Chapter XIV: Part 14

The editor of _The Times_ is notified that a column could be furnished concerning Charley O’Neill, the Quaker City’s favorite son, and the article would be as crisp and tender as young radishes in spring, but will it pay to build up a reputation that will last as long in the future as Don Quixote has in the past? Whilst _The Times_ is solving the important problem, the dainty and delicate Acklen shall be served up. Congressman Acklen, of Louisiana, is one of the youngest and handsomest “bachelors” in the House, and whilst attending strictly to his Congressional duties he has been fortunate enough to get mixed up in more “scrapes” in which women have a part than any half dozen members put together. Last winter he figured at Welcker’s in what might be termed a “celebrated case,” or would be if the bottom facts could be found. His partner in the melee was a beautiful golden-haired widow from New York. Telegrams flew all over the country; there was a suspension of the rules of the House. The principal witness, an army officer, who appeared to have conscientious scruples, fearing an “investigation,” escaped to Canada. The widow published a card in the papers, announcing that Congressman Acklen had “offered” to marry her, but she refused to be comforted in that way. This performance healed the young widow’s reputation. Mrs. Welcker published a card also, saying nothing of the kind ever occurred at her house. This saved the honor of the hotel. At the same time a kind of Chinese din was kept up, which proved that the army officer left suddenly to avoid “a debt of honor,” whilst the widow ran away to California and set the whole Russian fleet on fire, which happened to be temporarily stopping in the San Francisco harbor. In the meantime Congressman Acklen occupied his seat in the House, “the observed of all observers,” looking as innocent as a Thomas cat whose whiskers are scarcely bereft of the cream. He had all the sympathy of his brother members, because they felt certain he would learn their caution in time; but, sad to relate, he had hardly set foot in his beloved New Orleans before he tripped and fell into another “scandal.” It would consume too much of the valuable space of _The Times_ to record this part of his history, but it can all be found in any of the files of last year’s Louisiana papers. But he is here again, as clean and bright as ever, and to prove his restoration he has left the unhealthy moral atmosphere of the “West End” and rented a mansion on the pure heights of Capitol Hill, where every spot is hallowed by the virtuous Father of his Country. To be away from temptations of all kinds he has taken an aged widow for housekeeper, with her two beautiful grown daughters, just to keep the sex in mind. In this way he puts down scandal, and he is never seen going to his own house except at the proper hours of the day. Just as the banana and the orange, by their lusciousness, show their tropical origin, Congressman Acklen proves by his appearance that he is the “Son of the Sunny South.” Hardly beyond the middle size, beautifully moulded, with raven hair and scarlet lips, he impresses the beholder with his curious intensity and concentration, just as the diamond flashes out its liquid fire; but he is a real “lady-killer” in the longest, broadest, deepest sense of the word, and he is only 30 years old, and refuses to be sobered by the holy bands of wedlock; but the edge of his wickedness is being borne away by the attrition of national notoriety and the fast-increasing fastidiousness of his own taste, and yet his reputation rather endears him than otherwise to fashionable “society.”

Pennsylvania has more bachelors in the House than its proper quota as compared to other States; but this may be the harmless way which the “Old Keystone” takes to get rid of her extra rubbish. Hiester Clymer is here, apparently cold, hard, and indestructible as Allegheny granite, and he strikes those with whom he is brought in contact by the same feeling awakened at the touch of rugged sublimity. The grandeur of the mountain! The solemnity of the sea! Who would dare to laugh and jest in his presence? The writer has been informed by some of his brother members that he has a remarkably sweet and winning manner to the few privileged to occupy the chambers of his soul; and we should remember the rough, brown husk of the nut is no indication of the kernel. High-toned and kingly in manner on the floor, always the right word in the right place. For nearly if not quite a dozen years, for we write from memory only, his stalwart form has been a landmark in the Pennsylvania delegation, or a sort of Democratic wharf against which the spray and foam of the Republican ocean has madly dashed in vain. In reputation, so far as women are concerned, his character is the reverse of Congressman Acklen; but suppose he had been contrived on a sugar plantation, done up in a creole skin, forged, as it were, under the very eyelids of the tropics? What then? Shouldn’t Pennsylvania get down on her stony old knees and thank heaven that her Congressmen are not made like Southern men?

As if to correct the acidity of the delegation, Congressman Herr Smith is added on, just as the last lump of sugar is put in to perfect the coffee cup. Whilst having all the virtues, he is believed to have none of the vices, and his moral character at the capital is always quoted No. 1; risks few and readily taken. Society knows little or nothing about him, but the quantity, small as it is, may be set down to his decided advantage. He has the reputation of being rich, but there is little show or ostentation. He is always in his seat, always at work, apparently with nothing but his constituents’ interests at heart. It would be better for our sex if it were otherwise, but no delicate-minded woman would think of disturbing the serenity of his soul, and he keeps so far away from the other kind that an accident never can happen. No one doubts but at some period of his life the ocean of sentiment in his bosom has been traversed by gulf streams of romance, and he, too, like Whittier, can sing: “The saddest of all, it might have been.” Blessed be the spiritual hand that touches the human heart-strings only to awaken the divinest melody, and thrice blessed is he who knows how to avoid those pits in the soul whose black depths reflect bitterness, satire, and irony. Side by side in every great mind the Creator has ranged the awful caldrons of good and evil. Congressman Smith knows how to thread the mazy way with pleasure to himself and honor to all concerned.

As it has been the intention to give the South the same fair showing, apples and oranges, hardy roses, and magnolias, Georgia comes in with a Congressman who, though never a “bachelor,” is a festive widower of five months’ duration. “Emory Speer, Athens, Georgia,” is engraved on his cards, and considering what should be termed his “recent grief” it would seem very wrong to embalm him in the papers. But he gives public parties at his hotel, leads off in the “german,” flirts with the girls, and is not that sufficient reason to believe that he is not the kind who enjoys the luxury of grief without some sort of mitigation? Possibly he may have taken this dashing way to cover his sorrow, but the young ladies believe that he is in dead earnest, and if it were not for his five children and lack of permanent fortune he would be considered already one of the “catches” of the season. He was a Confederate soldier when only 16 years of age, served all through the late war, studied law with Ben Hill and became his successor when he was promoted to the Senate. Singularly handsome in person and winning in manner, volatile and boyish to the last degree, he is not to be judged by the hard, stern law to which we cold-blooded Nor’westers bow the knee. At any rate, he is sincerity itself, and probably he may be a big child in disguise. Who knows when the threshold of manhood or womanhood has been passed? There is a character in Hawthorne’s “Marble Faun” always supposed to be romance. But here in Congress is the case that fits it. Who dare sit in judgment on a fellow-mortal? He that is wisest is the most humble, and those who are dearest will give us a rest.

OLIVIA.

THE BOTANIC GARDEN.

SOME SIDE GLANCES AT THE EXPENDITURES FOR THAT INSTITUTION.

WASHINGTON, _January 18, 1880_.

Although a fraction only of the single men in Congress have cut a figure in these papers, a little deviation takes place this week to show the people what it costs to keep Congressmen armed with bouquets, for these are the weapons in modern use which bring down the game which is best worth bagging. But it must not be thought by the reader that the vast greenhouses at the capital, kept in being at government expense, are appropriated entirely by the bachelor Congressmen. On the contrary, married Senators and members leave their orders through a page. This has been proved time after time by a Congressman’s wife receiving a bouquet with a card attached bearing another woman’s name; but as her husband’s, in fact no male signature of any kind appears she immediately seeks her mirror in proof of another conquest. True, she realizes that her youthful hey-day is over; that mutton has taken the place of lamb-chop (Ben: Perley Poore is the authority for declaring that “all men prefer it”), but she knows that some mutton always stays tender, and when this kind can be found even Ben: Perley Poore or Senator Conkling will not disdain it. But coming back to the national greenhouses, which are as distinct from the Agricultural Department as the different Cabinet portfolios; in other words, the Botanic Garden sustains the same relation to Congress as the conservatory of any mansion to its solitary owner. The Republic furnishes another garden and immense conservatory for the exclusive use of the White House; and when it is seen how hundreds of thousands of dollars of the public funds go for the luxury of flowers alone, it will not be wondered that the growth of “imperialism” is going ahead with breakneck speed, for it is very sweet and lovely when all jobs and bills can be squared by an “appropriation.”

A spectator standing on the western terrace of the Capitol sees an innocent tract of land enclosed by a most costly fence. Broad avenues and romantic walks disturb the monotony of the closely-shaven velvet sward; while trees rare as oriental sandal wood have been brought from every portion of the earth’s surface to adorn this domain of republican royalty. Almost hidden by the fence and far removed from the vulgar eyes of the common herd outside, the magnificent Bartholdi fountain spurts its fair life away. Instead of putting this exquisite fountain at the intersection of Pennsylvania avenue and Seventh street, or even at the foot of the Capitol, now turned into a graveyard by the mouldy genius of Admiral Porter, it has been smuggled into the low grounds of the Botanic Gardens for the exclusive use of romantic Congressmen who, when wandering slowly with women who incline to be fast, turn their modest faces toward the genius of Bartholdi in the hope that the soothing play of the immortal fountain will at once arrest any demonstration not of the straight-laced kind. To the rear the greenhouses assert themselves with a grandeur of architectural beauty which the Government funds alone can bestow. To get a foretaste of Paradise, or to recall the glory of the Garden of Eden, it is only necessary to wander through the mazes of lovers’ paths with which the Congressional greenhouses are profusely intersected. From the foot of the most northern crag kissed by the fiery aurora borealis to the molten girdle that clasps Africa’s burning waist the vegetable glory of the earth has been wrested to minister to Congressional comfort. In the pursuit the trackless sea has been plowed alike by war vessels and merchantmen. The most interesting spot connected with the greenhouses is the “propagating garden,” where all sorts of curious experiments are tried. Not content to let each flower produce after its own kind, all sorts of horticultural black art is invoked to produce mongrel types, which come from a curious propagating performance, which even a Congressman cannot understand. Sometimes the gardener succeeds in doubling the leaves of a single flower, to the loss of all sweetness and perfume, just as we have seen the thing happen when the flowers were human instead of vegetable. Striped roses and lilies are obtained in place of the good, old-fashioned solid colors. To produce these freaks, or to make old Mother Nature change her every-day program, appropriations are made that would astonish the people, considering the surroundings of most of the Congressmen before they are born into official life.

In 1836, or nearly half a century ago, the beaux in Congress concluded it would be a good thing to have bouquets fashioned for their buttonholes at the public expense. Flowers in those primitive days were obtained with much trouble and expense, so the initiatory steps to free flowers was taken by an appropriation of $5,000 to be used in this way: “For conveying the surplus water of the Capitol to the Botanic Garden, making a basin, and purchasing a fountain from Hiram Powers.” Before the year was ended it was found that $5,000 would not relieve the Capitol of its surplus water, and an additional appropriation was made the same year of $3,614.04. From 1836 to May, 1850, nothing was taken from the public funds for flowers. In place of nosegays to titillate the Congressional nostrils these rough old forefathers used snuff, but this was also provided at Government expense and the modest snuff-boxes on either side of the Vice-President’s chair, and those to be found in the House, will remain for all time as simple reminders of the habits of our modest ancestors in comparison to the ravages of the Congressional greenhouses as they stand in the pillory of public opinion to-day. With the departure of dear old Thurman the last of the old-time snuff-takers disappears. The last wave of his ancient bandana heralds the Senatorial coming of one of the most aggressive movers on the stronghold of all the appropriations. In 1850, $5,000 was taken from the public funds and in 1851, $750 only. A rest came here until 1855, when $1,500 was taken to build a house in which to store the plants brought from Japan, and during the same year $12,000 was taken at one time and $3,000 at another to fix up the grounds of the Botanic Garden and put them in proper order. In 1856 the grounds still wanted to be fixed to the amount of $5,650 at one time and $11,000 at another of the same year, and the “grounds” hardly a scant half-dozen acres in extent; in fact, only two squares long, but not two whole squares deep. Following up the official figures it is found that $6,000 more was expended on the Botanic Garden, taken from another appropriation, making for the year 1856, $22,650. This it was claimed was paid for “draining the grounds in the vicinity of the national greenhouses.” In 1857--$2,600 at one time, $5,000 at another, but all the same year, and from another appropriation $3,360, making in all $10,960 for the year 1857. In 1858, $2,600 at one time, $3,360 at another, making the round sum of $5,960. The years 1859 and 1860 only required a thousand each for the bouquets, and during the war, to the credit of Congress let it be recorded, not a dollar was sunk in the Botanic swamp so far as can be ascertained in the Congressional records. But in 1866 the rage for flowers broke out afresh, and it required $2,500 to stop the wound, which continued when the vast sum of $25,057.90 was required to build the bouquets to the right proportion--a sum which exceeded the President’s yearly salary the same year. In 1867 it took $35,000; in 1868, $41,784.05, etc., etc. The figures alone stretch out until the crack of doom. Let it be understood that such men as that pure statesman Garfield held the strings of the public purse and helped on these appropriations. General Garfield is promoted to the Senate; Thurman, the statesman, remanded to private life.

In 1874 the last of the large appropriations was made, and this represented $16,925. About this time the Republican party began to weaken, and with it the innocent taste of lovely flowers. It must not be understood these vast sums represented the flowers at so much apiece; but it always happened that the Botanic Garden was crying for tools, more greenhouses, fertilizers, brick walls, iron fences, glazing and painting. Its pathways were in a constant state of eruption; its gates always hanging on broken hinges. Seneca stone was constantly giving out and always in peremptory demand. The substantial fences were always going out of fashion and needed to be replaced as often as a woman’s headgear. The call for “tubs, pots, packing materials, labels, seeds, envelopes, grading, repairing, sewers, horse hire and manure,” ascended to heaven like the cry of the young ravens for food. Could Garfield, chairman of the Committee on Appropriations, withstand these demands on the public funds? During these historic days of fat appropriations the Woodhull sisterhood attempted to establish a “colony” at the Capitol. Brisbane, of pneumatic fame, succeeded in getting a $15,000 appropriation to sustain life whilst he should dig a ditch from the Capitol to the Government printing office. The colony was being planted, the ditch was being dug all at the same time, and extra flowers were needed for the Christian statesmen in Congress to reclaim the “colony,” or at least make it so fragrant that the citizens of the District could endure the new innovation sustained by Congressional influence and protected by the sacrifices of the Christian statesmen. Flowers in the missionary cause were needed, and Parson Garfield, chairman of the Committee on Appropriations, stood at the mouth of the public purse and dealt out the shining thousands as Aladdin showered the sequins brought him by the genii invoked by his wonderful lamp. To the credit of a Democratic Congress let it be recorded that no vast sums have been “appropriated” to keep the bouquet business in full bloom. If the Confederate brigadiers wear the “society” bouquet, they pay for them as they do their cigars. It is declared by those who ought to know that the Botanic Garden is on the road to swift decay; that it has little or no support, except from the water which flows from the Congressional baths, and considering the source, it is astonishing what excellent results have been achieved. Sam Randall declares that so long as the greenhouses can be made to flourish in this way he will not “object” to the cleanliness if it will prevent an “appropriation;” besides the bouquets derived from such a source are almost sentimentally equal to the flower which the maiden sent her lover that had been “watered with her tears.”

For many years the luxurious accessories of the toilet have been on the free list in the Senate. Thousands of dollars are invested yearly in soap, tooth brushes, infant powder, perfumery, brandy and whiskey, combs, Turkish toweling, lemons, and tea. And this is one of the safest investments of the public funds. What right has the nation to elect Senators if they cannot afford to keep them clean? Isn’t cleanliness next to godliness; and isn’t this purity of the body about as close to the Creator as the average Senator attempts to reach? Free flowers have been the only free luxuries in which the less aristocratic branch had the same right, and is it a wonder that it required more than $41,000 in a single year to make the sweets go around?

OLIVIA.

WHITE HOUSE RECEPTIONS COMPARED.

CUSTOMS PREVAILING UNDER THE LINCOLN, GRANT, HAYES AND JOHNSON REGIMES.

WASHINGTON, _February 6, 1880_.

A residence at the national capital which spans the social rule from the days of queenly Harriet Lane to the present “first lady” at the White House affords an opportunity to note the different changes and peculiar innovations inaugurated by those whom fate or accident has called to wield the most powerful social scepter to be found upon the face of the globe. The public need not be told that the wife of our President has more real political power than Queen Victoria. True, she does not ride “in state,” drawn by eight cream-colored horses to open Parliament in person, but she waits carefully in an ante-room, and when Cabinet sessions are over seizes upon the head of any of the Departments, and then and there, like a Catharine or Elizabeth, makes known her command. Mrs. Abraham Lincoln inaugurated this excellent plan of doing business, because the exigencies of the war wholly occupied the mind and time of the President, and it became necessary for the “first lady” to look after the minor affairs of the country at this particular date. To prove exactly what the writer means, the case of the first Commissioner of Agriculture is called up. Several crafty men put their heads together and decided to call into being a “Bureau Of Agriculture.” Its different departments were to be “run,” each one by its particular head, independent of the other. It was to be a cluster of little kingdoms with a nominal head that should be empty of ideas, possessing only one requisite, that of managing Mrs. Lincoln and the appropriation of the public funds. These shrewd men made the good old Quaker Newton believe that he was among the greatest men of the universe, and while he was busy talking “spiritualism” to our “first lady,” escorting her with his old time chivalry and grace to the humble homes of the “mediums,” the head men of his department were scattering the worthless seeds broadcast over the country and making up those absurd reports which have brought ridicule on one of the most important branches of the public service down to the present time.

One of the most impressive and gorgeous receptions which the writer ever attended was given by the President and Mrs. Lincoln toward the last of this important term. The White House looked old, worn, and dingy, for this preceded the golden splendor of the Grant regime, but the brilliancy and magnificence was made up by the scarlet uniforms of the Marine Band with the gilt buttons and shoulderstraps of the brave defenders of the Union, who clustered about the capital in those historic days. The same struggling tide of humanity inundated the doors of the Executive Mansion, but at every turn a soldier was stationed to keep the crowd within the limit of Mrs. Lincoln’s law. Bayonets glittered over the daintily dressed heads and bare shoulders of the beautifully dressed ladies who declared that “mob law” was now inaugurated and “they should never visit the White House again, until a change.” But if the guests felt insulted at the presence of the bayonets what was their astonishment upon going into the “presence” to find a genuine crown on Mrs. Lincoln’s head. It was made of gilt, but looked precisely like those which are found on the heads of those distinguished women about whom we read in Agnes Strickland’s “Lives of the Queens of England.” The stones or gems were wanting, but the tinsel and gilt were all there. There was only time allowed to note that dear old Abraham looked down at the little “bobbing” woman at his side as he might at a frolicsome kitten, then a cold steel bayonet pressed the writer’s shoulder, while the military gruff voice added: “Pass on! pass on!” Afterwards it was ascertained that the “crown” was a harmless head-dress invented by a Philadelphia milliner, and that Mr. Lincoln ridiculed it so severely that its debut and withdrawal all took place the same night. It was Mrs. Lincoln who arranged that a division of society should be made after the guests have entered the White House. She had a door set apart for the Judges of the Supreme Court, Senators, Army and Navy, and foreign ministers. Members of Congress were herded with the common people, and actually forced through the same door. When Mrs. Julia Grant succeeded to the sceptre she realized that any distinction of this kind would make any administration unpopular; so she decided that all persons who entered the front door of the mansion were entitled to the same social privilege, and all doors should be alike to the guests. But to get over the difficulty and please royalty as well as democracy, Mrs. Grant discovered a side door, a sort of sneak entrance, where those who wished to avoid the crowd could pass in, take up their positions in the rear of the “throne,” and glare upon the struggling crowd of humanity as it passed by in single file.

With astonishment the writer learned by personal experience that Mrs. Hayes has revived Mrs. Lincoln’s law as to the aristocracy of the doors. Last Saturday for the first time at a public reception the writer entered the White House. Seeing an immense crowd struggling to go through one door, and kept back by the police, while at another in close proximity only now and then a few were permitted to pass, upon inquiry it was learned that a door was set apart for the privileged few. As the hour was about to expire and it was found that if we waited our “turn” with the crowd there would be no view of republican royalty that day, at least, it was learned that a fat man in another part of the mansion had the power to let even a common person slip through the aristocratic door, and by means of that bribery which the “minions of the press” know so well how to bestow, access was gained the “presence” and a picture was hung on the walls of memory, to last us as long as the soul floats down the great river of eternity. In the same room the writer had gazed at a wonderful kaleidoscope. Instead of bits of colored glass, it was men and women shifting about in the hands of Time, beginning with the rare beauty and unstudied grace of Harriet Lane as she stood by the side of President Buchanan, followed by Mrs. Lincoln and her tinsel crown, succeeded by the daughters of Andy Johnson, who said, “We are plain people from the mountains of Tennessee; too much, we fear, is expected of us.” Then Julia Dent Grant, who possesses the wonderful power of conciliating all the distracting elements which help unite social and political society.

It is a historic fact that the White House is modeled after the palace of the Duke of Leister. This accounts for the lofty walls so decorated and beautiful in frescoes that they resemble in intention, if not in genius, the noble creations wrought by Raphael and Michael Angelo. As the eye descends from the ceiling it rests upon the inlaid floor, but this is covered with carpeting so thick that the tramp of a regiment would be noiseless as phantom wings. Ebony furniture with richest satin upholstering, candelabra which reach from floor to mantel, holding waxen candles all ready to light, pictures on the walls, huge baskets of flowers, with decorated pots of greenery scattered everywhere. In a row, like school girls in a class, stood the wives and daughters of the Cabinet officials, with Mrs. President Hayes at the head. That it was strictly “official” was proved by the order observed in their positions. Just as the departments are ranked the women stood. State, then Treasury, War, Post Office, Interior and Attorney-General. Mrs. Hayes may safely be called a “handsome woman,” and there will none be found brave enough to dispute the palm. A brunette of the purest type, with large, brilliant eyes that convey the idea of surface but not depth--like a transparent window that opens into space--a rather low, Greek forehead, over which is banded that shining mass of satin hair. If the glossy coronet could be improved by wave or bangs; but the dark, rich brunette complexion forbids this modern fashion, and Mrs. Hayes is an artist in one or more ways. Clad in rich, ruby satin and silk combination, the corsage square and low, as Pompadour invented to call attention to her charms, no fault can be found with Mrs. Hayes, for her dress is as costly and showy as any worn by the celebrated beauties who flourished in the Cabinet during the Grant reign. Mrs. Hayes has invented a way to shake hands which ought to be known to the official world, as it saves this useful member from crushing annihilation. Never give your fingers to the crowd, and, instead of allowing your own hand to be seized, grasp the unruly enemy by the hand as far as the unfortunate thumb will permit you to go, one vigorous squeeze, and the torment is over. All this is done on the same principle of a collision at sea. It is the vessel that is hit that sustains all the harm.

A plain, dignified, matronly woman stood next to Mrs. Hayes. A lace cap--Quaker-like in its simplicity--rested on her snowy hair, a self-trimmed black silk dress (for Mrs. Evarts has not wholly discarded mourning for a beloved son) made one of the simplest toilettes to be found in the crowded throng. A whole head and shoulders above Mrs. Evarts stood Mrs. Secretary Sherman--one of those creations which can be compared to the lilies of the field in purity of style and stately grace--occupying the middle ground between blonde and brunette, her tawny hair, with its natural wave gathered in the low, Greek coil, without comb or ornament of any kind. A simple black dress, relieved at the throat with illusion ruchings, she seemed the personified embodiment of one of Tennyson’s poems:

“Tall and divinely fair.”

Not a beautiful woman, but one created with so much harmony that the whole mortal statue would have to be pulled apart to remedy the defect. Mrs. Sherman would make a most admirable “first lady”--the very best of all the candidates now in the field--for in all the years of her husband’s official life at the capital her unostentatious charity, her kindly deeds to the worthy and deserving, have enshrined her as a patron saint in many a widow’s heart.

Imagine an English duchess who has inherited the rare beauty which descends with hereditary rank. Why are the English nobility the finest specimens of personal beauty? It is because its members leave nothing undone to perfect the physical proportions of the race. Of English origin, Mrs. Ramsey brings to the Cabinet any amount of that material which this administration lacked most. It has already been whispered by those who ought to know that Governor Ramsey was not called to the war office because of his bloody record, but it was made necessary by the deficiency in the social Cabinet, for while a large number of these society leaders were equal to handshaking, they were not quite strong enough to prevent masculine yawns between the courses at official dinners. The coming of Mrs. Ramsey into the field, even at this late day, if it does not win the battle, will at least prevent a complete rout. Mrs. Ramsey’s long residence at the capital, her superior intelligence and winning ways, is doing much to retard the criticism which ended with the retirement of her predecessor, for it is openly declared that Secretary McCrary was hocus-pocused into a “jedge” because “Mrs. Hayes could stand it no longer.”

Next to Mrs. Ramsey stood Mrs. Postmaster-General Key, who, in the language of the Emperor Napoleon, would be pronounced the greatest woman, as he told Madame de Stael “it is she who has the largest number of children.” And yet Mrs. Key is robbed of her laurels, for while she has only ten olive branches, Mrs. Evarts has eleven, or did have when the Hon. William M. Evarts became Secretary of State. Mrs. Key is large and substantial-looking, without any particular genius in the style of dress, as her trying gown of red waist and yellow sleeves sufficiently proved. It is only youth and beauty that can wear theatrical costumes with becoming effect, but when a middle-aged woman can be found to take the risk her courage should be applauded and her wounds artistically dressed.

Just beyond Mrs. Key stood Miss Agatha Schurz, the eldest daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, rather more than pleasing in form and feature, but entirely destitute of that indescribable something which makes her father one of the historical characters of his time. The youthful girl who stood by the side of Miss Schurz might have been the niece of Attorney-General Devens, but as there is no proof on this point the subject is omitted.

It was Mrs. Grant who first invited other ladies to receive with her, and in those primitive days it was often the wives of the army officers. Mrs. General Babcock was almost always at her side. Mrs. Grant was very “near-sighted,” and Mrs. Babcock had the faculty of relieving any embarrassment which might come from this misfortune. Ladies whose husbands had never been in public life, except in the different professions, were seen by the side of Mrs. Grant or artistically grouped a little way off. The receptions of Mrs. Grant reminded the beholder of the picture of “Eugenie and her maids in waiting.” True, Mrs. Grant did not possess the beauty of the charming Spaniard, but her “suite” would compare favorably in dignity, beauty, and grace with the same number of women found near any throne in Europe. Mrs. Grant grouped her assistants as exquisite flowers of different color and perfume are gathered in a bouquet, making a tableau worth spreading on canvas. Mrs. Hayes stretches a straight line, that reminds one of a Bible class in a Methodist meeting, or would if it were not for the Pompadour corsage and canary-colored sleeves, and yet all this is permissible in the strictly fashionable churches of the day.

Is “society” improving at the capital? Alas, no! There are no social centres where gifted men and accomplished women meet to exchange original ideas. A few literary societies flourish, where a few friends gather to listen to some worn-out “theme” and bitterly complain of being “bored” afterwards. The brilliant men like Webster, Clay and Calhoun, Ben Wade and Thad Stevens have no genuine successors. Why? Because politics takes the place of statesmanship, and our public men have to work so hard to keep their heads above the muddy pool there is no time to gather and disseminate the rich fruit of thought, consequently there is a short crop and the inevitable famine.

OLIVIA.

VICE-PRESIDENT ARTHUR.

HOW HE WIELDS THE GAVEL OF THE PRESIDING OFFICER OF THE SENATE.

WASHINGTON, _April 1, 1880_.

It is a day of indescribable excitement in the Senate, vividly recalling the stormy times of secession, Andy Johnson’s impeachment, or the famous Electoral Commission. Standing-room on the floor or in the galleries can nowhere be found. Even the vast lobbies are crowded with a struggling mass of humanity, such as rarely gathers in the national temple which glorifies Capitol Hill. A face new and strange to the Washington public surveys the throng from the Vice-President’s chair and taps with uncertain hand the official gavel. The private secretary of the late Vice-President stands at his left to prompt him as to the names of the Senators he is to recognize, for as yet he has not had time to become familiar with their features or names. At his right may be seen one of the trusty clerks of the Senate to make sure that no official commission or omission shall follow. It is apparent to all that only experience is necessary to make Vice-President Arthur a model presiding officer. Except a little perplexity, there is the ease and grace of a man instead of the noiseless machinery which constitutes a well-preserved fossil. What the yellow, juicy, rosy-checked peach, with the fur rubbed off, jolting to market, is to the vegetable world, Vice-President Arthur sustains the same relation to the fruit of humanity. There is something about his presence suggestive of strawberries and cream, and yet this fact seems to be completely ignored by the Senate, for the turbulence goes on just the same. He sits in an attitude of grace worthy the painter’s brush or the pen of the poet. Fully six feet in height, broad-shouldered, but rounded and smoothed into curved lines which not only rival but excel those of Cupid. A cold, haughty face is often seen, but warm, proud features are rarely found; but here we have the exception. A high forehead towers above the brown velvety eyes; a nose a little too short for classic perfection; but a firm, manly mouth, with plenty of decision stamped on it, with a width of jaw that means business in any work it undertakes. Never since the days of Breckinridge has so handsome a man wielded the Vice-President’s gavel, and whilst this fact may have no significance in a political sense, in a social way there is no estimating the heights to which it may aspire or depths where it may be cast down. It is a great comfort to be able to rest the vision on a diamond that has few, if any, flaws, and these not perceptible except to the finest judges of the gems.

In a direct line, exactly opposite the Vice-President, may be seen Senator Conkling, more winning in personal appearance than of yore. The gorgeous tints or high colors of early manhood have been toned down, softened, and spiritualized. Tranquillity is pictured on the bosom of the river, but we all know the channel is running at the same rate per minute and no time will be lost in its motion toward the sea. Stronger than most men, stronger than women, it is the inexorable law that the larger absorbs the smaller quantity. The kids that would not be eaten must keep out of the way. He glances now and then at Mahone, who sits only three chairs away, as a spoiled child might at “puss in boots,” whilst this little man, apparently all hair and claws, helps carry out the perfect illusion. Let us look at this “balance of power,” as the other Confederate brigadiers politely call him. At the first glance it seems altogether probable that the hair has been snatched off seven-tenths of the Senate to crown this one small man. His beard in length and density might be mistaken for that of the Wandering Jew. He has obtained the clothes of a much larger man, and they constitute a series of wrinkles from shoulders to heels. He does not inspire the beholder that he is a fraction of humanity, but that he is an uncanny contrivance, which, if not opened with the greatest caution, will work irreparable damage to those nearest concerned. There is neither joy nor comfort on the face of the Republicans as they survey this new addition to their ranks, while there is calm submission, if not positive elation, on the Democratic side at the situation.

Don Cameron appears weary, as if tired with it all. A man must have a peculiar organization to thrive in the Senatorial atmosphere. It is a gladiator’s ring, where intellectual combat is the order of the day. Woe to him that is not endowed with weapons of the keenest and most polished kind. Though a Senator can pipe his slogan on a thousand hills at home and carries a bonanza mine in each pocket, it will not add a feather to his Senatorial strength. Men endowed with business talent, even of the highest order, can find neither congenial nor agreeable work in the Senate. Only a natural orator or debater like Blaine or a great lawyer like Edmunds find their native element in the stormy waters of the Senate; and even Blaine was far more at home in the other wing of the Capitol, where his talents at all times shone as a star of the first magnitude. It is no sign of the lack of ability because a Senator does not rank high, but rather a lack of the peculiar and exceedingly rare qualities which make Senatorial success secure.

Of the new Senators Pennsylvania must be awarded the prize in point of beauty, for Senator Mitchell bears away the palm without a dissenting voice. In the grounds of one of the nabobs at Saratoga there may be seen the statue of a Roman gladiator, such as lived in the times of Nero. It is “stalwart” to the last degree. Imagine the old statue Americanized--that is, toned down in its roughest corners, smoothed away--a little less muscle, a little more nerve, daintier, with a dash of Greek symmetry, and you see the handsome Mitchell of Pennsylvania. His hair is abundant, his eyes a twinkling hazel that rise and set with the arrival and departure of the dry goods in the gallery, but with a modesty that is simply indescribable.

Conger, dear old Conger, is here, cooled down to the polite frigidity which constantly pervades the Senate. He wears a white choker of such elevated height that it grinds away at his ears in the same way that a horrid glacier wears away the face of the mountain. A new suit of the finest broadcloth, of satin sheen, conceals limbs of the Adonis kind, though this last statement is more a matter of faith than actual proof. That “horn” which the wicked Stilson Hutchins was so fond of attacking with cruel squibs in the Washington _Post_ appears to have gone where the woodbine creepeth, for it is heard of no more. It is rumored in private circles at the Capitol that Senator Conger is one of the most romantic and sentimental of men, and Governor Foster declares that it is the only case on Congressional record where a man is known to be madly infatuated with his own wife. When Mrs. Conger would enter the gallery of the House it was immediately known that Mr. Conger would soon attract all eyes by his graceful motions and mellow “horn.” Some wretch of a Congressman would call out: “Now, boys, we are in for it,” and there have been seen no such scenes of suffering chivalry since Don Quixote attacked the windmills in behalf of his beloved Dulcinea. But far be it from the head and heart of the writer to mock at this pure and exalted flame. Rather let us stand in the presence of this man with uncovered head who brings to our aching vision a new Garden of Eden, when Adam was good because there was but one Eve, and the serpent did the mischief.

In the gallery assigned the families of the Republican Senators sits Katharine Chase Sprague--cold, stately, and statuesque as a lily, or a bit of marble in human form. The heavily fringed waxen lids fall over the sorrowful eyes--those large, dark almond orbs, such as glorify the Orient. There are faces all around, but she seems as much alone as Cleopatra in her barge floating down the dusky Nile. A blue turban with a single bird’s wing for an ornament sits jauntily on her auburn hair; not out of place, because youth, beauty, and sweetness still linger in form and face. There is not the slightest attempt at display in her simple toilet--a dark dress, severe in its simplicity, a scarf of scarlet silk folded gracefully around her throat. She has given no thought to her personal appearance, but has come evidently to observe the intellectual combat which has drawn together so large a percentage of the citizens of Washington. The writer recalls the impeachment trial of Andy Johnson when “society” appeared in the Senate galleries and when Katharine Chase Sprague was the acknowledged queen. Her toilet is recalled for the readers of _The Press_, and to-day it may be found recorded in the old files of this paper, for the writer was one of the “staff correspondents” at the time, whose duty it was to make “pen pictures” of the day. A Parisian suit of royal purple velvet, perfect in all its appointments. The detail escapes our memory, but the bonnet never will. It was made in Paris to accompany the suit, and when placed on her head it conveyed the idea of a single Marguerite. Imagine a purple violet large enough to be placed on the head, the leaves bent in bonnet shape. At the time the writer felt that her eyes rested upon the most graceful, distinguished, and queenly woman that she had ever seen in the Capitol or elsewhere on the face of the globe. The writer has no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Sprague, but described her then, as she does to-day, as she would a picture or a poem. When it was published in the newspapers that she was engaged during the Senate session sending notes to a Senator on the floor the writer sat in the gallery, but saw no notes given to a page or delivered on the floor. Year after year the writer has noticed this accomplished woman sitting in the gallery from time to time, apparently deeply interested in the debates, without the slightest levity or the smallest departure from the most rigid decorum. In later years she is rarely seen without one or more of her children. History is full of martyred women who have been used to crush obnoxious men. When Katharine Chase Sprague was the daughter of the Chief Justice and the wife of a United States Senator she appeared in the social heavens with the calmness and precision of a fixed star. Sunshine friends have deserted her, but the star does not waver in its course. It is the same haughty Katharine, despoiled of her throne, as true a woman to-day as when surrounded by her fawning flatterers. It is the flatterers of the Tuileries that have changed, and not the Empress Eugenie.

Outside the Senatorial circle of chairs may be noticed “a sea of upturned faces.” A dash of bronze reflects the last representation of African blood on the floor of the United States Senate. In the Darwinian political aggression the weaker must give way to the survival of the fittest, and the feebler race will be heard no more. Among the dusky faces in the “men’s gallery” may be seen Pinchback of Louisiana, excluded from the floor where Patterson of South Carolina stands. Pinchback tried to obtain a position with other distinguished men on the floor, but was remanded to the gallery among the scores of black men that compose the dark cloud that is always to be seen sou’west just above the Senators’ heads. It angered him beyond conception. Fierce passion flamed on his burning cheek and darted in lightning glances from his keen black eyes. Could he have invoked the power to turn himself into a huge stiletto he would have buried himself to the hilt in the Senate breast. Oh! the blessed relief of responsibility! His Creator made him, endowed him with the elements of fearful wrath, subjected him to scorn, because his white soul is wrapped up in a yellow covering! Peace, be still, sorely tried and beloved brother, in whose veins mingle the blood of the haughty Anglo-Saxon with that of another race. The body perishes, but the soul circles on forever and forever.

OLIVIA.

KATE CHASE SPRAGUE.

A DINNER WITH THE QUEEN OF AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY.

WASHINGTON, _April 15, 1880_.

During the penitence of Lent, and all the succeeding time which Congress honors the capital with its presence, society of the fashionable form assumes a bleached or faded appearance. In a great measure this is brought about by the absence of the swallow-tail and white-necktie element. The assemblings are largely feminine, of necessity, from the fact that Congress, about to depart, is wholly engrossed with its “unfinished business.” So the courtly dinner of state and the official reception is superseded by the aristocratic lunch and “high teas.” At these purely exclusive gatherings may occasionally be found musty old relics of the Army and Navy on the retired list, whose records and shoulderstraps are fast perishing with official mildew and dry rot; or perhaps a supreme or district judge, for enough of this masculine seasoning should be found at least to flavor the social pot. But it frequently happens these lunches are attended by women alone, the hostess intending to bring together only those who are supposed to be agreeable to each other, at least so far as it is possible to bring these repellent atoms into a compact mass, and oh! how delightful! Our ancestors used to call the same kind of meetings “schools for scandal,” for no two or more women ever did come together beyond the hearing of masculine ears without by the merest accident a secret would be told; and in Washington, where every spot is sacred to the death of some poor secret, it is unnecessary to follow this delicate subject to an ignominious end.

All the readers of the _Journal_ are invited in fancy to a high-toned lunch at Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague’s, at her beautiful home in the West End. Mrs. Sprague has said to the correspondents that she has no objection to newspaper comment if it treats her justly and in the spirit of courtesy; so her lunch is described for not only the above reason, but because no woman in Washington excels her as lady “to the manner born,” or can surpass her in those graces which make her the reigning queen in her own home. If fortune has deserted her in a great measure, all the unique, costly, and superb trappings are here. A few terrapin, a few bottles of champagne are all that is necessary to bring the old millionaire days back, unless it be the presence of the young war governor of Rhode Island (God bless him). We shall never forget the day that he came to the capital, dusty and travel-worn, with his thousand men which he had equipped and brought to President Lincoln in person. The capital was cut off from the North by both railroad and telegraph, and the rebel hosts were gathering in Alexandria, as we thought, to burn and sack the city. Governor Sprague did not go to a hotel, but camped in the market-place with his men. The first time the writer saw Governor Sprague he was drinking water from a tincup and eating baker’s bread and cold meat with his regiment; and, when we realized that this royal prince of finance was willing to sleep on the ground and drink from the tincup to preserve the Union, an adoration was born which neither time nor misfortune can chill.