm, red fluid in his veins, or a fountain of human kindness in his breast? As he stands mentally playing with a Senator, he might easily be mistaken for something more than human, yet neither horns nor tail are visible. What power has he which the Congressmen appear to have not? Step a little closer. No sound is heard issuing from his finely chiseled lips. He is speaking, but there is no expression at play with the classic features. Solemn, icy, apparently immutable, he only needs the Hebrew cast of countenance to become the living personification of the Wandering Jew. Unlike Jay Gould and Huntington, his work is seldom trusted to women. Though one should approach him as fascinating as the serpent of the Nile, as lovely as Venus, or as perfect as Hebe, the Union Pacific would lean back on its everlasting snow-sheds and defy the powers of darkness and Mother Eve combined. Taken separately, or all together, no such trio of men have ever appeared on the Congressional floor at the capital and no such corporation has ever been known to exist in the whole civilized world.
Olivia.
Entering Upon the Duties of the Executive.
Washington,March 5, 1869.
On the 4th of March the goddess of day arose with bedraggled garments and watery eyes; but as the sun advanced to her meridian the clouds trembled and dissolved in mid air, and the atmosphere grew balmy as an infant’s breath, and at high noon all nature seemed decked in holiday mood to crown the eighteenth President of the United States.
A magic card was the “open sesame” to the Capitol, and once inside, the beholder was dazzled with a picture as gorgeous as anything ever beheld in the far-famed halls of the Montezumas. Here were seen the great, strong arms of the Government, as represented by both branches of Congress, the Army and the Navy, and the Supreme Court. The foreign ministers in their gay court dresses, bespangled with decorations and shimmering with gold lace, gave the last finishing touch of brilliancy to the scene upon the floor. The diplomatic gallery was filled with ladies through whose veins coursed the bluest blood of Europe, though in personal attractions they were equalled and in some cases totally eclipsed by the grace and beauty of the American queens around them. Never has the Senate been filled with a more aristocratic assembly, and yet an occasional pretty Treasury girl’s face peeped out, proving some great man’s exquisite taste, as well as that exclusiveness was not carried so far as to add the last feather to the camel’s back.
One of the front seats had been reserved for the use of Mrs. Grant and the friends who might be with her, but she did not take possession of it, and it remained unoccupiedduring the entire ceremonies. The seat retained for Mrs. Colfax and her friends was filled by that lady and her relatives, while every available square inch of the room in the vast gallery reflected some root, branch, or favorite of the men in power to-day who represent the leading Departments of the Government.
At precisely the hour of noon the buzz of whispered conversation was hushed, and in came the “coming man,” the cynosure of all eyes, Ulysses S. Grant, who was about to receive a new honor—the highest, the holiest, within the gift of a sovereign people. He was plainly attired in citizen’s dress, nothing noticeable but his yellow gloves. Many of the audience would have said: “He seems as modest, diffident, and shy as ever.” Others would have seen a man of power, reticent, self-possessed, and as far removed from his near surroundings as the first Napoleon upon the eve of battle. He took his seat in front of the Vice-President’s desk, where he sat as immovable as though encased in armor, while the President pro tempore administered the oath of office to Schuyler Colfax, and pronounced a requiem by simply saying, “the Fortieth Congress is no more.” In clear, distinct tones Mr. Colfax took the oath of office, and immediately entered upon his duties as Vice-President of the United States.
At the east front of the Capitol a different scene was enacting. At a proper distance from the platform stood the rank and file of the people, white, black, and intervening all shades, promiscuously mixed, a fair representation of the genuine glory of the Republic. For long, long hours the multitude had stood upon the cold, wet earth, waiting for a passing glimpse of the last closing scene; but their weary eyes were not to be feasted with dainty gold-laced foreign ministers and the great dignitaries of the land. It is true the Senate chamber could not hold the masses, but the national square contains room enough for all, and is it not time these old relicsof another age were packed in the dust, like so many small clothes outgrown by the country? It is the royal people who are the sovereigns, and who has the right at any time to push them from their own marble temples with glittering bayonets? Soldiers are machinery to be used in time of war, and not engines of power in days of peace to thrust the cold steel into the breasts of loyal citizens.
No accident marred the festivities of the day. The long procession in its picturesqueness more than surpassed the public expectation. The soldiers were there, clean and trusty as their own polished weapons, and among them might have been seen the “black boys in blue.” The gallant firemen were out in gala dress, their engines gaudily decked in holiday attire, and all the different organizations in and out of the city seemed to vie with each other which should lend the most glory to the passing hour.
Just as the choicest viands are served for dessert, it was meant that the inaugural reception should eclipse all its predecessors as well as shine by itself after the manner of the mighty Kohinoor in the crown jewels of England. The place selected for this festival seemed most appropriate.
In the structure known as the Treasury building were gathered thousands of both sexes and the brilliant scene carried the spectator back to the middle ages. It was like some haughty chief in his feudal castle, summoning together the proud nobility of the land. Nowhere could be seen the simplicity of a republic. Only the crowns were wanting; everything else was there.
Mrs. Grant stood by the side of the new President in faultless dress of white satin and point lace, with pearl and diamond ornaments, and just beyond her stood the Vice-President and Mrs. Colfax, unassuming as a violet,in pink satin and illusion. Her ornaments were also pearls.
The various committees had endeavored to make preparations for every emergency except the most important one; they had made no calculation for numbers. When it was too late to remedy the error, the members of the committee discovered they had sold too many tickets; but this must have leaked out beforehand, for very few leading men were accompanied by their wives. In many cases they were seen with daughters or other young people clinging to their arms, whose youth would seem a shield against the fearful annoyance of the crowd. Toward midnight the jam culminated. The interesting spectacle might have been seen of two thousand people trying to get through a single door at the same instant into the supper room. It was the camel attempting once more to go through the needle’s eye. A short time after this, there was a grand division of the guests, composed of two parties—those who had fared sumptuously and those who had been used like Mother Hubbard’s darling:
“And when she got there the cupboard was bare,And so the poor dog got none.”
“And when she got there the cupboard was bare,And so the poor dog got none.”
“And when she got there the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog got none.”
Three to one could sing the old faithful nursery song. A supper had been set aside in another part of the building for the President, Vice-President and their friends, and rumor said that it was a most superb affair; but this only aggravated the famished ones who had paid their money for the substance and when about to grasp it had caught only an empty bubble with “Inaugural Ball” stamped on the rainbow-tinted, soapy, globular nothing.
The breaking up of the inaugural reception baffles description. The tearing up of the icebergs in the Arctic seas of a spring morning might seem more solemn, but alas! alas! not half so enthusiastic and interesting. The hats and coats of the gentlemen had been numbered, andthen all thrown pell-mell together. As a matter of course when a check was presented, the hunt commenced. For hours men waited, and then were obliged to go home without hats or coats. In the meantime, the ladies, weary of waiting, sunk down in graceful attitudes on the carpeted floor, or else called their carriages and took their departure alone, leaving their escorts to follow as soon as the hat-and-coat trouble found solution.
When the sun arose on the 5th of March, his rays gilded eight hundred frantic men, who still stood doggedly at their posts, calling in vain for their hats and coats; but as this letter has nothing to do with anything but the 4th of March, the kaleidoscope is finished with the dawn of a new day.
Olivia.
Traits of the Female and Younger Members Thereof.
Washington,March 9, 1869.
The family of Mr. Andrew Johnson was the least ostentatious of any that has yet inhabited the White House, and its members preserved at the capital the simple manners of their former State. The retirement and quiet of their life was so great that many are curious to know of them, and a few words of description may be interesting to your readers.
During her occupancy of the Executive Mansion Mrs. Johnson has lived almost as secluded as a nun. This has been in part owing to a bronchial difficulty and a consumptive tendency, with which she was first afflicted at the beginning of the rebellion. This physical trouble was subsequently aggravated by the loss of her eldest and favorite son, who was thrown from his horse and instantly killed, at the beginning of the war, whilst on his round of duty as surgeon of the First Regiment Tennessee Infantry. Very few American women have suffered more than Mrs. Johnson in behalf of the Union. She has known what it was to fill with her own hands the basket of bread and meat that was to be stealthily conveyed to a hiding place in the mountains, to keep from starvation her daughter’s husband. It was a chastened spirit she brought to the White House, and though her presence was seldom denied to personal friends, with the glitter and pomp of state she had nothing to do.
Mrs. Andrew Johnson, whose maiden name was Eliza McCardel, was born in 1811, and will be fifty-eight years of age her next birthday. She is two years younger thanher husband, and not older, as the newspapers are in the habit of telling the story. She was married in Greeneville, Tenn., when she was in the 18th year of her age. Her young husband at the time was not 20. The honeymoon was spent in teaching the future President the rudiments of education. Mrs. Johnson says she “taught him the letters, but he was an apt scholar, and acquired all the rest himself.” With the exception of a few months in the early part of Mrs. Johnson’s married life, her home has always been in Greeneville, Tenn. It was here her five children were born, three sons and two daughters, of whom Mrs. Patterson is the eldest. This daughter’s name is Martha, and she was married to Judge Patterson in December, 1855. Soon after their marriage, Mr. Patterson—who was practicing law at the time—was appointed judge of the first judicial district of East Tennessee. During most of the time of President Johnson’s administration he has occupied a seat in the Senate.
Mrs. Johnson’s second daughter (Mary) married Mr. Stover, in April, 1852. Colonel Stover was one of the most gallant of those officers who laid down their lives in the defence of the Union. Though he had not the soldier’s honor to perish on the battlefield, his slow, painful death was in his country’s cause. Colonel Stover was one of the leaders who headed the Union men of East Tennessee. He was one of the first to enroll himself among the number who as an organization were known as the “Bridge-burners.” His patriotic course attracted the attention of the rebels at once, and without a moment’s preparation he was driven to the mountains of East Tennessee. During the inclement months of November and December, 1861, and January, 1862, he was a hunted fugitive, hiding in the holes and caverns of the rocks. It was during this awful winter that Mrs. Johnson filled the basket with meat and bread, when her daughter, the sorrowful wife, was so smitten with anguish that she had not the strength to perform the task. Every manwho tapped at the door of the lonely farmhouse was supposed to be coming to bring the news that the son and husband was hanging to a forest tree. Some of their neighbors had been afflicted in this way, and this dread was the penalty paid for Unionism in East Tennessee. During this fearful period, in which Colonel Stover suffered from cold and starvation, the seeds of consumption were planted in his constitution. At last, through the efforts of some old personal friends who were strong rebels, he was allowed to go home; but he brought with him a sharp, rasping cough. Soon after he was allowed to pass through the rebel lines, in company with his family and Mrs. Johnson. He proceeded at once to Kentucky, where he raised a regiment which was afterwards known as the Fourth Tennessee Infantry. No braver regiment served during the war, and but very few did the country more effective service; but before this gallant band had time to distinguish itself in any great battle its brave, energetic colonel had passed away at the early age of 35.
At the beginning of the rebellion Colonel Stover was living the independent life of a farmer in affluent circumstances. His large farm was well stocked with cattle, and his barns were filled. His house soon became known as a kind of resting and breathing place for the fleeing Union fugitives. After the departure of the family the buildings were destroyed. At his death his widow was left with three small children and a scanty subsistence. Mrs. Stover has never asked Congress to indemnify her for any losses.
Visitors at the White House during the past two or three years may retain the memory of a dignified, statuesque blonde, with a few very fine points which a fashionable butterfly once said would make any woman a belle if she only knew how to make the most of them. Mrs. Stover never became a star in fashionable circles, and now that she has left the gay capital, perhaps for alifetime, she is remembered by those who knew her best as the charming companion of the domestic fireside, a true daughter and a judicious mother.
The eldest son of Mrs. Johnson was killed. Not long after his receiving his diploma as physician, he was appointed a surgeon in the First Tennessee Infantry. One bright spring morning, starting on his rounds of professional duty in the exuberance of youth, health, and spirits, he sprang upon the horse of a brother officer. He had gone but a short distance when the high-mettled creature reared upon its hind feet suddenly; the young man was thrown backward suddenly, and falling upon the frozen earth, was instantly killed. The concussion fractured his skull. Mrs. Johnson has grieved for this son as did Jacob for his beloved Joseph, and not only the mother but the whole family have mourned with unusual poignancy his untimely death.
Robert Johnson, the eldest living son, entered the army as a volunteer while still a young boy; and was given a position among the older men, on account of his father. It was at this time that he formed the fearful habit of intemperance. As soon as Mrs. Johnson was settled at the White House, she sent for this son, hoping that his responsible position as private secretary to the President and the personal influence of his sisters and herself could reclaim him; but alas! she found his new position, in its surroundings, a still heavier death weight to her hopes. Clever, genial “Bob,” the young man who had the ear of the President at any time, was everybody’s friend. A crowd followed him wherever he went. The choicest viands of Willard’s and Welcker’s were set before him, and miniature rivers were made to float with wine. Robert Johnson is now in an asylum, hoping and trying to overcome this vice. During the few months of his sojourn in Washington he provoked no enmity and left many true personal friends.
Andrew Johnson, jr., the youngest child, who makesthe fourth and last of Mrs. Johnson’s children, is a boy of 15, attending the college for young boys in Georgetown, D. C. He is a slender, finely formed youth, characterized by the same modest deportment usual to the family. His face bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. Patterson’s, but at present he is only noticeable on account of his family relations, and because he is the last child of his mother.
Mrs. Johnson is unusually feeble at this time; but, weather permitting, she will soon leave with Mrs. Patterson for her distant home in Tennessee.
Olivia.
Ferry as a Heart-breaker—Conkling as a Novel Reader—Eaton and Anthony in Repartee.
Washington,March 20, 1869.
Like the great flaming carbuncle on the mountain’s brow, the dome of the Capitol dispels the darkness in Washington. It is night. The moon peeps out between scudding clouds, the elements howl like a spirited child, but the Senate is in open session. The original resolution endorsing the President’s course has been torn in shreds by the politicians, and such bitter partisans as Cameron of Pennsylvania, and Dawes of Massachusetts, have paired off and ran home, rather than remain on the battlefield to bury the dead or carry off the mortally wounded. Within the Senate chamber the faithful are gathered; Morton, Anthony, and Conkling to lead the rank and file. The Democracy are in martial line, defending the independent sovereignty of the States, with Andy Johnson at the head, ready to die for the Constitution. The magnificent decorations which make the Senate chamber a marvel of beauty in the day seemed touched with the fairy hand of enchantment at night. The incomparable rays of the sun are rivalled by the mellow beams of artificial light, which sift through the stained glass above. It falls on the golden stars of the tufted carpet. It makes an areola around the head of Senator Ferry, the young President pro tempore of the Senate, who sits in one of those graceful attitudes so becoming to the bachelor of the period. Major Ben: Perley Poore says he was born in Mackinaw, Mich., June 1, 1827, consequently he will soon reach his forty-eighth birthday, and not long after will score off a half a century.The newspapers call him “young,” and it can be seen that time has dealt very gently with him. His beard is as yellow as the golden fleece and his chestnut locks have defied the frost. Content with himself, content with the world, is written all over his manly person. Has he a heart? This is a question which none are able to answer, but nevertheless he has been proved to be the most adept “lady-killer” of his day, and a bill is soon to be introduced by Senator Spencer, a rival bachelor, to arrest, if possible, this wholesale destruction. Senator Ferry never fails to gather a harvest of hearts during their proper season. When each generation of girls attains that point on life’s journey when the affections are like the mellow flush of a juicy peach he walks in the garden, when lo! presto! change! something is gone! The young statesman is not harmed. His eye has a brighter light, his cheek a warmer flush, and the renovation lasts until the season approaches for another seed time and harvest. One-half the mischief lies in the fact of his being a member of the Young Men’s Christian Association, and the other to the exquisite bouquets which are furnished free to Congressmen from the National greenhouse. When the bouquets arrive regardless of time and number, it is a sign of a funeral where the corpse is invisible and the mourners dare not show their heads. This kind of man is always in love, deep love with himself, and, though a woman were as wise as a Juno and lovely as Hebe, she could never upset his vanity.
The doorkeepers are curled up asleep on the cushions in the corners of the galleries. Many of the Republicans have left their seats, and are to be found chatting and smoking in the adjoining cloak-rooms. The fragrance of dying Havanas ascend to the galleries, reminding one of the days of the Randolphs and Jays, when men sat in their seats in the Senate with their hats on, and smoking their clay pipes in full view. The habit is not cured, but it is concealed, and this must be one of the facts whichmarks the progress of civilization. A tall man arises to address the Senate. It is Kernan, the new Senator from New York. He has reached the mid-autumn of human life. It is his first speech, and a bouquet of Senators cluster around him. The back of his head has a heavy covering of dark iron-gray hair, but his fine, scholarly face is rimmed with a fringe of pure white, which at once stamps his individuality on the memory. His Creator never designed him for an orator, but he gives us good, sound sense, dressed neatly in pure English. He does not speak to convince his opponents. He seems to realize that what he says will be heard by the millions of people in the State of New York. His colleague, Conkling, sniffs him from afar, as one mastiff does another, if it be a stranger of the same tribe. Roscoe has been reading a pamphlet with a yellow cover, which he holds daintily between his finger and thumb. If it were any other but our Roscoe, the “yellow cover” would be a serious suspicion of “Braddon” or “Ouida,” but the fact is self-evident that the book was obtained because the binding is a complete match for his hair. Senator Conkling is the Apollo of the Senate. His beauty is the aqua-marine type. It resembles a very fine diamond considerably off color, unless one is fond of flame; then the delusion is perfect. If Senator Conkling was a planet, he would be called Mars, not because of his rapid revolution around the great central power, but owing to that precious high-colored ingredient which was used so lavishly in his physical construction, and which serves to keep his pride burning like the lamp of the vestal virgins, that neither time nor circumstances can put out.
Come back to the Senators that cluster around the Speaker! All new men except Allison, of Iowa, one of the most polite and genial men to be found. Out of courtesy, alone, if nothing else, he listens to the maiden speech of his peer irrespective of the fact of his politics. The first man that heads the list is Wallace, of Pennsylvania,whom the gods have blessed with a fine face but a finer form, and yet it is evident that the Creator took no special pains with his construction; for he has thickly sprinkled just such men in every town of the State, cities of course excepted. Senator Wallace has reached the Senate chamber in the noon of life. The sun is stationary over his head. His face is not the kind that tells its own story. The tempest of passion has swept over it, but left no signs of the tornado in its track. If he has had deep thoughts they have ploughed no furrows. In his battle with time so far he has won. As he has never tried his wings, it is too soon to pronounce him a senatorial eagle, but as he hails from Pennsylvania he may turn out an honest bird of prey.
To the right of Senator Wallace may be seen B. K. Bruce, of Mississippi, a handsome man, whom the Creator cast in bronze. Darker by far than Douglass or Pinchback, but superior to either so far as beauty is concerned. Below the colossal, but above the average size, with a pure type of the Anglo-Saxon features, thin quivering nostrils, and a mouth such as the colored women are known to admire. His mahogany person is every day swathed in the finest linen and broadcloth, ornaments, diamond shirt-studs. The day he was elected the members of the legislature of Mississippi owned great quantities of scrip, worth less than sixty cents on the dollar. But on that auspicious day some speculator bought the scrip and paid for it at par; but Senator Bruce had nothing to do with it, because he is a very rich man, and only white men have been known to bribe legislatures. Senator Bruce says he intends to stand by the civil rights bill, and proves it by employing white men to wait on him, and furthermore declares that he has no objection to Mrs. Bruce associating with the wives of white Senators so long as their moral characters are above reproach, and they have committed no more serious crimes than Rev. Henry Ward Beecher.
And now we come to General Burnside, whose fine person bears the brand of the military aristocracy, just as the blue-blooded Englishman is sometimes stamped duke; just the right size for a general, and with plenty of intellect to represent so small a State as Rhode Island. His graceful whiskers are festooned on his dainty cheeks and curl like the tendrils of the grape on the wall. As a man among men he is the same as a banana among fruits. The frost of time has sweetened and brought him to the highest state of perfection.
Among the most remarkable of the new men is the one who is just rising from his seat. When sitting he does not attract particular attention; but when he attempts the perpendicular one mentally asks: “When is he going to stop?” Hail! Cameron of the illustrious family of that name—the successor of the festive and woman-loving Carpenter, of Wisconsin. “Ye banks and braes of bonnie doon” is written all over this grizzly Scotsman, who is composed entirely of bone and muscle, and destitute of meat as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. What a superb specimen of the Highlander! If he could only be induced to wear his Tartan, bring his bagpipe and show the Senate what is meant by bringing together the two wings of the Cameron clan. Oh, Carpenter! Carpenter! will the time ever come when Wisconsin will weep tears of blood because she so bitterly scourged thee?
The man who occupies a seat this side of Cameron is Jones, of Florida. Another red man, but not of the Saxon type of Conkling. The clay from which he is made must have been formed of iron pyrites. A smooth face, thickly strewn underneath with arteries and veins, in which the scarlet fluid comes and goes at the slightest behest of the passionate will. Tall and broad above the average of men, and, so far as physical appearance is concerned, a fitting representative of the lovely State of magnolia and orange groves, the Mecca of the invalids, and the luscious retreat of the happy alligator.
And this is dainty, delicious Pinckney Whyte, of Maryland, whose pedigree is as clean and well defined as Victoria of England, and who, by the way, in some remote manner, claims kinship to him. How good it must feel to have such blood in one’s veins, and yet Pinckney has made no complaint to the Senate. If he has scrofula like old George the Third, there is no visible sign of it, and the only evidence of insanity he has shown was when he consented to come to the American Senate. In violation of the maxim that precious things are never done up in large parcels, he is fully up to the average size, with a handsome face, and features as finely cut as those of an exquisite cameo. What thin ears and slender fingers! It is true he has not tried his strength in the senatorial race, and it is not known whether he will succeed in writing his name high on the scroll of fame, but he has a mission, a noble mission, in which he must succeed, for his presence helps neutralize the effect of the carpetbaggers; and even this small bit of the purest respectability, like the yeast in dough, in time may come to leaven the whole lump.
Senator Eaton, of Connecticut, is speaking. He plays the sovereignty of the States like Ole Bull’s whole opera, on one string; but Senator Anthony has tripped him by asking: “How can a State be ‘sovereign’ when she can neither make treaties, coin money, or go out to stay all night without asking her father, who is all the time her Uncle Sam?” Senator Eaton replies that he would answer that question to the satisfaction of the Senator from the little State of Rhode Island, but he is sick and cannot be interrupted in his patriotic argument, and he again declares the sovereignty of the State, because little Rhody, Connecticut, and pretty Delaware are the peers and equals of Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. Why? Because they are independent sovereigns, and command the same respect.
It is now almost midnight. Behold the conqueringhero comes. It is Andy Johnson, the veteran warrior of Tennessee. For the first time he arises to address the highest legislative body on the face of the globe. There is an ominous silence. He is asked by a brother Senator if Monday, the next day of the Senatorial calendar, will not do. An affirmative answer is received, and the session of the night adjourns.
Olivia.
A New Champion of a Panacea for Ills Financial.
Washington,April 14, 1869.
A new music reaches the ear of Washington. It is the voice of the workingmen, with brass instruments in their hands, saluting their new leader. All hail! Senator Sprague of Rhode Island. The man who touches the pulse of the invalid with an earnest desire to do the patient good is called a kind physician. The man who feels the feverish pulse of a suffering nation, sees the people rise in their awful majesty, and immensity, echoes, “Here! Here!”
Senator Sprague has been studying the rise and decline of nations. He reminds us that there is a vicious something which underlies the basis of modern as well as ancient society, a nameless horror which picks the bones of a nation just as Victor Hugo’s devil-fish finishes the last delicate morsel of what was once a man. It is the same to the nation that the destructive worm is to the ship. It is the accumulation of tubercular deposits in the national tissues. The fatal seed of dissolution is already planted, and the harvest, when garnered, will be safely packed away in the frightful storehouse of death. With blanched face, in the distance, we shrink from the leprous patient, but upon closer examination we find the “sick man” is old Uncle Sam, and his old war wounds are still unhealed, though in a healthy condition, and none give him any trouble to-day except the sabre cut of Finance. In the early part of the last winter General Butler laid his hand on this tremendous wound. The nation quivered with hope and expectation, but Uncle Sam said, “Hands off, my brave general; don’t you see just somuch of my substance has been shot away? If a lobster loses one of its claws, will any patent medicine make it grow again? Leave the lobster to the care of the kindly elements, and a new member, precisely like the old one, makes its appearance, beautifully, by degrees. The humblest reptile can teach the wisest man important wisdom.” When just so much substance has been destroyed by fire and sword, is it not the folly of madness to try to replace it by “financial policy”? Is there no other way to make a dollar except to dig the metal out of the bowels of the earth, take it to the mint, and give it a legitimate birth? The smallest child can understand the great “financial problem” as it exists to-day. Did General Butler enlighten us on the subject? We owe just so many gold dollars. As a lawyer he pointed out the way in which we could avoid a partial payment of our honest debts. The people said to General Butler, “We like your sagacity as lawyer, but we still believe that time is the best cure for all.” General Butler then subsided on the finance question. A new champion has arisen to point out a greener path over which to journey, as we march heavy ladened. It is the youthful millionaire, Senator Sprague. His bill before the Senate can be summed up in exactly three words: “Make more greenbacks.” This is the way to make money plenty? Why not? If Senator Sprague wants ten thousand yards of calico, he manufactures it. If the workingman wants more money, he is advised to manufacture the same. It is a great deal easier to print a paper dollar than to earn the gold the paper is expected to represent. But Senator Sprague was born into the manufacturing business, and, as it has been of such vast importance to him, is it a wonder that he advises the same employment to others when he has reaped riches and honor, whilst he is yet a growing man? Senator Sprague would also make the Government a kind of “Grand Lama”—a huge autocrat doing business forhimself, just like Astor, Vanderbilt and Stewart. He would have him loan money; also, make him liable to sue and be sued. To be sure, this would extinguish all millionaire upstarts. So far so good; but would it not also add fresh fuel to the fires of corruption? What is the whisky ring but a set of dishonest officials, acting in the name of the Government, covering their plunder with the garments of Uncle Sam? Instead of diminishing the power to rob the people, Senator Sprague advocates an additional supply of the grand army officials. The flock of to-day may be compared to a cloud of locusts. “No!” say our legislators. Only a lunatic attempts to extinguish a fire by throwing on more fuel. A good government should be like the azure vault of heaven, resting on all alike, protecting the poor man in his cabin, the rich man in his palace, if he has honestly acquired his wealth. It should fall upon the honorable citizen like a web woven by fairy fingers; upon the criminal, whether powerful or weak, like the lariat flung by the unerring hand of the Indian hunter of the pampas. Senator Sprague and the workingmen who endorse him propose to take from the Government this most holy inheritance bequeathed us by our Revolutionary ancestors, baptized anew by the precious blood of three hundred thousand lives, and set it up in all the great cities of the Union, as the golden calf was set up in the wilderness, and the people, instead of being told to bow the knee, are advised to borrow. How will this help the poor man who has no security to give; or is the great national broker expected to lend without any security at all? No one disputes the fact that a great harassing debt annoys the people. It might have been much less. With sorrow we remember the millions that were flung into the sea by the incompetency of the late Navy Department; but with this folly our creditors have nothing to do. It is for us to say that we will pay to the last farthing. Shall we allow speculators in the name of Uncle Sam to use the people’s money and take the riskof being benefited in the end? Never! No, never! It is proven beyond a doubt that if the tax on whisky and tobacco could be honestly collected and turned over to the Treasury Department it would liquidate every penny of the interest of the public debt; other taxes would then gradually consume the principal. But if we are in haste, as we ought to be, to pay our debts, let the noble women of this country say, “No more of our gold shall drift seaward to bring us back jewels, silks, and knick-knacks.” Let the graceful, elegant wife of Senator Sprague be content with a wardrobe which vies in costliness with that of an European princess. Thirty silk walking dresses, all made to fit the same exquisite image, were within hearing of the workingmen’s serenade.
If, then, sharp Benjamin Butler has knocked a hole in his keel by cruising amongst the financial breakers, Senator Sprague, so much younger, with much less experience, need not be ashamed to strike his colors before he goes down. No man in the Senate has a better record than this intrepid young Senator. We may question his good taste about bringing his Rhode Island battle upon the floor of the American Senate, but this harms no one but himself. In the strife for honor and fame at a nation’s hands he has had two difficulties to overcome. The talent of his early life has been obscured by his immense wealth; in later years he has dwelt in the blighting shadows of greatness.
Our first recollection of the rebellion cluster around his head. When the great coal mines of Pennsylvania tossed out their grimy workers, and they rushed to the defence of Washington, without stopping to change their clothes or bid their wives farewell, William Sprague was at the scene of action, giving his time, money, all that a man has to give, that these citizen-soldiers might have wherewith to preserve life. With the boom of the first cannon this citizen of Rhode Island flung his soul into the struggle for the life of the Republic. Away up in the rockyledges of the American continent is a magic spring of smallest proportions. If at a certain period of the world’s life a foreign substance, no larger than a man’s boot, had been thrust into it, the course of the mighty Mississippi would have been changed. Who can estimate the incalculable blessing to this nation produced by a single man coming forward at exactly the right moment with the real bone and sinew of war in his hands. He bought the blankets, and tincups, and loaves of bread for the new recruits, whilst General Jim Lane was guarding Abraham Lincoln. It is superfluous to recall his meritorious conduct as an officer in every fearful trial which has rocked our ship of state, for it is fresh within the memory of us all. It may be said that many speeches for polish and elegance of diction surpass those of the Senator from Rhode Island, but the inquiry naturally arises, is a man dear to our hearts for his words or his deeds? For both, we answer. But if the two are not always found wedded like husband and wife, give us the substance, and whilst the Creator is filling anew his generous order for more men, let us humbly petition that he send a good round number no better, no worse, than Senator Sprague.
Olivia.
Interview with Oneof the Ribs of Brigham Young.
Washington,April 23, 1869.
The dreamy twilight which envelops the city during every recess of Congress has settled upon Washington. During the small hours of the morning the tardy Senators have folded their tents and to-day they are stealing away. Spring, clean and fresh as a mermaid, trips daintily along our broad highways. The flowers are opening their pretty eyes; the zephyrs greet us sweet as the breath of love, and all nature conspires to lead the mind into the luxurious revels of an Oriental extravaganza. The modern Caliph, Brigham Young, of Utah, has sent his beloved Zobedie to Washington, and to-day at 11 a. m. her shadow falls across the door of the White House, but whether she gains the ear of President Grant your correspondent knoweth not. Several weeks ago the newspapers told us that a number of women, all so-called wives of Brigham Young, were en route for the States. A party composed of the elite of the Salt Lake harems are in Washington. No single man has two wives in the expedition. Brigham Young has contributed his favorite, whilst both of his two sons, who help compose the party, have confined themselves to one apiece. Two single women are added to this rare bouquet, but whether “sealed” or otherwise is known only to the “Prophet” or the saints. The party is stopping near the corner of I and Fourteenth streets, under the protecting care of Mr. Hooper, the Delegate from Utah Territory. It has been said by those who thought they were acquainted with Mr. Hooper that he does not profess the Mormon faith, but for the information of those who may be curious aboutthis interesting subject it is safe to believe that Brigham Young has no more faithful follower than this accomplished Delegate.
Just at this magic hour when the light and the darkness were quarreling for supremacy we might have been found in the presence of one of our own countrywomen, a woman born in the great State of New York, educated, beautiful, elegantly attired, and yet there seemed to be no common platform upon which we could meet and converse, for our ideas ran in grooves as far apart as thought can separate. Had it been Victoria, we could have recalled the memory of the Blameless Prince, or alluded to the Alabama claims; had it been Eugenie, we could have seized Pio Nono; or Mrs. President Grant, we could have applied for the “Nasby” postoffice. But, oh, tortured soul, it was Lady Zobedie, the seventieth double of Brigham Young. What did it matter? Though she is a rib nearest his heart to-day, a woman with a ruddier cheek may crowd her aside to-morrow. Woman, is she living, breathing, poised on the edge of a frightful precipice? Yes! But a woman with the fire of life smoldering in the ashes; no rollicking flame. A woman who would leave a room colder for having passed through it.
Conversation darted hither and thither like Noah’s dove, who could find no rest for the sole of her foot. The watery waste of speech was all around us, but the Gentile was afraid andthe Saint coldlyindifferent. The Gentile ventured to ask if the queen was not pleased with the prosperity of our country, and was it not astonishing, after such a prolonged civil war?
She “hadn’t been accustomed to think much about such things.”
“How does Utah compare with this part of the world?” was the next inquiry.
“Not much difference; the world is just about the same all over.”
“I am told it is very expensive living after you leave Omaha.”
“I never think about such things.”
“Have you met Madame Daubigney, the great French traveler? I am told she has a reputation in Europe next to the late Madame Pneiffer. She is in Washington, and expects to leave soon for Salt Lake.”
“Yes, she has been to see me two or three times, but I try to discourage her. I don’t believe in women lecturers and women artists. I am told she dabbles in both.”
A fearful pause.
“Have you called upon Mrs. Grant?”
“No, I never call upon ladies, but I intend to pay my respects to the President. I wouldn’t like to tell them at home that I hadn’t seen him.”
The Gentile kindly alluded to the fact that Joseph Smith was an old acquaintance of her family, and although her father differed with him in belief, yet, as a neighbor, he was trusted with many of his first revelations. No response; the electric current of the mind would not work.
Our meeting was like the greeting of two planets whose paths happened to intersect. We neared each other for a moment, only to separate, each flying from the other, and one, if not both of us, feeling the awful effects of human fanaticism when it comes between two citizens of the same Republic.
The lengthening shadows of night crept into the room. A street lamp before the open window had been lighted, and its rays fell upon the marble features of this pale, amber-haired blonde, and the classic cast of her countenance might have answered for a model of beauty for either the sculptor or the painter. But other shapes almost as tangible were there also. They were the demons of the dark ages come back to mock us. This seventieth wife with her fair face had touched the sepulchre of the past, and grinning specters of the past were amongus. The very air seemed to say for this silent woman: “If we were strong and you were weak, woman should again take her place at the foot of a ladder. Is the woman of to-day wiser or better than was Rachel or Sarah?”
Brigham Young has sent this woman abroad to be on exhibition like any other work of art. She is expected to make new converts. She is allowed to indulge her taste in silks, jewels and point lace. The other wives are young, giddy, and commonplace. Their manners are just what must be expected from youth and inexperience, and their conversation, so far as two of them are concerned, was only noticeable on account of its warmth of grammatical accuracy. All the Mormons who come to Washington make us feel that they are by the side of us yet not annealed with the great body of the people. They have a bitter hatred of the Gentiles, cloaked, though it may be, by a frigid politeness. Mr. Hooper says: “Things seem strange to you, out our way, but it is quite as strange to us in this part of the country; but we don’t feel like meddling with your institutions.” He also remarked that it was very strange that so many people seemed desirous to settle out in that part of the world. He said it was the poorest, most unattractive portion of the American continent. It was for this reason that the “chosen people” exiled themselves, planted their homes where nature has set a bitter, sterile face. The late cry of “We only ask to be let alone” is borne to us from the saline hills of Utah. We answer it with the scream of the locomotive. The Pacific Railroad is the guillotine which will cleave the head of Mormonism asunder, and polygamy, the last sad relic of barbarism, the one single blemish which clings to our beloved Republic, is doomed.
Olivia.
General Dent and Robert Douglas as Buffers.
Washington,April 27, 1869.
Just as the monarch of a Persian story gives audience to the high and low, so does President Grant receive the people, precisely after the fashion of an Oriental tale. It is not quite certain whether the President roams about the capital in the disguise of a dervish, as did the good Caliph Haroun Alraschid in his beloved Bagdad, but of a Sunday, if the weather be fine, he dashes up Fourteenth street, drawn by steeds, as fleet as the far-famed Arabian coursers, and a cloud of dust envelops his costly barouche as potent and insinuating as the flying sand in the desert.
A day in the ante-rooms of the White House will prove to the most skeptical that the “Arabian Nights” are as authentic as Hawthorne’s “Twice-Told Tales.” The Eastern Hemisphere had her rise and decline before the sun of civilization kissed our rugged New England hills. The Orient is asleep. The Occident fills the eyes of the world to-day.
President Grant has a grand vizier. It is General Dent, late of the Union Army. It is the business of General Dent to receive all who seek the presence of the President. When Andrew Johnson was Chief Executive, all those waiting for an audience with power were left by themselves to pass the long hours in waiting. It is somewhat different now. The large reception room over the front of the East Room is fitted up with tables, as well as sofas and chairs, and all, from the humblest to the highest, are admitted to General Dent’s presence. In the coziest corner of the reception room, beneath the windowwhich commands the uninterrupted view of the delightful park which fronts the mansion, may be found the broad, long table at which General Dent sits, with his accomplished assistants by his side. General Dent is in the meridian of life, rather below the medium size, though the rich, dark-blue military garb in which he is encased diverts the mind from size altogether. Now add a face, neither handsome nor plain, but a benign, good countenance, through which the soul shines like flame through an astral shade, and you have the picture of the man through whose hands you are to pass before you are consigned to the august presence of majesty. At the same table, directly opposite General Dent, may be seen the assistant private secretary, Mr. Robert M. Douglas, eldest son of the late Hon. Stephen A. Douglas. Those who can recall the form and features of the departed Senator will see them reproduced, but, like the second edition of the same book, a little revised and somewhat corrected. Mr. Douglas inherits the broad shoulders, crowned by the same massive head, so well remembered by the nation. His North Carolina speech has made him famous as a youth, and it seems certain at present that he was created to prove the exception to the rule that a great man never bequeaths his talent to posterity. The social manners of Mr. Douglas are such as would endear him to a sovereign as haughty as Queen Elizabeth, and just as soon as he culminates as private secretary it will be for the honor of the foreign service to send him abroad. But at the present he can not be spared from a certain ante-room in the White House.
At the left of General Dent may be seen Mr. Crook, one of the few men left who were bequeathed as servants to the people by our beloved Lincoln. He has seen the inauguration of four Presidents and the installation of three different families in the White House. His mind is a storehouse of legend and story. He is still a young man, more than comely in personal appearance, and distinguishedby social manners which admirably befit court life.
And now we come to that part of the story which bears such a strong resemblance to an Eastern tale. High and low, rich and poor, all shades, all colors, from the blanched cheek of the haughty Circassian belle to the Ethiopian polished ebony, may be found waiting in the ante-rooms of the White House. Yellow women are there, with skins like dead gold, their large, soft, lustrous eyes reminding one of a Moorish picture. A dash of a carriage is heard on the stone pavement below. Two elegant women alight, in faultless traveling costume. They are shown by a messenger to the ante-room, and General Dent arises to receive them. One of them is exceedingly beautiful. “We have called,” says the beauty, “to pay our respects to the President.” “Any business?” inquires General Dent. The dainty upper lip curls perceptibly. “None whatever; we are traveling; we wish to see the President.” “Impossible, Madame,” the General replies. “All these people you see are waiting to see the President on business. General Grant would be pleased to see you, but he has no time he can call his own.” The great, haughty eyes of the traveler wander about the room. As the two are about to depart General Dent asks them if they would be “shown about the building”? A dignified consent being given, the two stately swans sail away, piloted by the same messenger who showed them up the stairs.
The doors of the inner temple tremble on their hinges, and the form of a ponderous Senator emerges from the presence of the sun of day. It is Henry Wilson, of Massachusetts. He strides to a centre table and shakes hands with a distinguished group of men, composed of Cole of California, Carpenter of Wisconsin, irrepressible General Butler, and General Markland, the personal friend of General Grant, who was nominated for Third Assistant Postmaster-General. Very soon Mr. Gobright of the AssociatedPress joins hands with them; but the attention of all eyes is drawn in another direction. Two strangers are announced, and again General Dent arises to receive them. Two strange beings,—the man wears the national costume of Burmah, the picturesque turban, and the high-colored shawl gracefully draped about his person; the woman has spoiled her identity by adopting certain portions of European dress. They are native Burmese, and have been studying in this country, but soon take their departure for Burmah, where they expect to act as missionaries. They have called to bid President Grant farewell, and are at once shown into his presence.
Every hour brings new arrivals. A colored delegation from Alexandria has arrived. It was promised they should see the President at 1 o’clock. It is now past the hour, but still they wait patiently. It seems to be the colored man’s fate to wait. There is a silent grandeur about this resignation. It is like the march of the centuries. Art has portrayed it in the face of the Egyptian sphynx.
A few Senators have seen the President. General Butler has dashed in there where none of the rest are allowed to go. No one saw a messenger depart with his card. He went in, disappeared for a moment only, and now flings himself again amongst the throng. He takes a cigar from a side pocket and a barbarous arrangement of some kind from another. With the last thing he is going to kindle a fire. He strikes the flint against the serpent, and something clicks like the lock of a gun. One! two! three! Civilization and Barbarism once more embrace and General Butler has lighted his cigar by the flame, and at the same time, like the blaze of a comet, he has disappeared.
The weary, weary waiters! The sun begins to blink askance, and to creep into western windows. A man says: “This is the tenth day I have waited to see the President.” Some of the people who were always to befound haunting Andrew Johnson have transferred themselves to President Grant. These are the barnacles, or fungi, which every administration inherits from its predecessor. A pale woman in weeds seems to shrink away behind the friendly covering of an open door. Her face is tear-stained. A feeble little child sits calmly by her side. There is much to attract sympathy to the woman. The joyousness of infancy seems to be trampled out of the innocent child. Little sickly bud, growing in the shadow of grief, God help thee!
In the space of one hour audience day will be over, and the disappointed will go, to return again on the morrow.
Olivia.
A Fund of Reminiscences at the Command of the Journal Clerk of the House.
Washington,November 6, 1869.
For more than a score of years strangers visiting the House of Representatives may have noticed, at the right hand yet a little below the speaker, a dignified, majestic man, who says the least, yet, perhaps, we may say, does the most, for the country of any man within hearing of the Speaker’s voice. The name of this man is John M. Barclay, and without his presence, or another equally potent in his place, the House of Representatives might be likened to a locomotive deprived of its beloved steam. The business of the House can proceed with an indifferent Speaker, weakness and effeminacy in other officers can be borne; but the man whose business it is to keep a faithful record of all that is done in the House has to get his commission from his Creator, and then have it approved by the man who happens to be elected Clerk of the House. It is Mr. Barclay’s duty to hand down the archives of the nation to other generations. For the last twenty years his mind has been a river through which the work of the House of Representatives has found its way into history. In this noisy, turbulent House it is his place to catch that which is proper and legitimate and fix it in permanent form for the benefit of the whole country. The Clerk of the House is the responsible figure-head for this most important position, but Mr. Barclay is the power behind the throne. In the clamor for office, petitions few or none are sent up for the one Mr. Barclay occupies. A man to take his place must have a perfect understanding of parliamentary law. When the House isin session, not for a moment must his attention wander from the points of discussion. The reporters in the gallery can enjoy their little siestas, give and take from each other; but Mr. Barclay must depend upon himself. So long has he occupied this position, so admirably has he performed his difficult duties, that he may now be compared to an exquisite piece of machinery. He never gives offence. In early years he was a Whig, in later a Republican; but so just is he that partisan sentiments are entirely overlooked, and both parties in the House reverence him alike.
The usages and precedents of the British Parliament constitute the basis of all parliamentary law amongst people who speak the English language. Many years ago Thomas Jefferson wrote a book, which is called “Jefferson’s Manual of Parliamentary Practice.” It is formed of the precepts of the United States Constitution, and the regulations early adopted in the United States Senate, collated with a digest of English Parliamentary practice. This book is a well-known authority in this country. Mr. Barclay furnishes the House with a manual containing a digest of its own rules, so much of Jefferson’s Manual as governs the proceedings of the House, together with the precedents of order, usages of the House, etc., which is really a complete and independent code by which the House is guided. The rules and laws of the House of Representatives of the United States are universally adopted for the government of all State and local conventions, and form the basis of the rules and practice of nearly all State legislatures. The influence of Mr. Barclay’s knowledge and judgment, therefore, in the parliamentary affairs of the country, will be seen to be very great. A correspondent of much repute, in a letter some time ago, which has been widely copied, made the clerk to the late Speaker, an estimable young man, entirely innocent of the profundities and bewildering intricacies ofparliamentary law, the actual monitor of Mr. Colfax—a mistake hardly necessary to correct.
Mr. Barclay has seen the rise and decline of the reign of eight different Speakers, Mr. Blaine being the ninth on the list. Of the Speakers whose sceptres have withered, whose gavels have sounded for the last time, Mr. Barclay gives Mr. Colfax the credit of being the best parliamentarian, as well as the hardest and most persevering student of the law. Mr. Barclay has seen the proud honor of Speaker bestowed upon Robert C. Winthrop, Howell Cobb, Linn Boyd, N. P. Banks, James L. Orr, William Pennington, Galusha A. Grow, Schuyler Colfax, and James G. Blaine.
During the long years of treason and rebellion he was a silent witness of the moral battles in the House. This warfare steadily preceded the smoke of the cannon and the surgeon’s glittering knife. It is true Mr. Barclay stores up only the actual substance of the House; and yet how much he might reveal in regard to this august body which is left out of the official record, as well as out of “Gobright’s Recollections of a Third Century,” and also the awful columns of the Congressional Globe.
Should Mr. Barclay have kept notes of his long experience at the helm of the House, what a book he could make. His calm, judicial mind would be sure to do justice to all parties. No reporter in the gallery of “the gods” over his head—no statesman on the floor below—could give so many fascinating pages. He could describe the men who sat in the House when Cobb was Speaker,—most of them now gathered to their fathers. He could tell us of the finished orator, James McDowell, of Virginia, and of that great speech of his, in 1850, which electrified the country; of George C. Drumgoole, of the same State, calm and clear even in his potations; of the knight of later strifes, the spotless patriot and pure rhetorician, Henry Winter Davis, of Maryland; of Hotspur Keitt, and handsome, hectoring Brooks, of SouthCarolina; of dandy Dawson, of Louisiana; of gifted but self-destroying McConnell, of Alabama; of quick George W. Young, of Tennessee; of young Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, when he first came into the House, wearing a Byron collar; of haughty Toombs; logical Stephens; jolly T. H. Bayly; quiet Mr. Aiken; nervous Clingman; dominating David Wilmot; brilliant D. K. Carter, and eloquent Henry M. Fuller. He could narrate many a side-scene in the great drama, when the actors got behind the curtain and sported in their own green-room. He could show how the great struggle grew from words to blows, from blows to battles, and from battles to defeat. With Cobb and Orr, and Banks and Pennington, and Grow and Colfax, Barclay was on terms of equality and intimacy. He could describe the discomfiture of Barksdale when he lost his yellow wig; of Potter, when he answered Pryor and offered to fight him; of the quarrel between Cutting and Breckinridge; of Douglas in his prime, and of Adams in his decay; and of the whole procession of life, fun, frolic, sorrow, failure, disgrace, and death; of the pages who grew to be generals, of the generals who became Congressmen, and of the Congressmen who longed to be President. Write us a book, Colonel Barclay. You are still in your prime. Take a reporter to your room, and let him interview you, if you won’t jot it off in your own clerkly hand; and if Congress don’t vote you a pension, or retire you on a solid annuity, you and your posterity can live on the proceeds, and be honored in the inevitable credit it will confer on your name.
Olivia.