Chapter XII: Part 12

In the early part of the nineteenth century, the French painter, Gerard, who was a resident of Paris, opened his salon and held what he termed “reunions.” To these gatherings came all that was refined, elegant, and distinguished at this gayest of capitals. Gerard’s salon consisted of a floor of four rooms, with an ante-room. At 12 o’clock he gave his guests a cup of tea and the same everlasting cakes, says Madame Ancelot, the whole year round. Monsieur Gerard had no help from his wife so far as the entertainment was concerned, for she took her seat at a whist table and kept it until the last guest was gone. But Gerard’s “reunions” became known all over Europe, for the man had the talent to draw all that was celebrated in literature, science, and art to his humble headquarters. “From Madame de Stael down to Mlle. Mars, from Talleyrand and Pozzo di Borgo down to M. Thiers, there were no celebrities, male or female, that during thirty years (from 1805 to 1835) did not flock to Gerard’s house, and all, no matter how different might be their characters or position, agreed in the same opinion as to their host.”

Monsieur Gerard termed his modest entertainments “reunions,” and this must be the original from whence the Hon. Horatio King took the name. Transplanted, it flourishes at our own crude capital.

At the last Saturday evening “reunion” Grace Greenwood in her inimitable way, gave us dramatic readings in costume. Her personations exceeded anything the writer has seen either on the stage or in private life. Charlotte Cushman, Fanny Kemble, Scott Siddons, last but not least, our own Grace Greenwood, make all the stars of the first magnitude that we have now in this particular heaven of genius. Attorney-General Williams says that “he looks upon Grace Greenwood as the best writer and the most gifted woman in the country.” This decision is legal, and may be considered final. Years ago the great and good Horace Mann said that she was not only the most gifted, but that she was “the most beautiful woman he had ever seen;” and his passion for her in youthful days was as pure as though she had been a disembodied spirit. It is so rare that beauty and genius are wedded to one soul. In the opinion of the writer, Grace Greenwood is a handsomer woman at 50 than in the “long ago.” It is the difference between the budding green of April and the garnered glory of September. If her portrait was taken as she stands before us to-day and hung in the Corcoran gallery, the spectator would say, “This must be a Roman matron who lived before the pall of the Middle Ages darkened the earth.” How does she look? A brunette of the purest type, with clear-cut features, sorrowful, inquiring eyes, that shine as though a quenchless flame burned somewhere in the solitude of her own soul. There are some pictures which are burned into the human mind. We shall never forget her personation of “Over the Hills to the Poor House,” one of Carleton’s poems. The poverty-stricken outfit, the worn carpet-bag, the iron-bowed spectacles, the gray hair. When the propriety of “readings” was canvassed at Plymouth Church, Henry Ward Beecher said, “Object to it! I never object to one of the best sermons that can be preached.” From the highest to the humblest of that goodly company scarce a dry eye was to be seen. Then she told us what Miss Tattle, from Buttonville, saw at a “Rejective Session of the Senate.” This was followed by that which proves man to have been the only “created laughing animal.”

Among those who enjoyed the delightful evening were Mrs. Senator Stewart, the daughter of ex-Senator Foote, as all the world knows who reads the newspapers. Mrs. Stewart has recently returned from abroad and brought back with her the polish of Continental Europe. Perhaps she has returned with only that which she took away, for she has the same frank, winning address that used to distinguish Madame Slidell, and which is seen in the highest state of perfection in Madame Le Vert, who was also present.

What is that quality which makes the Northern and Southern women so unlike? It cannot be tasted. It cannot be described. It is the same kind of difference which exists between a white, mealy Northern potato and a Southern yam; a Baldwin apple and a banana in the Northern woods and Southern jungle--but only a man’s descriptive powers can do this subject justice.

Mrs. Attorney-General Williams was there, most talked about, most superb woman, in some respects, in Washington. One of your Cleopatras. Such a creation requires a separate paper, just as some gems must have a solitaire setting. And there was Mary S. Nealy, so well-known in letters and art at the capital. There was Mrs. Ames, the amiable and accomplished daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, as well as the widow of the late Admiral Dahlgren, who by the way, is fast earning a place in literature by her perseverance and talent. Possessing an ample fortune, a leader in the fashionable world whenever she chooses to reign, yet, like Lady Jane Grey, she chooses the solitude of the scholar, and delights in the labor of her pen. But newspaper letters must come to an end, because there is no space to write what might be said about the gentlemen who were there. Attorney-General Williams and Senator Stewart alone are as much as one newspaper can carry, if all their good deeds are related. So this will end with a little paper which Mr. King read between the “acts.” He said it had been “picked up in the hall,” in all probability where he dropped it.

“THE GRACES.

“By grace divine we come together here,
To pass the time in pleasure and good cheer;
To study all the graces that adorn
The maiden fair or widow ‘all forlorn,’
The grace of speech, of music, and of song,
The grace of conversation, short or long.
But name the _graces_, these and all the rest,
_Grace_ Greenwood is the grace we love the best.”

OLIVIA.

CARL SCHURZ.

A FIELD DAY IN THE SENATE AND STELLAR ATTRACTIONS.

WASHINGTON, _February 26, 1874_.

Yesterday was termed what is called a “field day” in the Senate. The opposing forces which go to make up the intellectual aggregate of this highest legislative body met in combat, and the whole nation is wide awake as to the result. Two men, both claiming to be Republican Senators, both as ambitious as the Evil One when he led Christ to the mountain-top, engaged in an intellectual hand-to-hand fight, but let it be recorded that Senator Morton alone lost his amiable temper. But who ever saw a chained tiger that did not lose his temper? Physically speaking, no two men could appear more dissimilar. When Carl Schurz is seen sitting in his seat he does not impress the spectator with the idea of a tall man. But when he rises you wonder when his head will stop going up towards the clouds. After he has “towered” to a certain altitude, and all the links and kinks and hinges seem straightened, he gives his shoulders another twist upward, as much as to say, “Shades of the mighty Schiller! if one only could touch the top of space!” Then there is a shake of the long, brown, curling locks as a lion tosses his mane, for all the royal animals of creation use similar signs and symbols. The mouth opens. It is not a growl. The ear is greeted with the sweetest and softest strains of the human voice. Who has ever read Oliver Wendell Holmes’ description of those velvet and flute-like tones that ravish the soul like the heavenly melodies of Beethoven? Carl Schurz has a voice like the wind sighing through the sugar cane, and his classical English floats in a sea of rhythmical measure. In manner this distinguished German orator would not attract notice for either awkwardness or grace. The personality of the man is lost, because the mind is fully engaged in following his subtle thread of argument, which is fairly embroidered with pearls of thought. “I love America! I believe in her people! I have faith in her great future! But America must be honest. She must be true to everlasting principle. Parties, fashions, men, pass away, but incorruptible integrity, whether applied to nations or individuals, remains the same in all ages, from the beginning to the end of time.”

These words, as near as the writer can remember, were meant to bear upon the inflation of the currency. He wishes to have our greenbacks fixed upon a foundation so that our money will have a permanent value. In other words, he says a dollar of the national currency is worth eighty-eight cents to-day; six months hence it may be worth seventy cents value in gold or silver. He believes that a nation like this ought to fix our money in such a shape that the people cannot be at the mercy of the sharpers of Wall street and Boston. Why should the great American Republic have a fluctuating currency? Is it because our greenbacks are only promises to pay, and that the Republic may become a defaulter in the end, therefore the nation’s notes are in a certain way just like the private citizen’s? This mighty problem of finance requires a kind of statesmanship which has not been brought into the arena of politics during this session of Congress. Carl Schurz says if we make more currency that which we already have will be depreciated.

Whilst Carl Schurz was addressing the vast audience, Senator Morton had turned in his seat so that he sat facing the orator. Not a word that fell from the speaker’s lips were lost to this highly gifted product of the great State of Indiana, most noticeable and in one sense the most interesting member of the United States Senate. We have all read the story in the “Arabian Nights,” where the men of a certain city had become so powerful and so very naughty that the genii had to do something that would not destroy the men for all usefulness yet would prevent any outbursts of wickedness or folly. So he touched them all with the enchanter’s wand at some point below the shoulder blades. Instantly the men lost the power of locomotion. Whilst the upper part of their persons were alive, the lower became black marble. But what Senator Morton has lost in one extreme, he has gained in another, for to-day he is the strongest man who attempts to lead in his faction of the Senate. There is something about his head which bears a striking resemblance to the portraits of Webster, and he is thought to be one of the most forcible speakers in the Senate. His arguments are hurled at his opponent as cannon balls fly to kill the enemy. But if he has a hard, rugged, sharp side to his intellect, there is another as fascinating as that said to be possessed by Aaron Burr or Mirabeau. Men may not agree with this opinion, because they never can see that point of his character which is revealed to women alone. Men see only the surface of men. It is left to women to go down into the depths and bring up the pearls and coral.

About the audience that listened to Senators Schurz and Morton. There was a large delegation from the House, composed of those who have apparently taken the deepest hold of the slippery question of finance. Benjamin Butler was there, flushed, worried, and apparently somewhat worn in his encounter with the committee of Boston, Massachusetts.

He had just had a conference with them in regard to the collectorship of Boston in his committee room, and told them “hands off,” and yet he was not happy. They, too, had come over from the House to listen; sharp, keen Puritans, determined as so many bloodhounds. But the nation realizes that when Massachusetts is torn by her own intestine broils the rest of the world is safe, the Centennial will flourish, and no possible harm can follow.

Few men have attracted the notice of the Senate and secured that close attention as did Carl Schurz in his effort of yesterday. Even Senator Sumner laid aside his pen and pushed back his large pile of papers, apparently giving himself up to the fascination of the hour. Senator Mitchell, of Oregon, sat leaning back upon a sofa in a distant corner. He had resigned his Senatorial seat for the time to benefit a prominent member of Congress. As he appeared, with the gorgeous walls of the Senate for a background, no finer picture could be found for an artist’s copy. Tall, elegant, and graceful, with a singular purity of complexion, his head crowned by a glory of chestnut hair, such as the ancient painters used to delight to transfer to their canvas, large deep blue eyes, such as Raphael gave his Madonnas. “Fell into trouble with women,” said the newspapers. Will water fall when the clouds are moist? Will labor seek the neighborhood of capital? Alas! Will a duck swim? Senator Mitchell is not to blame because he is the handsomest specimen in the Senate. He did not make himself. Suppose he made mistakes or committed mischief before the sense of right and justice was crystallized in his mind? Who knows anything about the temptations placed before Adonis? What did Adam do when Eve gave him the apple and told him it would do him good? It is true the Oregon legislature have never discussed the subject of apples, but they sent Senator Mitchell back indorsed by the highest authority of the State, and he has only to take hold of legislation with heart and soul, and live the same pure and consistent life that he has in the last few years, and the country will honor him as one of her most distinguished sons.

Who is that leaning back in all that negligent abandon so becoming the occupant of that particular chair? It is the silver Senator of Nevada--the successor of Jim Nye. “Why, the man that wants my place,” says Jeems, “has a silver mine; do you think I can beat that?” Well, there he is, the monarch of the silver mine, watching with closest attention the eloquent speaker. Everything about him looks as if it had a standard value. If he should happen to trip and fall a metallic ring would be heard, just as if a new coin was thrown upon the pavement. A fine-looking man, rather below the medium height, but the most perfect specimen of high and costly living to be seen in the Senate. One can imagine him looking at the world and saying, “I am bound to get all the comfort. My house shall be a palace, my bath shall be champagne!” As yet he has done nothing to make himself felt as an integral part of this august body, but is prized at the capital because he is pleasing in manner, he is a United States Senator, and last but not least, he is a dashing widower with a silver mine attached.

OLIVIA.

ON CAPITOL HILL.

A VISIT TO THE NAVY YARD--THE CARROLL AND BUTLER RESIDENCES.

WASHINGTON, _September 24, 1874_.

The exclusive aristocracy of Washington is found in that part of the city known as Capitol Hill. Upon the emerald heights crowned with gardens and flowers, the proud old families of ancient lineage occupy their ancestral acres almost under the dome of our beloved Capitol. Whilst standing on the brow of “the Hill,” if the eye is directed southward, the baronial home of the Carrolls scourges the vision with its monastic severity. A wall as round as the arm of beauty encircles the extensive grounds, and the haughty old castle within is a perpetual aggression to the paint, parvenu, and pretence that spread itself at the “West End.” The spirit of holiness seems to envelop this elegant home. At certain hours of the twenty-four the dainty occupants emerge to go upon their rounds of daily charity. Like so many nuns, yet a part of the world, they bear the same relation to modern society at the capital as the old French regime to the Bonaparte reign. Earlier blossoms of the family tree have worn the proudest coronets of England; and these lovely silver-haired sisters are characterized by the same courtly refinement and queenly grace. To the north, but within a stone’s throw of the Capitol, may be seen the pile once known as the city home of General Washington. Within the remembrance of the child of a dozen summers it remained as the great statesman left it, except it had succumbed to the gnawing tooth of Time. The high plateau upon which it was built had in a great measure crumbled. The windows were mostly broken and the chimneys were beginning to fall. But the hand of modern Progress seized it and a pretentious building, made up of the old walls, now marks the site; too large for a boarding-house and too small for a hotel, destitute of kitchens and servants’ quarters, useless as a mansion, but splendid as a tomb. But nothing in the great laboratory of Nature is lost, for the ghostly brick and mortar serves to mark the hallowed spot sacred to the memory of the Father of his Country, and no Mount Vernon corporation can pen cows within the precious enclosure and peddle pale fluid at so much per gallon or so much per glass.

On Capitol Hill may be found Christ Church, where Washington and other early Presidents worshipped. The bricks of which it is constructed were baked on English soil and tossed over the stormy Atlantic. The antique building has none of the fancy airs of the modern cathedral, but it is built square and unpretending, an outward emblem of the spirit of those who gave it birth. It was made as a defence against the elements whilst the inmates were holding communion with the Most High. In the large, square pews sat Washington and Lafayette, whilst the gallant Hamilton held the slip-door that the “first lady of the land” might enter there.

Scarcely three blocks from the church is situated the navy yard, in many respects the most attractive point in Washington, because it is the great headquarters of the maritime power of the Republic. Inside the grounds the visitor is treated with a sight of wonderful naval trophies. Here are the guns captured off Tripoli when boarded by the brave Decatur, and here not long ago might have been seen some of the same kind of iron pots with the lid on that went down on Cape Hatteras with twenty poor fellows aboard. Holmes, Whittier, Longfellow, ahoy! Who will give us the story of the _Monitor_? the triumph in the James River? the tragedy off the stormy cape?

At the navy yard the great war vessels come in on purpose to go into dry dock and have all their corporeal troubles removed. The most majestic object in nature is the awful face of the mountain. The most sublime picture in art is a great war vessel lifted from the water and placed on the land. Look at the enormous hull, with its ribs of oak, sheathed with copper; the lofty masts almost piercing the clouds; and yet these little pigmies, scarce six feet high, put her points together. Certainly one is not to blame for asking if the Lord is as small in proportion to his created works. What artist will give us a picture of the great war vessel that was driven four miles inland by a tidal wave, at the Island of St. Thomas? Think of a ship buried on the land, just as though it were a mortal, and had a soul to be saved! “Cut the ropes, and every man for himself!” rang out the shrill command of the captain above the roar of the elements. “In an instant,” says an eye witness, “the solid wall of water was upon us. Oh, moment of supreme and mortal horror; we felt we were going into the jaws of hell!”

The last ship which left the navy yard, most beloved by the writer, was the ill-fated _Polaris_, of Arctic fame. It seems but yesterday since the decks were trod by those who will see her no more. “Taste that pemmican,” says Captain Hall; “don’t it melt in your mouth like a peach? There is nothing better after you cross the circle unless it is a tallow candle. That is the place where the Esquimaux will sleep, small quarters, but everything is packed, even to the ice, as you go towards the pole. This is my snuggery room for two. That is for the doctor or a companion in case I don’t like to be left by myself. I want you to see the nose of the ship. Seven feet of solid wood, finished with iron, to munch the ice. See the extras that have been sent us. That parlor organ is just the thing to cheer the men in winter quarters.” “Have you no fear, Captain?” “I am going to find the open Polar Sea, and Captain Buddington will take care of the ship.” As he said this a grave shadow flitted over his face. There was a vacant look in his deep blue eyes, as if the soul had stepped back from the windows of vision. At this moment all that was mortal of the ill-fated explorer was photographed on the memory forever.

The navy yard covers about 37 acres, and, besides the workshops, contains the officers’ quarters. The newspapers announce that the fashionable festivities of the season are to be inaugurated the first of next month by a series of Monday morning hops at the navy yard. Can anything be more bright and attractive? Imagine the smooth-shaven sward dotted with historic relics of mighty achievements, and ornamented with the same cannon balls that Henry Ward Beecher seduced into his boyish hat, the darling “middies” in bright buttons and smart blue coats, with all their delightful ocean pranks. Is it a wonder the girls’ hearts are gone before they are quite sure they have any? Besides, a sailor makes love in a different way from an ordinary landlubber. Time is short on shore, and the moments must not be spent in dallying. It is a kiss and a blow, and the blow means matrimony; and God help the woman who has a sailor husband or lover. A person was once heard to say, “My parents were married twenty-seven years, and my father was a commodore in the Navy; twenty-two of those years my mother spent alone on the land, for in those days no woman was allowed on a United States war vessel. When I was a little child, I remember a tall, bearded, rough-looking man, who used to come once in a great while to our house, and mother would call, ‘Children, come and see your father!’ The only time I was glad to look at him was when he brought us a parrot.”

Leaving the navy yard, you stroll to other parts of Capitol Hill, and soon become aware why the noble Capitol was planted on the heights, and why the adjacent grounds towards the east were chosen as the homes of the early aristocracy. Here Nature has lavished her most precious gifts. Our magnificent Capitol is the public building which dwarfs all others by comparison. Its superb front faces the homes on the hill. Its rear, from polite necessity, must be forever turned towards that western end, where speculation runs riot, and fortunes have been made in a single night.

One never tires writing about the Capitol. It is pronounced the finest architectural creation in the world, and the most costly, with the exception of a palace in Lisbon. It represents the accumulated grandeur of human taste, as it has been handed down in stone through the centuries. From the Egyptian Pyramids it borrows its overpowering massiveness, chastened and etherealized by the tone of the Greeks. After the Roman Temple of Jupiter Stator it takes its pillared porticoes, Corinthian in order, but here the resemblance to ancient architecture ends. The antique temples were open courts, and the porticoes were the useful part of the building. Before the letters of the alphabet were invented philosophers stood on the portico of the temple and taught the people. We have covered our open court with a roof, and put our instructors and lawmakers inside. What have they done? They have abolished the franking privilege, and wrested from the Government their back pay, but they will not send the public books to the people, therefore our modern Jupiter Stator is a fraud. One-half a million volumes have to-day accumulated at the Capitol. The vaults of this stupendous building are packed tier upon tier until space can nowhere be found. Already the broad aisles are choked, and the great highway is becoming impassable. Books! books! like the madman’s fiends, are above, around, and everywhere. Twenty bags full were sent to Congressman Dawes last week, and they are no more missed than so many leaves from the forest. In a brief time the Capitol will be stuffed with its own garbage, like a huge turkey in Christmas time, and the economical Congressmen will be driven to the porticoes outside. Then will return the pristine glory of ancient Rome.

We have no Anaxagoras or Petrius, but we have General B. F. Butler, a greater Roman than them all. As a last leap up the ladder of fame, this distinguished Congressman has decided to become an aristocrat and an old settler, and to this purpose he has bought a delightful site on Capitol Hill, and is building a residence worthy of the constructor. This costly creation may be called a stone triplet, as three houses will be born at the same time. The first faces the east, but its northern side salutes the Capitol. It is said this is intended for a grand “club house,” but the gambling will be exclusively confined to politics. All this is in anticipation of the grand hurdle race which will probably come off in 1876. The second house remains a mystery. The last has already been rented to the Coast Survey for a library. Henceforth Capitol Hill claims General B. F. Butler. He is our Congressional cloud by day and our political fire at night. There is a great deal of legislative chaff, and only a few grains of wheat. Capitol Hill has drawn her solitary ration and is satisfied.

OLIVIA.

GEORGETOWN ARISTOCRACY.

THE BELLS, MADAME BODISCO, MRS. SOUTHWORTH, AND GOVERNOR COOKE.

WASHINGTON, _October 20, 1875_.

Recently some stones have been unearthed in Georgetown of great value to the student of antiquated taste. These slabs bear a date so remote that most of the letters have been eaten away by the teeth of Time, but sufficient remains to identify the Bell family, who occupied Georgetown Heights in the early part of the last century. Far back in the shadowy past the clear ringing tongue of this English Bell might have been heard as it poured its melody in the ear of an Indian princess, who soon after became his wife. The first nest of the young pair was a tent; afterward a quaint English cottage snuggled on the woody heights. Below them moved the silvery waters of the solemn Potomac. To the east stretched their vast possessions, which embraced all the land within the scope of vision which lay between the cottage and the rising sun. Here Madame Bell, attended by her pale-face consort, led the fashions without rivals and with none to dispute her sway. Over the stormy Atlantic came the winged schooners, bringing rich brocades for this dusky queen. Her costumes were half enlightened, half barbaric, like many of the styles of to-day. The descendants of these ancient Georgetown aristocrats have been slowly undergoing the bleaching process, and the past hundred years had almost obliterated the last trace of Indian lineage, and yet within the memory of the present generation “white trash” have been noticed in this vicinity bearing the name of Bell, and carrying in their lithe forms and eagle eyes the last superb touch of the grace of Indian origin. But, true to the savage instinct, these were the first men to seize the deadly musket in the Southern cause, and the late battlefields of the South are made richer by the bones of the last of the first aristocracy of Georgetown.

After the Bells came the Peters, a haughty Virginia family, whose slave call was answered by hundreds of inky men. Georgetown Heights in those early days was called the Tudor estate, in memory of the royal line of England. Tudor Place stretched itself between the Heights and the Washington Navy Yard, but in the course of time this vast estate was broken up. This was prior to the Revolution. The Peters family were related to the Washingtons and Lees. Washington Peters is the most prominent descendant of this aristocratic family, but the last fragment of the estate has passed away from him, and he lives at Ellicott’s Mills, on a farm, a man almost eighty years of age, the last to retain the haughty bearing of the proud old family, the last of his race whose hand has rested on the yoke of a slave.

The shifting panorama shows us Protestant Thirkel, who, through the influence of Archbishop Carroll, of Baltimore, gave the extensive grounds now occupied by the Georgetown College and Convent to the Roman Catholic Church some time during the latter part of the last century. Little is known of the social standing of the Thirkels, but they were a family of wealth, and their tombstones are institutions of learning.

Coming down to the last fifty years, we find the aristocracy of Georgetown strongly flavored with merchants and tradespeople. The Linthicum mansion, which is said to be one of the finest, was built and owned by a hardware merchant, but he, too, has passed away like all the old residents who gave tone to the elegant society which ruled during the administration of Polk and Buchanan. During the Presidential reign of these two men the social queen of the capital lived in Georgetown, the city of her birth and education. She was the daughter of an obscure but highly respected merchant, and was married at the early age of sixteen to the Russian Minister Bodisco, whose diplomatic position at once lifted his lovely wife to the highest round of the social ladder, whilst his vast wealth was used to give this wifely jewel the most costly setting. From over the sea came the flashing gems that had adorned the savage throats of a hundred generations of Bodisco Russians--diamonds only eclipsed by those of world-wide fame. In those somewhat primitive days the working people used to line the roadway to see Madame Bodisco pass from her mansion to the White House on occasion of reception or levee. If the weather permitted, she was visible to all in her open carriage--far more beautiful than the famous Eugenie, and with the same inimitable tact and grace. Creamy white satin and costly old lace was the favorite costume, and when adorned with jewels worth more than a million, mounted policemen followed in her train. The poor people said, “Old Bodisco is afraid some one will steal his wife,” but he was simply protecting her, Russian fashion. But this American girl was something more than a figure to be adorned with stones. With that superb tact which only a Josephine knew how to practice, she united the contending social elements. She thawed the frozen ocean of diplomatic ceremony and bade the foreign fortress open its doors to her countrywomen as well as herself. It is true she had standing at her right hand the incomparable Harriet Lane, of the White House, who held the last royal scepter of this extinct line. History rarely records the fact that distinguished leaders are beautiful, but popular acclamation gave to both these women the fairest crown. Alike in style of type, both opaline blondes, perfect in form and feature, with Titian-tinted flesh and golden hair, such as the old masters gave their beloved Madonnas, they held their emblems of power with a firmer grasp than did Marie Antoinette, a woman of the same mould. In the days which marked the magnificence of the Bodisco and Lane regime, beauty and grace were not punished as under the Grant dynasty. George H. Williams, of Oregon, would have been Chief Justice of the Republic to-day had his wife been one of the “ugly sisters.” “They pared their heels and they pared their toes,” but the Prince did not dare defy the “Sisters.” Underneath the political drift lies the stony social strata which decides the character of the products above.

With the coming of civil war a society mildew fell upon Georgetown. Neighbors and old friends looked upon each other with mutual distrust. As a general rule most of the fighting element rolled southward. In a few instances a house might be found divided against itself. Once a Georgetown mother appeared before Abraham Lincoln to beg for the life of her son, who had been caught as a guerrilla with arms in his hands. “My eldest son,” said the mother, “is a trusty officer in the Union army; my youngest, my darling, was one of Mosby’s guerrillas.” “Miserable mother!” said the great President. “God help you, for I cannot. I know who you are! This is the third time your boy has been caught; mercy is beyond me!” and the man with streaming eyes supported the faltering steps of the wretched woman beyond the threshold. At this period social life was dead, apparently beyond resurrection.

Mrs. Southworth, the noted novelist, and a prominent resident of Georgetown, nailed the stars and stripes over the front gate, saying, “Whoever comes to my door will have to pass under that.” With patriotic zeal she gave her only daughter, Lotta, to be the wife of a gallant Union captain, and her only son, who was studying and not strong enough to go into the field, was attached as medicine boy to one of the hospitals. But these deprivations were not enough sacrifice. Either in camp or hospital she caught the smallpox. “I cannot prevent the soldiers from taking the smallpox,” said the great novelist, “but I can suffer with them; there is some consolation in that.”

Alas, the social wave has receded, apparently never to return. Weddings, even, were under the ban; but with peace came a violent reaction which threw the sediments of society to the surface, and Henry D. Cooke, first governor of the District, came prominently into view. It was never intended that he should be anything but a figure-head for governor. When he was relieved from the cares of state it was but natural that he should turn to a field of action where there would be little or no competition. A leader of the _ton_! Why not? Old issues were dead; besides, if he traveled in this path Shepherd and Babcock would let him alone. Only a few moons previous to his being crowned governor his station in life was as humble as that of Sancho Panza--a modest clerk at the capital, with no higher aim than to make his salary cover the family needs. But at this particular epoch in our critical history Salmon P. Chase, then Secretary of the Treasury, thought he spied an open way to the White House. “Money,” said the statesman, “much money will pave the track.” So he gave the enchanted keys of the people’s pocket to his distant kinsman, Jay Cooke, and together they were to cook the political pie. It would take the pen of Victor Hugo to describe the huge financial bubble which hung so long suspended by a single hair. It made the little clerk first governor of the District, united with the fact that he was “Shepherd’s man.” “He won’t give us trouble,” said Alexander, and Grant broke a solemn pledge which he made to the people of the District to give him a crown. Politically Governor Cooke had no more weight than an Alaska Indian, but socially the resident governor gave Georgetown a new lease of life. But the few dying snails of the old aristocracy drew coldly within their shells like the monarchists under the Bonaparte reign. “Who is this _parvenu_ and his upstart wife? Who are the Cookes?” said the proud old spirit. The question was soon answered. In one of the grandest of the proud old mansions might have been found the new governor, surrounded by all that was costly and luxurious in nature or art. The atmosphere of the large drawing-rooms was heavily laden with the fragrance of choice exotics, and foreign birds sang in the cages which hung in the emerald bloom. The richest Axminster covered the floors; silk, satin and embroidery ornamented rosewood and ebony; pictures and statuary were all as profuse as they were costly or extravagant. If refined taste did not prevail the defect was covered by Oriental splendor. Two thousand dollars per month was put into the hands of the steward to furnish this small private family with ordinary marketing, and this did not include the wines and staple groceries. Every day the courses were laid as if for a dinner party, with preparations for any number of the ordinary unexpected guests. Fleet horses stood in the stable, with coachman and footman awaiting call. A son of the illustrious house was married and a railroad car is chartered to bring the distant guests, and this, added to the expense of the wedding breakfast, costs the aristocratic governor the sum of $10,000, a large fortune for any young man of 21. An official reception is given in mid-winter, and $1,500 is paid for the single item of roses alone. Is not this truthful history as wonderful as any tale found between the covers of the Arabian Nights? From the narrow walls of a cheap tenement and sixteen hundred a year to all the gilded trappings of royalty! Yet only one-eighth of the profits of Jay Cooke’s concern was received by the governor as his share of the public plunder. The old, old story--the few robbing the many. The “court” traveling with its paint pots and the working men left to starve. Henry D. Cooke can no longer be called the “social leader.” His title has been taken away, and he has given up the mansion, but he has saved enough from the wrecked concern to establish his son and name-sake in the banking business. The son of the President is a member of the firm, whilst Mr. Sartoris has just stepped over to England to raise the wherewith to join this “national” enterprise. Mrs. Cooke is also independent for life. The passerby of Fifteenth street, opposite the Treasury, can almost any day see a portly, jolly man lounging like a genteel loafer. That is Henry D. Cooke, late clerk, governor, banker, and leader of the fashion of Georgetown.

OLIVIA.

SENATORS EDMUNDS AND CARPENTER.

SOME INSIGHT INTO LIFE SENATORIAL--SAFEGUARDS OF THAT AUGUST BODY.

WASHINGTON, _April 7, 1876_.

To-day the Hon. Abram S. Hewitt, accompanied by other New York citizens, will appear before the House Foreign Affairs Committee to urge the adoption of the bill to incorporate the United States International Commission, and provide for the same being held in the city of New York in 1883. The bill had already been introduced in the Senate by Senator Kernan, and championed by Senator Wallace, of Pennsylvania, who always looks after legislation which will benefit the Pennsylvania Central Railroad. Senator Carpenter argued that it was in violation of the Constitution for Congress to aid a corporation in any such way; that it was a precedent which would entail any amount of trouble in the future. Other great cities would come up with their projects, asking Congress to assume responsibility and bestow financial aid. Senator Wallace argued that it had already been done for the city of Philadelphia; which was answered by Senator Carpenter in his own inimitable way. Leaving his seat, a step brought him into the broad aisle, where he stood directly in front of the Vice-President, and raising his voice to a key which penetrated all surrounding space within the Senate walls, he replied, “Stealing has precedent after precedent; but shall we argue for this reason it is right to steal?” After a brief but ringing appeal in behalf of the assaulted Constitution, this superb and polished orator left the floor. In many ways Senator Carpenter is one of the most able men in Congress, with the mark of genius more pronounced, or rather, more noticeable in his case, than in any other man in the Senate. One of the surest evidences of genius (for genius is God-given, whilst talent can be acquired) is the carrying through the years to the last all the qualities of each period of existence--the blind enthusiasm, the winning folly of the child united to the grand powers of maturity. In genius the character never crystallizes. It is changeable, yet strangely invariable, and in many more ways resembles the indestructible elements. Senator Carpenter has a way of tying his collar, crushing down his hat, and bounding into the Senate with the same kind of abandon which resembles the action of a boy, while his laugh has all the music of youthful glee. His life has been a prolonged enjoyment of the admiration of women, because in him all ages, from romping girl to icy age, find something to adore. A handsome man when in perfect health is Senator Carpenter, but at present he is a good deal of a shadow as compared to his former self. Upon the principle that a high-pressure engine sooner wears itself out, so these men made on the Carpenter plan rarely live to old age. It is the fret and wear of the invisible organization that finally wrecks the physical, and there is no earthly picture so painful as these men who have reached the snow line, when the sun of life, according to the years, should be in full meridian of glory. Turning to the Congressional Directory, it is recorded that Senator Carpenter has reached the age of 56, not so young after all. Is it the boyish mask that has deceived; or have Blaine and Edmunds been afflicted with the weakness which is always pardonable in woman, and recorded the wrong figures? Can it be possible that he is a half a dozen years in advance of Blaine, and nearly the same in regard to Senator Edmunds?

But here are two Senators whose lives are passed on the same high-pressure plan, for such is the penalty which exalted ambition must pay. Not a solitary measure passes the Senate that is not licked into shape by the insinuating tongue and all-prevailing mind of vigilant Senator Edmunds. Others may toil like the marble-cutters on a statue, but when the breath of life is to be blown into the nostrils, the great artist must be on hand to pinch a soul into the inexorable stone. The casual observer would not pronounce Senator Edmunds handsome according to the Greek or modern standard, but he has the exact appearance which one, in imagination, would picture a Roman Senator before the empire was in its decline. We can realize in this Senator the highest ingredient of New England civilization. His solemn visage seems a reflection of that sombre landscape, the savage grandeur of the sea, the majestic mountains tipped with snow. His sleepless efforts to keep the Senate records clean embody the Puritan’s idea of justice, that rarest product of the seed planted by the _Mayflower_. It is that awful something which nerves the hand of the fisherman on that stormy coast united to the most intellectual culture condensed into a single blade, and it is keen enough to cut a ship’s cable or a single hair. When Belva Lockwood, the woman lawyer, was trying to reach the bar of the Supreme Court through the Senate, her fear centered on Senator Edmunds. She said, “I know I shall ‘pass’ if I can win his support.” So she sent a messenger to plead her cause. “My vote,” said Senator Edmunds, “will not be recorded against Mrs. Lockwood because she is a woman. I think her a very poor lawyer! If I had my own way, only those thoroughly trained in the law should be admitted to practice in the Supreme Court.”

Senator Edmunds has a social record at the capital without a flaw, which proves that men can live pure, clean lives like women; or else do the next best thing--conduct themselves in such a pious manner that they are never found out. But in taking the moral estimate of a man his avoirdupois weight should be carefully taken, and he should be judged in a great measure by the way it is divided. These bloodless New Englanders and fiery Southerners in Washington should be tried by judges capable of tempering justice with mercy upon the principle that tears are in the eyes of the court when he sentences a starving man for stealing a loaf of bread. Senator Edmunds treats women in the most refined and courteous way, just enough frigid to be dignified; but if he chooses to descend to a limited quantity of small talk, everything he says is valuable enough to be printed in the newspapers. This man has been made selfish and otherwise spoiled by the “buzzing of the Presidential bee.” If he should ever reach the White House, of which there is not the slightest danger, no one would be half so astonished as himself. He has reached the highest point of his ambition--to be the leader of his party in the Senate, to fill to the fullest measure the idea of an American Senator; and whilst like the late Charles Sumner, he can grasp the great legislative matters of state, unlike him he can take up the little things. Not a sparrow could fall on the Senate floor without his notice.

But the saddest sight is apparent when a brilliant member is torn up by the roots in the House, and is immediately transported to the Senate. It is like removing a plant from the heat and moisture of a conservatory to an atmosphere found almost anywhere in the temperate zone. Senators Dawes, Lamar and Blaine are striking examples of this kind of transubstantiation. Who can ever forget the brilliant career of Senator Dawes when he occupied the proud position of “leader of the House”? In this branch of Congress, argument, wit and repartee have a specific value, and enable the possessor to mount the ladder of fame; but in the Senate oratory is at a discount, whilst wit or argument may be compared to a clown at a funeral. Speeches are looked upon as talk to distant constituents, to which the Senators must listen in order to make them “official.” The Senate chamber during a “speech” is a subject worthy of study. An air of resignation is born into this cold, selfish world, destined to last until the torture is over. Usually most of the Senators make their escape temporarily. Burnside and Anthony generally retire to the committee room of “Revolutionary Claims,” a snug nest right under the eaves, where the sparrows build their homes. This dainty spot is presided over by Major Ben: Perley Poore, clerk of the committee, and one of the daintiest morsels to be found at the Capitol done up in manly form. There is a cupboard in the Revolutionary room, which is the exact opposite to “old Mother Hubbard’s.” Lest the reader forget, the poetry is quoted in full:

“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone;
And when she got there, the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog got none.”

In this far-away, almost forgotten nook, where the musty archives of the old Revolutionary war lie mouldering, this solemn sepulcher is made alive by the spicy odors of fast-evaporating fluids, or the delicate aroma of pineapple cheese. Sometimes, during the lunch hours, crabs and oysters go there without any volition of their own. About the same time the courtly old Thurman becomes so revolutionary that he wends his way to the radical snuggery under the roof. He will probably be joined on the way by Don Cameron, the young Scottish chief, but this combination may be a union like the late Electoral Commission, to produce a lasting peace. But it is astonishing to find how sweet and delicious these old Senators become when they are almost ripe enough to fall from the legislative tree. To go to the committee room of Revolutionary Claims is one way to kill the time during a “speech.” Sometimes the Senators adjourn to the cloak rooms, throw themselves on the luxurious sofas, and steep their crippled senses in well-colored meerschaums or a choice cigar. Others, more nervous, repair to the marble baths, the like of which have never been seen since Rome had her fall. So far as the writer can ascertain, a Senatorial bath has never been witnessed by the reportorial eye. It is the only sublime spectacle which has eluded the correspondents. The old Roman Senators employed the most skilful artists to portray them associated with the baths, and this will probably follow in due time in the great Western empire. If a Senator remains in the chamber during a speech, he is deeply absorbed in reading or writing.

How can a man make himself felt in the Senate? His voice only reaches his constituents or those who have a personal interest in the measure or man. His fine oratorical efforts fall as those of Demosthenes on the turbulent sea. He must stand, like Senator Edmunds, for years at the mouth of the pit, and watch that nothing goes in dangerous to the liberties of a free people. He must watch the aggressive encroachments of an infamous lobby. The great railroad and other gigantic corporations have their paid agents here to buy up all the small-fry Congressmen, as well as to notify the monopolists all over the country of any adverse legislation in advance. A paid Indian lobby is always here to keep the Indian affairs from being turned over to the War Department. The War Department never employs a lobby. An army officer has never been known to ask for the Indian business, except in the general protest that the soldiers should not be sent out to be scalped and mutilated for the crimes committed by the Indian agents. When a Senator is found to be faithful to the trust confided to his keeping, we should guard him as the apple of our eye. We should protect his good name from the assaults of the malicious, for when a Senator is found immovable the lobby attempts his destruction. It will be remembered that it was the lobby thugs that tried to strangle Senator Blaine on the eve of the last Presidential nomination. The storm is gathering again, but how can a man defend himself against his invisible foes? It is not because Blaine is hated so much; it is because other men are preferred so much the more.

OLIVIA.

HOME LIFE OF MRS. GRANT.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE LADY OF THE WHITE HOUSE.

WASHINGTON, _December 13, 1879_.

Wading through a mass of newspaper correspondence concerning life at the White House during the administration of General Grant, it is invariably found that language most vivid and eloquent is used alike by friend and foe. The admirers find everything to order for highest praise, whilst the enemy finds nothing too dark and threatening with which to paint the pen pictures. By figures taken from authentic sources, it is shown that the expenses incurred for supporting the White House, irrespective of the President’s salary, was increased $27,550 per year on the average under General Grant in excess of the amount consumed under Abraham Lincoln. This vast yearly sum was not used for decorative purposes, unless the military staff with its brass buttons may be considered that way. General Badeau was the historian whose duty it was to save the sands of history, act as chief custodian of the Presidential literary preserves, and at the same time keep all poachers away. Military rule was as rigidly enforced as in the tented field. It not only surrounded the President, but wrapped the whole household in its starry fold.

It seems but yesterday since the writer stormed this peculiar citadel to gain an audience with “the first lady of the land.” After passing the skirmish line of messengers and doorkeepers, the first real lion encountered was General Dent. This gentleman has often been described as made of “fuss and feathers,” a “military martinet,” but the writer found only a genial, pleasant gentleman. Most of his military life had been spent on the frontier, and what seemed “fuss” was only the embarrassment which came from being transplanted from almost obscurity to one of the most trying subordinate positions at the White House. He was not only high chamberlain, head usher, but also brother-in-law to the President, and this last position made him the target for more witty newspaper paragraphs than any other member of the Presidential household.

“Want to see Mrs. Grant, do you? What for, just to pay your respects?”