Chapter III: Part 3

The interest surrounding the impeachment trial deepens. The blows of the aggressive Butler are met and sometimes parried by the sharp rapier of Evarts or the stout claymore of Stanbery. The President has wisely chosen some of the subtlest minds in the country to defend him, and it is almost worth the fruit of a lifetime to sit in the presence of such a court, the jury composed of the choicest men of each sister State, the lawyers upon both sides the picked men of the country, whilst some of the witnesses have a world-wide reputation, and the spectators, with but few exceptions, are rare exotics, gathered from the best hothouses in the land.

The sparring on both sides during Friday and Saturday was a perfect feast to those who like to see mind meet mind--who enjoy the din and crash of ideas; but what is the use of stirring up the cesspool into which Andrew Johnson has plunged, and for whom there is no earthly resurrection? Is not the country sick unto death of these poisonous exhalations? Andrew Johnson has broken the laws of the land. In the name of the humblest citizen, what can be offered in his defence?

The Sage of the _Tribune_ says, “Stick to the point, gentlemen; stick to the point,” and a placard to this effect should be paraded before their eyes in every loyal paper of the country. The President’s conversations with General Sherman and other officers are of no more importance to the people of the United States than his delicate semi-official talk with Mrs. Cobb. If we are to have one, why not the other? Why not let the land shake its rocky sides, and one broad grin stretch its awful mouth from Plymouth Rock to the silver sands of the Pacific slope? “Stick to the point, gentlemen; stick to the point.”

For all future time General Lorenzo Thomas will be known only as “Ad Interim” Thomas. Even the newsboys cry, “Here’s your evening paper. Testimony of ‘Ad Interim.’” If the poet had only lived long enough to have seen this man he would never have written, “Frailty, thy name is woman!” unless he had put in a clause intimating that sometimes Dame Nature in her haste makes mistakes; for Nature intended Lorenzo Thomas to be feminine. She gave him a slender waist and sloping shoulders, arched instep and taper fingers, and in place of a beard planted a few seed on his chin; and long years of cultivation have only proved that some productions of nature will not flourish on a foreign soil. If any more proof were necessary it is his testimony before the Senate on Friday, when he says: “Mr. Stanton put his arm around my neck, as he used to do, in a familiar manner, and says--” No matter about that. As the heroic and honorable Secretary of War thus far has made no mistake, is it not to be inferred that he knew what was so deftly hidden from mortal view? The spiritual intercourse between the two must have been complete.

If anything more was wanting to touch a sympathetic chord in every woman’s soul in the vast galleries, to bring her nearer in sympathy with Lorenzo Thomas, it was the cruel, merciless way in which General Butler laid bare the heart of this interesting witness. He brought his little amiable foibles and weaknesses to light of day, just as the surgeon brings out the queer things with the dissecting knife. The galleries breathed easy when the tortures were over.

It was refreshing, at last, to see the soldierly form of General Sherman advancing to the witness stand. There are some handsomer men in the Senate chamber at this moment, but none of finer or more exquisite workmanship. The high forehead and eagle eyes; the thin, quivering nostril, and square manly shoulders; the muscles of wire-drawn steel. Like an exquisite stringed instrument, he must be kept up to concert pitch, and then follows such ravishing melody; but out of tune, or with a string broken, horrible discord would be sure to follow. He may be the best of husbands and fathers, but it is very plain that Nature was intent upon fashioning a good soldier, a leader amongst men, and in this particular instance she had made no mistake.

Reader, let your mind’s eye wander to the galleries. At the right of the diplomatic seats sits a woman reminding us of an English duchess. She is not delicate or sylph-like; on the contrary, nothing shall be said about avoirdupois. She is elegant and distinguished looking. Her black, flowing drapery is moire antique; a costly camel’s-hair shawl is thrown carelessly back from her shoulders, and lilac plumes dance and flutter with every turn of her head; amethysts and diamonds hang suspended from her ears, and her left hand sparkles with the weight of a moderate fortune. Would you know her title? It is the same whose name flew all over the country in connection with the Prince of Wales at the time the Gothamites feasted the Prince and provided him with a partner also. It will be remembered that on that most important evening the floor fell into the cellar, and there are people of to-day who are no wiser than to say, “No wonder! No wonder!” In the sky of wealth and fashion in Washington, this queenly woman is a flaming star of the first magnitude; or, more properly speaking, she is the Pleiades, Hyades, and possibly the “big dipper” also.

And now, reader, you are to know about the wife of a Senator who is not in her coveted seat to-day, for the reason that she has given to one of her husband’s constituents her ticket, and, therefore, like the humblest amongst us, has to remain at home. Would you know this pure type of womanhood, who says with her own lips, “We owe more to our constituents than to ourselves”? Would you know the woman whose sincere pity goes unchallenged amidst all this frivolity and wickedness, and whose unostentatious charity would be as refreshing and as broadcast as the evening dew if the source of supply was as unfailing as her own generous heart? Scarcely a public institution of charity exists in Washington without her name on the roll call and she alone gathered the first thousand dollars that made the “Newsboys’ Home” a success.

There are holy places in the mosque of the Moslems where only the “faithful” can tread with unsandaled feet, and there are some human lives so purified and exalted that only the pen of the Recording Angel is worthy to transfix their fleeting lights and shadows, their struggles in their upward flight. Ah! reader, would you know why Senator Wilson lies so close to the heart of cold, haughty Massachusetts; why he has the least of this world’s goods of any man in Congress; why he fights so manfully for the poor and down-trodden; why he is one of the most popular and best-beloved men in the land? It is because he is strengthened and solaced and the armor for life’s battle is girded on at home.

OLIVIA.

HON. BENJAMIN F. WADE.

CONSIDERED THE PROPER SIZE FOR PRESIDENTIAL TIMBER.

WASHINGTON, _April 21, 1868_.

The dying throes of the rebellion end with the impeachment trial. Whilst Grant crushed the head of the reptile in Virginia, and Sherman’s swarming legions cut the monster in twain, it is left for a loyal Congress to deal with that part of the serpent which it is said “never dies till the sun goes down.” The death-dealing rattle of the Ku Klux Klan is borne to us on the breath of the soft south wind; the lonely cane-brake still echoes the hunted fugitive’s cry; the hand of palsy grasps our Southern sister States; and the nation is heart-sick, well nigh unto death. But the warm glow of another sunrise is upon us. A new day already dawns in the East, and the coming man stands before the people, whom destiny has called to be the leader, and to guide the ship of state into a peaceful sea. All hail! Benjamin F. Wade, of Ohio.

Massachusetts spared him room to be born, but the great West nourished him upon her broad bosom, and there his mind drank in the grand landscape of dimpled lake and sunny, dew-kissed prairie, and there he learned, irrespective of color or sex, devotion to his race.

A self-made man like our own lamented Lincoln, looking out upon the world with the same kind, brown eyes; but there the comparison ends. Mr. Wade is not tall, ungainly, or awkward. Rather above the medium height, broad shouldered, he was apparently built for use instead of ornament, like a printing-press or a steam engine. Handsome, for the reason that not a weak place in form or feature shows itself; comely, because every point is purely masculine, with no trace of the other sex, unless his mother’s soul looks out of his brown eyes--for it is well known that Mr. Wade is one of the kindest men in Congress, also woman’s best and truest friend. It is for this alone that we stand in his presence with uncovered head. It was Senator Wade who brought the bill before Congress giving to woman in the District of Columbia the right to hold her own property and earnings in direct opposition to the rights of a dissolute husband. It was his personal efforts in the beginning that changed the laws of Ohio in woman’s favor; and, to use his own language: “I did not do it because they are women but because it is right. The strong have no business to oppress the weak.”

Sitting in his presence the other day, we ventured to remark, “How did it happen, Mr. Wade, that you signed the petition of Mrs. Frances Lord Bond, recommending her for a consulate? Would you really advise the country to give a woman such a position?”

The spirit of mirth danced over his face as he replied, “I would sign any petition that reads as that did. It said, ‘if she could perform the services better than any one else?’ I had a doubt in my mind about that; but if she could do the work better than any one else I would not prevent her because she is a woman.”

There has been a time within the memory of us all when a shuddering chill has crept up to the vitals of the nation. Then a plain, straightforward honest man was lifted above all others, far up to the highest pinnacle of power. As God gave him light to see the right, he led us through the smoke of battle, over the burning desert of war, and when the green oasis of peace was in view, he fell by the bullet of the assassin. Is it Fate, is it God, who reaches forth his hand and again lifts another straight-forward, unpretending man to the highest place in the gift of the American people? As a Senator, who had a purer record? In every crisis, on every national question, who for a moment doubted where Ben Wade would be found? Who ever caught him balancing on the top of the fence, if the seeds of life or death were to be sown broadcast over the land? Admitting that he has none of the polish of Chesterfield; that he sometimes nails his sentences with words noted for strength rather than for elegance and beauty (or that might be left out altogether); that he may not possess all the classical culture that some of his brother Senators may boast; yet, as a people sore and heavy laden, let us thank our Maker for Benjamin F. Wade--kind, noble, honest citizen, great, not in himself, for men themselves are paltry, but great, just like a mathematical figure which stands to represent the distance of the sun. He may be rubbed out, like the digit on the big blackboard, but the principles embodied in him are as enduring as the mountains of granite of his own native State.

OLIVIA.

TWO NOTABLE WOMEN.

MRS. KATE CHASE SPRAGUE AND MRS. OAKES AMES.

WASHINGTON, _April 23, 1868_.

Like a rolling avalanche, impeachment gathers in size and velocity as it rushes on to its final resting place. The testimony has all been taken; the arguments have already commenced. Manager Boutwell occupied many hours yesterday in reading his arguments. This able effort will soon find its way into every household in the land, there to be weighed and judged discriminately; but Manager Boutwell is no wizard or brownie, and therefore cannot go himself where his words will fly. How does he look, and what could he see if he should take his eyes off the printed page and glance hither and yon, to the right, to the left, or, with both at once, make a grand Balaklava charge? Is it possible for a man to get to that point in his life when the mind’s fruit hangs in clustered perfection, like the juicy purple grape of mid-autumn?

Manager Boutwell is in the zenith of life, rather under the medium size and compact, and when tested gives the true ring of the genuine coin, or a perfect piece of porcelain, handsome enough for all the practical uses of life, but nothing startling or electrical about him, like Benjamin Butler; and it would seem as if wily Massachusetts was wide awake, as she has furnished two managers. But in case General Butler should exhaust himself like fiery Vesuvius, behold there is Boutwell, cool, solemn, eternal as the glacier-crowned Alps.

Mr. Boutwell is a good speaker, but his reading seems wearisome, and yet the galleries listen with attention; at least it is very quiet in there--not a breath of air to spare.

There is a faint odor of exquisite perfume exhaling from hundreds of snowy, cob-web handkerchiefs; dainty women scattered here and there, everywhere. Paris has Eugenie; Washington has Mrs. Senator Sprague, the acknowledged queen of fashion and good taste. She occupies a seat at the left of the reader. Her costume is just as perfect as the lily or the rose. She is a lilac blossom to-day. Not a particle of jewelry is visible upon her person. She has copied her bonnet from the pansy or wood violet. A single flower, of lilac tinge, large enough for the “new style,” rests upon her head, and is fastened to its place by lilac tulle so filmy that it must have been stolen from the purple mists of the morning. An exquisite walking dress of pale lilac silk has trimmings a shade darker, whilst lilac gloves conceal a hand that might belong to the queen of fairies. Is she a woman or a flower, to be nipped by the frost; to be pressed between the leaves of adversity; or, alas! to grow old and wither? Impossible! She is a flower of immortality; not perfect, it is true, as other letter-writers say, but she happens to be placed in a sphere where perfection is expected, and she is mortal like the rest of us. She shrinks from the hard and lowly task of visiting the wretched hut, the sick, and the afflicted. So do Victoria and Eugenie, whose fame is wafted to us across the great water.

To the left of the queen sits another woman distinguished in Washington society. It is the wife of a millionaire--Mrs. Oakes Ames of Massachusetts. She is a handsome matron, in the early autumn of life. She has no desire to shine in the fashionable world, and her smiling face would only come out the brighter after an eclipse of that kind. Her elegant parlors are headquarters for old-fashioned hospitality, and to those who possess the “open sesame” she is always at home. But it is in Massachusetts that she finds her true sphere. There she is the wife of the baronet, the “Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood,” surrounded by her husband’s tenantry or working people. It is the “squire’s wife” who visits the lowly cottage, bringing sunshine and temporal relief. It is the “squire” who pays the clergyman his salary, that his people may be saved through no loss of spiritual grace, and instead of going to London for the winter they come to Washington. What! Gossips, you say; but it is an admitted fact.

OLIVIA.

JUDGE NELSON.

THE PRESIDENT’S COUNSEL DURING THE IMPEACHMENT TRIAL.

WASHINGTON, _April 27, 1868_.

Another effort of the immortal mind has been inscribed upon the scroll of fame. Judge Nelson, of Tennessee, has spoken in behalf of the President, and only the pen of genius can do justice to this dewy, refreshing speech as it fell upon the American Senate.

When it is known that Judge Nelson dropped the cowl of the monk for the lawyer’s pointed lance, it is not astonishing that he mistook the Senate for a set of Tennessee sinners, and appealed to its feeling instead of its judgment. This most interesting speech was interspersed with poetry, borrowed for the occasion, to be sure, but of equal use and effectiveness--nevertheless, like mourning garments, borrowed from friendly neighbors; and yet the speech was destitute of all solemnity. A rich vein of humor coursed through it, and the Senate seemed to enjoy the repose so much needed after the strong arguments of Mr. Boutwell.

It is said Andrew Johnson chose Nelson for these very qualities; but, gratifying as it may have been to the President, it did not find favor in the minds of those who are friendly to the lost cause. A genuine sneer curled itself up and nestled in all the hide-and-seek places in the delicate face of William M. Evarts, while stately Mr. Groesbeck seemed severely offended. Members of Congress folded their unseen tents and silently stole away; the Chief Justice uncoiled his dignity just enough to catch a breath of the fluttering breeze; and the high court of impeachment was relieved as if by an unexpected holiday.

Judge Nelson was a semi-rebel--a sort of Tennessee neutral--during the rebellion, and it has not been ascertained whether it was for this reason that Andrew Johnson chose him for the defence; but it is now known beyond a doubt that minister and lawyer are so ingeniously mixed in the judge’s composition that a third compound is the result, bearing no more resemblance to the first ingredients than soap bears to oil and alkali.

Mr. Groesbeck had the floor next--apparently a good, strong man, bearing the same relation to the human family that a fair, rosy-cheeked apple does to the remainder of the fruit in the orchard. Like Mr. Stanbery, he pleads illness. His voice seemed in the last stages of collapse. It is very difficult to catch the hoarse sentences in the galleries. There is nothing flashing, brilliant, or electrical in his speech, and if there were, it would be entirely lost, unless it rose, cloud-like, into the galleries. Hard, cold, flinty argument must be hurled upon the impassive Senate. Mr. Groesbeck seems to be aware of this fact, as he contends against the odds.

The gallery wears its usual high-toned, fashionable elegance. A real hothouse of rare human exotics is gathered together, partaking of the same weaknesses and desires that animate creation in the humbler spheres of life. Some of these exquisite butterflies have a way of spreading their voluminous crinoline to the exclusion of some unfortunate in want of a seat; but as soon as an acquaintance makes an appearance, in the twinkling of an eye space is evolved from a minus quantity and immediately occupied, and the real honest possessor has no redress except in repeating an ave, or declaiming mentally the touching poem of “sour grapes.”

Allowing it to be exceedingly gratifying, it is not good taste to be eating in public. History tells us that a great monarch used to take his emetics and vomit gracefully in the presence of the court, but even royalty could not add dignity to, nor throw a rosy glamor over, one of Nature’s disgraceful freaks. And in the high court of impeachment no pink-lipped, amber-haired beauty can afford to distort her features and wantonly assail the ears of her neighbors by cracking nuts with her pearly teeth. If a woman has neither youth nor beauty, and commits the same fatal error, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”

OLIVIA.

A FAITHFUL SERVANT.

A COMPREHENSIVE REVIEW OF THE LIFE WORK OF HON. THADDEUS STEVENS.

WASHINGTON, _April 28, 1868_.

After the storm and cloud of an eventful life, Thaddeus Stevens lingers on the disc of the Western horizon, surrounded by the glory of departing day. As he stands the central figure in the House of Representatives, he likewise occupies the same place at the manager’s table in the high court of impeachment. Like Lord Brougham, his intellectual powers seem to lose little by age, and his argument in behalf of the House has none superior, if any equal to it. Short, compact, conclusive, it was made up of the cream of the whole matter in the dispute. On the day of its delivery, as the Chief Justice ceased speaking, the galleries were hushed into more than attentive silence. Slowly the venerable speaker advanced to a chair on the platform so as to be able to face the Senate, his position being at the same time such that he could be plainly seen by the crowd in the vast galleries, who were listening, intent on catching the faintest word. He seemed to be impressed with the solemnity of the surroundings, also to realize that the present effort was to be the last great crowning work of his life. Slowly he rose, trembling, yet brilliant as the flame that sometimes shoots upward when the taper burns low in the socket before it expires. His reading, at first low and tremulous, grew stronger and stronger until it reached every nook of the vast Senate chamber. As he sat in his easy chair, the beholder could not help but feel that Thaddeus Stevens lives to prove to the world the immortality of the soul. He shows that the body is not necessary to human existence. He shows that passion can live notwithstanding the fire of life is nearly out; and though every window of his mansion of clay is broken, and through each rent and crevice the storm of the outer world pours in, yet, like a couchant lion in his den, his mind is ready to spring upon an adversary; and in any work that devolves upon the servants of the country, Thaddeus Stevens is ready to accept the royal share.

As every season of the year has its beauties, so has every season of life. Though it be winter, it is only the poor who sigh for the summer heats. He who is rich in intellect, though he stands upon the snows of age, partakes of the holiest and most elevated joys. Far up the mountain the traveler has ascended. Human life, with its contentions and struggles, is spread out before him in the valley below. He can look down upon his fellow-man kindly, lovingly, for he sees the thorn and the bramble, the hidden ditch and the concealed stone, over which his brother may stumble and sometimes falls. But as he climbs higher and still higher, the valley, with its smiling river and fairy dells, fades imperceptibly, the twilight of the upper world surrounds him, and he sees, both above and below, in letters of living fire, the single word JUSTICE; and happy is he who, like Thaddeus Stevens, has made this solemn word his song by day, his pillar of fire by night, for eternal justice is the living God.

A great many years ago, a Green Mountain boy was fairly embarked on the ocean of life. No gaily-painted merchantman was at his command; only a little life-boat, whose paddles were a pair of strong hands; no supplies, only those so deftly hidden away in the cunning recesses of his brain. In the beginning he said it is not good to be alone; so he fashioned himself a banner, inscribed with the golden letters of Universal Justice, Liberty, and Education. With this flag upon his bosom, singlehanded and alone, he fought the ignorant prejudices of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. This childless bachelor said the State should be taxed to educate the children. Was it light from the Infinite shining upon Mr. Stevens that enabled him to see deeper into the welfare of these children than their own parents or guardians? He met the most powerful opposition, but proved himself as invulnerable as Achilles without a heel. He conquered. The commonschool system of Pennsylvania owes its being to Thaddeus Stevens, and unborn myriads may owe their success in life to this great benefactor.

There was weeping and wailing heard through the centuries. The stifled sob of slave mothers smote the air because their babes were sold into bondage, and though they might be living on the earth yet were dead to them forever. The slave-pen lifted its atrocious head and flaunted its pestilential shadows within the call of the nation’s capital. The auctioneer’s voice rang shrill and clear, going! going! gone! whilst the American Shylock advanced and paid for his pound of human flesh. The torturing chain and lash were held in the hand of the overseer, and with no hope, no refuge, for the fugitive but the deadly morass or more desolate canebrake, there to be followed by the keen-scented bloodhound or his still more relentless foe. The people of Israel lay prostrate with faces buried in the dust, forgotten by the nations of the earth, apparently forgotten by their God. But the clouds of wrath gathered, and at last overspread the whole land. The youthful Republic saw, for the first time, a serious civil war. Although tried on many a battlefield before, it was in the great war for the downfall of oppression that Thaddeus Stevens sprang into existence as the “leader of the House.” It was in the vast arena of Congress, that awful place, where even more than average men are lost in its immensity, that Thaddeus Stevens shone with a steady unfaltering light--a sun with a solar system around him. It was not alone the untiring efforts of great generals, or the spilling of blood or the wasting of treasure, that saved the life of the nation. He who helps to keep the fountain of legislation pure, who keeps the mantle of trust reposed in him by the people clean and free from the speck or blemish at all times, whether it be war or peace, is a nation’s benefactor. Let the nation’s head be uncovered in the presence of Thaddeus Stevens.

It is the work of a biographer to follow a great man through a long and well spent life; and it is extremely unfortunate that Mr. Stevens has never been known to make the acquaintance of a Boswell, for how much that is crisp and readable must now be lost. It may be pleasant to know that he has sold his lots in the two cemeteries of which he was an owner because colored people were refused burial in them; though it may be possible that he feels that he shall have future use for them. It is so natural to forget to say that a noble character has any faults. But who remembers the spots on the sun? It is enough to know that we owe life to its benign influence.

Long, long, will Mr. Stevens remain photographed upon the minds of those who now have the honor to behold him, as he sits in his easy chair day after day. Nature did not make him handsome, but she fashioned him with a bold, rugged outline, suggesting power and sublimity, like the solemn mountain or the surf-beaten cliff.

OLIVIA.

JOHN A. BINGHAM.

ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH HONORS IN FORENSIC CONFLICT.

WASHINGTON, _May 7, 1868_.

Never, even during the late days of storm and darkness, has the sun set upon such scenes as were enacted on the last day of argument before the High Court of Impeachment. No more can it be said that the age of oratory has fled, for John A. Bingham has shown that there is a man amongst us who possesses the rare power of electrifying the multitude: of making one vast sea of humanity throb with overwhelming emotion. I might as well attempt to “paint the sunbeams” as to give a description of his glowing words. From history he drew the parallel between James the Second and our recreant President. Mirabeau’s immortal answer to the king’s usher, “Go tell your master that bayonets have no power over the will of the people,” seemed as if uttered anew by the spirit of the great Frenchman. Never in the history of the world has any man been called to plead before such a bar, and for such a cause. No court has existed like it in the world’s annals, and no such criminal has been called to answer. Only the attributes of conceded genius sustained Mr. Bingham, and made him strong for the work assigned to him. He seemed to feel that this trial was not simply a means for the punishment of one daring offender, but that it was to prove the strength and stability of republican institutions for all time--to prove that the strongest are as imbecile before the majesty of the law as the beggar of the highway.

Upon the floor of the American Senate the majestic scenes of history are again repeated. One man stands out from the multitude, pleading the cause of myriads against the aggressive encroachment of a wicked ruler. Every inch of available space in the vast chamber contains a human being, and the silence of the grave prevails. Little by little, blow after blow, as the sculptor chisels the marble, the orator is building a monument--one which is to stand through the centuries, long, long after lithe, supple John A. Bingham is only a handful of dust. No link is missing in the chain; no dead sentiment clings to his ideas; his perfect sentences are steeped at once in logic and poetry. It is the handwriting on the wall in letters of living fire. The orator closes. A momentary silence like that which precedes the hurricane’s crash, and there arises from floor to ceiling such confusion which even the vigorous blows of the Chief Justice’s gavel are inadequate to suppress. It was like the voice of the gallant sea captain commanding the elements to be still. Then Senator Grimes comes to the rescue, and moves that the galleries be cleared. Senator Cameron hopes that the galleries will not be cleared, and that allowance will be made for the extraordinary occasion. Mr. Fessenden and Mr. Reverdy Johnson call Mr. Cameron to order, whilst Mr. Trumbull moves that not only the galleries be cleared, but that all disorderly persons be arrested. At the same time the British minister and others in the diplomatic inclosure are seen apparently contesting their rights with the doorkeepers, whilst a flutter appears in the reporter’s gallery similar to that noticed in a flock of blackbirds when a handful of shot has been remorselessly distributed amongst them. From his throne, which was only a plain, cane-seated chair, Manager Bingham surveys the tumult. He who has sown the whirlwind smilingly surveys the storm. He is weary and exhausted, and his cheek has the pallor of the grave, but he feels that the applause was for him. The uproar continues. At last the inexorable fiat is understood. The galleries must be cleared upon the instant. So a surging tide of humanity pours out of every open door. Little knots of people are scattered here and there the whole length of the long corridors, all talking about the one absorbing theme. Grand tableaux of excited men are grouped in the rotunda, even the stairs have caught stray whisps of surplus, standing humanity, all madly intoxicated with the enthusiasm of the hour. The world never seems weary of Boswell’s talk about Dr. Johnson; and with the same desire to please, let it be told that Mr. Bingham was asked how he felt after the proudest triumph of his life. Using his own words: “I don’t know how I feel; I only know I have spoken enough to make thirty columns in the Congressional Globe. God knows I have tried to do my duty; it is in the hands of the Senate now. The great work of my life is done.”

Day after day we see our neighbor, John A. Bingham, an unpretending man of simple tastes, and whose mind is a storehouse of classic culture. About the average height of his fellow-men, he is far more slender and graceful, and though not handsome according to the prescribed rules of beauty, yet like the High Court of Impeachment, which is a law unto itself, he looks like John A. Bingham, and there is nothing better by which he can be compared, estimated, or measured.

OLIVIA.

ANSON BURLINGAME.

HIS TRIUMPHANT CAPTURE OF THE INHABITANTS OF THE FLOWERY KINGDOM.

WASHINGTON, _June 20, 1868_.

A new and startling drama is performing on the world’s stage. The Occident and the Orient are at last united. The oldest nation on the face of the earth is shaking hands with the youngest. Gray-bearded China, after being hermetically sealed during the long ages, opens her arms to embrace Young America, and in the height of her good humor includes the rest of the world. Another laurel is added to the fame of America. A countryman of ours has shown what genius and courage can accomplish in the great field of diplomacy. Anson Burlingame has smitten the strongholds of China as Moses smote the rock in the wilderness, and the sweet waters flow forth in Washington in the shape of dozens of pig-tailed, almond-eyed, silken-clad Orientals, who charm by their picturesqueness, and who leave the gates of wonder standing ajar every day. To the eye of an ordinary “barbarian” one Chinaman looks as much like another as two pins from the same paper; but a very close inspection shows that the two mandarins are made of a little finer clay than the “suite.” There is just about the same difference as between their own exquisite porcelain and the modern French china.

Owing to the fashionable shoes of their mother, the mandarins have inherited feet made expressly for Cinderella’s slipper, whilst their delicate taper fingers vie with any high-born damsel’s in the land. They are exceedingly attractive, but the sentiment they inspire is as strange as themselves. It isn’t the usual homage that woman gives the opposite sex, and their fluttering silken skirts and fans help to keep up all sorts of illusions. They have brought a miniature China with them, in the shape of all that goes to sustain life--their own servants, cooking utensils, favorite beverages, etc.

The Metropolitan Hotel had been turned into a Chinese pagoda, and Minister Burlingame and his elegant wife are the presiding seers, whilst the multitude flock to offer incense at their shrines. Not an hour can they call their own; and though they are very weary this exhausting weather, Mr. Burlingame says, “I am so glad to meet with so much kindness from my countrymen.” It is this warmth--these genuine, electric flashes of the soul--that melts all opposition. Since the birth of our young Republic how many wise and good men have been sent to China; but we must acknowledge that we never sent the right man before. All honor to the young pioneer who reflects so much credit upon American diplomacy. It is a plain citizen of our Republic who introduces the oldest monarchy to the whole civilized world.

In answer to the question, “How did you bring it about?” “Bring it about?” said he. “I studied Chinese character. I made them feel that we meant them no harm. It has been the habit in times past, if any demand or request was made by foreign powers to the Chinese Government and the request was not favorably received, to dispatch a gunboat to make a warm impression. This never was my course of action. I never resorted to force. I labored to make them feel that my propositions were for our mutual good; and,” he continued, “I must not forget to say how much influence women have in China; for if the two most influential women in the Empire had not favored the expedition we should not have been seen in this part of the world. Of these august ladies one was the Empress’ mother; the other the wife of the Emperor.”

Mr. Burlingame did not say whether he met these ladies face to face; but, if he did, the birth of the Chinese embassy is no longer a wonder, for even Queen Elizabeth, one of the greatest sovereigns that ever lived, was never proof against those subtle, insinuating influences far easier felt than described.

Mr. Burlingame was cast in one of nature’s finest moulds. Towering just enough above the medium height to be called commanding, with proportions as symmetrical as a perfect tree in the forest, a face is added that is strikingly classic, which attracts the eye for a moment only, giving way to the spiritual impression.

Whilst this Chinese panorama was unfolding, a graceful woman for a moment was pictured on the canvas--Mrs. Burlingame, the only woman who accompanies the party. There was a gleam of a pair of dark, lustrous eyes; a shadow cast by the heavy coils of black, wavy hair; something blue and filmy as Oriental gauze enveloped her fine figure; a side door opened, and the vision was gone.

Striking points of similarity exist between the old monarchy and the young Republic. China is divided into provinces as our country is divided into States. Education is within reach of all. From the humblest beginning merit can rise and divide the honors with the imperial blood. An inexorable fiat envelops China as with a network of bristling steel. It is the supreme law of the land. There is no appeal from its decree. It holds the highest and the lowest in its vise-like grasp. Like death, it respects no private claim. The Emperor is as impotent before it as the Chinaman who has not the wherewith to provide a dinner. This is the one great principle, the all-powerful cohesive force which has kept this vast Empire together from time immemorial. Let America try to forget the past, and in this respect walk in the footsteps of the imperial China.

OLIVIA.

A TALENTED QUARTETTE.

MADAME LE VERT, GAIL HAMILTON, VINNIE REAM, AND MRS. LANDER.

WASHINGTON, _January, 1869_.

A reception at the governor’s mansion occupies that middle ground which may be supposed to be between a President’s levee and the private party given by a well-to-do Congressman. The governor must invite everybody because he is everybody’s servant, like the President, only he has no White House and paid retinue of lackeys, no fuel and gas found, and no fifty thousand per year. On the contrary “he must find himself,” and this he will be obliged to do whenever the enormous bills are paid. If one could have seen the crowds that for four mortal hours filled the governor’s large dining-hall they would have prayed for a repetition of the same miracle that took place some eighteen hundred years ago, when the bread and fish could not give out, and water was spoiled by being turned into wine.

But the worst comes. We have got a governor--none of your milk-and-water kind--and who looks every inch a governor, as much as the great Napoleon looked like an emperor. We have so many “figure-heads,” which are the result of the appointing power, that when the real article turns up let us thank President Grant for his act, for it makes no difference to us whether he does the right thing by design or mistake. But the governor’s ball. Everybody was there. The governor stood at the entrance of the broad door that led to the right of the hall, arrayed with the usual ministerial black-looking robe, and acting only as a governor should. By his side stood my lady, tall, elegantly dressed in charming simplicity. She is still very youthful to be called to occupy so prominent a place. Her dress was simple white muslin with an overdress of black velvet, white ruche at the throat with tiniest of rosebuds in the pleatings; no jewels, no gewgaws. She must have taken Madame Thiers, the wife of the early President of the French Republic, for her model, or, later still, Madame MacMahon, not only the first lady but one of the most sensible women in France.

The governor’s mansion is admirably arranged for entertaining large companies. The rooms seemed to be fastened to the arc of a circle. The guests entered the broad folding doors, followed on from room to room, and came out near the point where they started; a turning wheel of glaring colors, a huge human kaleidoscope--what better comparison? We will suppose you are behind the governor, as Mephistopheles is said to have stood behind Faust. But then you are only a harmless correspondent, and the image is in the very worst taste; and yet, even in newspaper comparisons, it is well to keep all the best things for one’s self. You are behind the shadow of the governor--invisible, you see nothing, but you feel a great deal. A turn of the wonderful kaleidoscope and there comes to view the great warrior Tecumseh, sometimes called General Sherman, the Beau Brummel of fashionable life in Washington. Straight as one of those guns he carried so successfully to the sea, and just about as useful at the present day, yet very dear to us, because he is the best paid for the least work of any man in the Union. And yet he was seen at the Burns Festival, as well as many other places, with Vinnie Ream on his arm, and who knows what the veteran warrior may have suffered? Vinnie is not large, neither is a Minie ball, and yet if either one should hit the mark the most direful consequences might follow. When we compare Vinnie Ream to the great men who work in stone she grows beautifully less, but when we compare her with women she rises almost beyond feminine proportions. She is a very small man, but a very great woman. Go ahead, Vinnie! Bust Tecumseh, or somebody else will! Our great men must be busted by some one, and women ought to have a hand in that kind of work. We intend to write a book about the famous women of Washington, and you, dear, persecuted, self-sacrificing little sprite, shall have almost the best place.

Another turn of the wheel. Who comes there? It is our tall, lordly speaker of the House--our handsome would-be next President--polished as steel, and Colfaxian to the last degree, except the smile. But he is our Speaker of the House, and, as Don Quixote said about his own Dulcinea, we challenge the world in his defence, and if an enemy chooses to break a lance they can do so at their own risk.

Here comes Mrs. Blaine, frozen as a New England landscape in midwinter. The salt mist of the gray sea! Ugh! ugh! Turn the kaleidoscope quick. The air is so cold the artificial flowers are nipped by the frost.

And here is the sunny, laughing Gail Hamilton. Her warm face and yellowish hair would melt an iceberg. Even her dress is the color of sunbeams. Why is she not sent to open the Northwest passage? It is true Franklin, Kane, and Hall have failed, but that is because they did not take along enough fire. And yet we could not spare Gail, for what single woman would be left to teach married ones how to manage their husbands? Who would teach us how to bring up our children in a bazaar-like way? It is true Gail Hamilton is not a mother, but this may be her misfortune, besides she may not be old enough to assume such enormous responsibilities in a small way.

A galaxy of stars blaze in the neighborhood of Gail Hamilton. The woman in black with such elegant lace is Mrs. Lander, of histrionic fame. Queen Elizabeth on the stage! Queen Elizabeth in private life! This is her court--dukes, lords, princes of republican blood. A wave of the jeweled hand and they are gone.

A ship full-rigged, with a fair wind, in the offing. It is great and good Mrs. Ann S. Stevens, Philadelphia’s fair jewel; long may she blaze. What a faultless costume! Quaker color, and such glorious lace. By her side stands her slender, amber-haired daughter, clad in white satin and tarletan, with pearls at her snowy throat and thin ears; “blooded,” you may be sure of that.

Who next? Octavia Le Vert, only child of Madame Le Vert--scarlet satin gown, great, black Oriental eyes, exotic of the South. She makes you think of a magnolia blossom, even the perfume in imagination stifles you. This is Madame Le Vert, sweet, loving, trustful woman--hurt her? Not much, if you only knew how to avoid it. She steals your heart out of your bosom, you cannot tell how; you only feel that you have missed something, you search for it and it is gone. Oh! these Southern women, so savage in war, so loving, so winning in peace. Our John used to say “you can’t trust ’em.” But who wants to trust ’em. We never expect to marry a woman if life and death were staked on the result.

Another turn of the human kaleidoscope, lo! here is Congressman Harmer, of Philadelphia, with his handsome wife. What a superbly matched pair. Quicker than electric flash the mind goes back to Eden, to the first Adam and the first Eve, and you are comforted with the proof that creation goes on in pretty much the same faultless way, making pairs, each half for the other. It is true there is often a missing link, but that makes the union all the more beautiful by comparison of the broken parts tossed helplessly on a sea of trouble. But Mrs. Harmer, her dress must have been faultless, for alas, nothing is remembered but her fine figure and handsome face.

General and Mrs. Albright were there. Pennsylvania at large had to be represented, and who could do this so well as this kind-hearted, able, and accomplished woman, with her husband to do all the heavy work. She reminds one of a piece of sterling gold. In the course of years she will lose no appreciable weight. How about increasing in value? She will increase just like this precious metal, for suppose we drain the country for exports, and water the currency, and the bottom of the mines fall out? This is a fruitful subject, but no time to do it justice.

But there was a woman there whose gorgeous outfit reminded one of the tales in the Arabian Nights. Her jewels were of the rarest and most costly kind. With the exception of a necklace worn by a Peruvian beauty, and the Russian gems which used to adorn Madame Bodisco, nothing has been seen lately at the capital so dazzling. A pendant pearl, which hung from the centre of the enchanted string around her neck, was as large as the egg of a humming-bird. Oh, the diamonds, the emeralds, and all the other precious stones! There was a mass of silk, feathers, and lace, and no doubt a woman swaddled somewhere, but she could not be seen for the imprisoned glory of those shining stones. She went away before 12 o’clock, else no doubt her godmother would have turned her fine horses into mice. Who was she? Listen, now; hold your breath! if we must tell--the wife of the correspondent of the New York _Herald_!

“Who is that man, did you say?” This is he whom the cruel Don Piatt has dubbed the “Mighty Mullet,” and yet the facetious Don may be telling more truth than he intends, for, like the noiseless coral, he is at work rearing his strongholds all over the land. Think how many glorious tombstones he will have, pyramids that will last hundreds of years. He is our Ptolemy. Who dares dispute it? When asked his opinion of a celebrated beauty he replied: “If she only had a southern exposure and that attic story was removed and a French roof put in its place, she would be all right.” Architecturally speaking, I mean. A man never should have but one idea, if it is the right one, and a great architect should have nothing but a house in his head.

But the saddest part was when this great performance was drawing to a close. The writer, in company with Colonel Magruder, went down to the subterranean regions below. Such a sight met the eye of the spectator. Colonel Magruder said that nothing had ever been done in comparison to it by the board of public works. “It is a matter of money. I can tell you that,” said he, “and no appropriation.” The tables still groaned under the fragments of the enormous feast. But the caterers and waiters were in a fainting condition. For hours they had gallantly stood at the plates, and still the coming of morn would insure safety to the enemy advanced, and it was feared that only besieged. The first three hours exhausted the vast stores of both Wormley and Welcker. Willard sent word that no provisions could be spared on account of the hop the same evening. Cake acknowledged that he was probably safe, because the crowd had been at Belknap’s and the governor’s first, but as good luck would have it, there was abundance for all, but, not satisfied with the feast, some of the vandals in the shape of men destroyed the beautiful ornaments of pyramids and other elegant et ceteras made for the eye alone, in order to carry off some good-for-nothing trophy. One would think such manners must be found in some hungry contractor. But, no; let us beg the workingman’s pardon. It is the same set of cormorants who manage to get into good society. The same men who disgraced themselves at Admiral Porter’s and at the costly entertainments given by the Japanese to the distinguished Americans at our capital. No one should be allowed to enter the governor’s mansion or a Cabinet Minister’s without his card of invitation. This is the only way to exclude these well-dressed harpies. And yet all this spoliation goes on for the women. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” This must be borne, however, because “women are the connecting link between men and the angels.” The governor’s ball--the story is not half told.

OLIVIA.

THE DRAGONS OF THE LOBBY.

MESSRS. GOULD, HUNTINGDON, AND DILLON AND THEIR COHORTS.

WASHINGTON, _February, 1869_.

Winding in and out through the long, devious basement passage, crawling through the corridors, trailing its slimy length from gallery to committee room, at last it lies stretched at full length on the floor of Congress--this dazzling reptile, this huge, scaly serpent of the lobby. It is true, Senator Thurman is on hand fully equipped with his judicial arrows; but what is Thurman--dear old Thurman--in the face of such a statesman. Philadelphia’s charming daughter--fair, fat and forty--embraces him with eyes whose seductive powers have only been intensified by the years. A luscious, mellow banana; a juicy, melting peach; a golden pippin, ripened to the very core. From India’s coral strand comes the two thousand dollar cashmere wrap that snuggles close to her fair shoulders. Diamonds, brilliant as the stars in Orion’s jewelled belt, adorn her dainty ears, whilst silk, satin, velvet, feathers, and laces prove what a railroad can do when its funds are applied in the proper direction.

To-day a remarkable set of men are engaged in digging, burrowing, and blowing up senatorial rock--men whose faces seem carved out of the very granite that kissed of the Mayflower many years ago. Is it possible that all the iron endurance and savage aggressiveness so necessary to make indomitable character has been entirely absorbed by the railroad kings?