Produced by ellinora, John Campbell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
THE OLIVIA LETTERS
[Illustration: (Publisher colophon)]
[Illustration: (with handwritten signature:) Emily Edson Briggs.
“Olivia,”]
THE OLIVIA LETTERS
Being Some History of Washington City for Forty Years as
Told by the Letters of a Newspaper Correspondent
By
EMILY EDSON BRIGGS
New York and Washington
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY
1906
Copyright, 1906, by
EMILY EDSON BRIGGS
CONTENTS.
A TRIBUTE TO ARCHITECTURE, 7
A SOLDIER’S BURIAL, 10
LINCOLN’S BIRTHDAY, 14
ADVICE POLITICAL, 18
A PLEA FOR THE NEGRO, 22
AT DRY TORTUGAS, 26
STATE ASSOCIATIONS, 30
BINGHAM AND BUTLER, 34
A WEST END RECEPTION, 37
IN THE ARENA OF THE SENATE, 42
SPEAKER COLFAX, 45
THE HIGH COURT OF IMPEACHMENT, 48
MRS. SENATOR WADE, 52
AT THE PRESIDENT’S LEVEE, 55
MARY CLEMMER AMES, 59
AT THE IMPEACHMENT TRIAL, 62
HON. BENJAMIN F. WADE, 66
TWO NOTABLE WOMEN, 69
JUDGE NELSON, 72
A FAITHFUL SERVANT, 75
JOHN A. BINGHAM, 79
ANSON BURLINGAME, 82
A TALENTED QUARTETTE, 85
THE DRAGONS OF THE LOBBY, 91
PRESIDENT GRANT’S INAUGURAL, 95
PRESIDENT JOHNSON’S FAMILY, 100
SENATORIAL PEN PICTURES, 105
SENATOR SPRAGUE, 112
SEALED SISTERS OF MORMONISM, 117
AWAITING AUDIENCE AT THE WHITE HOUSE, 121
JOHN M. BARCLAY, 126
WOMAN SUFFRAGE, 130
ELIZABETH CADY STANTON, 136
ISABELLA BEECHER HOOKER, 143
GATHERING OF THE STRONG-MINDED, 148
AT A COMMITTEE HEARING, 157
HONORING THE PRINCE, 164
LEVEE AT THE EXECUTIVE MANSION, 168
OFFICIAL ETIQUETTE, 173
GENERAL PHIL SHERIDAN, 181
MIDWINTER SOCIETY, 188
PROFESSOR MELAH, 199
SOME SENATORIAL SCENES, 208
THE ROBESON TEA PARTY, 214
DELEGATES FROM THE SOUTHLAND, 218
THE TREASURY TRIO, 223
VICTORIA C. WOODHULL, 229
SPREADING THE LIGHT, 236
AN OPPOSING PETITION, 242
UPHOLDING THE BANNER, 247
CHAMPIONS OF THE SUFFRAGE CAUSE, 252
MRS. GRANT’S TUESDAY AFTERNOONS, 256
DYING SCENES OF THE FORTY-FIRST CONGRESS, 262
PRAISE FOR DEPARTING LEGISLATORS, 267
THE BLACK MAN IN CONGRESS, 274
BY THE GRACE OF THE QUEEN, 280
A DISSERTATION ON DRESS, 288
MEETING OF OCCIDENT AND ORIENT, 294
THE PUBLIC GREET THE JAPANESE, 298
SAMUEL F. B. MORSE, 302
ON THE PROMENADE, 305
CHARLES SUMNER, 309
WOMAN’S INFLUENCE FOR GOOD, 315
THE KING REUNIONS, 320
CARL SCHURZ, 325
ON CAPITOL HILL, 330
GEORGETOWN ARISTOCRACY, 336
SENATORS EDMUNDS AND CARPENTER, 343
HOME LIFE OF MRS. GRANT, 349
THE GREAT REAPER, 357
CLOSING SCENES IN THE HOUSE, 364
A MATRIMONIAL REGISTER, 369
BACHELORS AND WIDOWERS, 376
THE BOTANIC GARDEN, 382
WHITE HOUSE RECEPTIONS COMPARED, 388
VICE-PRESIDENT ARTHUR, 396
KATE CHASE SPRAGUE, 403
LACK OF A LEADER, 412
BEN HILL AND ROSCOE CONKLING, 419
PRESIDENT GARFIELD’S CABINET DAY, 424
A NEW YEAR RECEPTION, 430
AT THE TRIAL OF GUITEAU, 435
ARCTIC EXPEDITIONS, 441
A TRIBUTE TO ARCHITECTURE.
HONOR PAID TO THE BUILDERS OF THE DOME OF THE NATIONAL CAPITOL.
WASHINGTON, _January, 1866_.
The time has come when our wealthy citizens need not to go abroad to
see the finest specimen of architecture of the kind in the world.
Visitors to the shrine of St. Paul and St. Peter return westward and
award the palm of superiority to the dome of the nation’s Capitol.
Towering 300 feet from the base to the summit, its superb proportions
unsurpassed in the world of art, at once attract the attention of all
beholders, and, as the king of the landscape, it reigns supreme. But
to see it in all its regal beauty it should be aflame of a night,
with its innumerable gas jets; then it becomes in every sense of the
word, a “mountain of light,” and shares the honors of the evening
with the “Pleiades,” “Orion,” and the “Milky Way.”
The Pharaoh who built the mighty pyramid of Egypt simply constructed
his own monument, and in the same way the architect of the dome, a
citizen of good old Philadelphia, has woven his name into a fragment
of the web of Time. Thomas U. Walter--do you know him?--the man
who held this mighty tower in his brain, in all its perfection,
long, long before it ever saw the light of day. When you and I,
dear reader, are not so much as a pinch of dust--when the names of
Washington and Lincoln are as remote as the sages who lived before
Christ--the great architects of the world will live, whether they
sprung from the tawny mud of the Nile, the soil of classic Greece, or
the rich vegetable mould of the western hemisphere.
Previous to 1856 a dome had been constructed of brick, stone, and
wood, sheathed in copper. Its height was 145 feet from the ground.
This was torn away to give place to the present structure, which is
composed entirely of iron and glass.
At the commencement of the rebellion the labor of completing the dome
was progressing rapidly. Strangers visiting Washington will remember
what seemed to look like acres of ground strewn with immense piles
of iron. Facing the east and west fronts of the Capitol, immense
timbers were raised to fearful heights, to which pulleys and ropes
were attached that looked strong enough to lift the world. Weather
permitting--for workmen had to lie by for either wind or rain--little
black objects might be seen crawling in and out, building up a nest
after the most approved waspish fashion. A closer inspection showed
these to be workmen. Now let Charles Fowler, esq., one of the firm of
New York builders, tell his story:
“I never had a comfortable night’s sleep during all the time the
work was going on. I lived in perpetual fear of some horrible
accident. We could not keep people out of the rotunda. Suppose
there had been a weak place in one of the timbers, a flaw in
an iron pin, a rotten strand in one of the ropes--and against
neither of these things could we entirely guard--there is no
knowing how many lives might have been lost.” “What precautions
did you take?” “We made everything four times as strong as it was
necessary to lift two tons of iron to a given height.” “Were any
lives lost?” “I only had three men killed in all the time. We had
stopped work for dinner one day, and when the workmen returned
they found one of their number dead on the ground. No one saw him
fall, but it was plain he had missed his foothold on the scaffold
and been precipitated to the ground. His head had come in contact
with some projecting beam. That was the end of him. Another lost
his life in the same way; but the third, poor fellow! it makes
my hair stand on end to think of it--a rope gave way and caught
him.” “The lightning hug of an anaconda?” “Yes, yes; that is it.
Poor Charlie! he never knew what hurt him. It chopped him up
in an instant. You don’t know how quick a big rope can do that
thing.”
The dome might have been completed in five years, but the Secretary
of the Interior during the dark days of the rebellion stopped the
work, at a great pecuniary loss to the contractors. On the average
200 men were employed in building the dome, including those who were
working on the castings in the foundry. The largest pieces of iron
weighed two tons each.
The chief engineers employed were Gen. M. C. Meigs and Gen. Wm. B.
Franklin. These engineers were detailed from the War Department
because the building was Government property. Everything pertaining
to this work is under the care of the engineer, and for its faithful
execution he is responsible. It is the engineer who accepts the plan
of the architect and judges of strength and merit. It is the engineer
who makes the contracts and disburses the money. The word of the
engineer is law. He is the autocrat in his own dominion, from whose
fiat there is no appeal.
As we have already said, the dome is composed wholly of iron and
glass, whilst the image which crowns it is made of bronze, designed
by Crawford, and executed by Clark Mills. The weight of this
goddess is about 1,700 pounds. Everything included, the dome weighs
10,000,000 pounds, which if turned into gold by the enchanter’s wand
would about pay the national debt.
This brief and imperfect sketch is gathered from glances from the
outside. The interior of the dome from the floor to the rotunda
requires the pen of a genius to do justice to the so-called works
of art found scattered in all directions. It is a long mathematical
calculation to find out how many square inches of canvas have been
ruined. A plaster caricature of our beloved Lincoln occupies the
center of the floor, made by the tender hands of a youth of 17
summers. The fruit of genius, in all stages of the ripening process,
its maturity forever arrested, lies gently decaying. It is enough to
make the cheek of an American blush, if the spectacle were not so
pitiful. A few gems gleam out of the rubbish. Exclusive of art, the
dome of the Capitol cost the nation $1,000,000.
OLIVIA.
A SOLDIER’S BURIAL.
LAST SCENE OF ALL PATHETICALLY DEPICTED.
WASHINGTON, _January 31, 1866_.
A close observer in Washington is greatly surprised at the easy
transition from a state of war to that of peace. An intelligent
person might say there is no true peace. We will leave this
discussion to the politicians, and say we are no longer awakened
in the small hours of the night by the rumbling of the Government
ambulances bringing the wounded and dying from the battlefields to
the hospitals. We never shall forget that peculiar sound, unlike
that produced by any other vehicle. Perhaps it was the zigzag course
the driver often took to avoid any little obstruction in the street,
which might jar and aggravate the wounded occupant, that made it
seem so long in coming. But the movements were always slower than a
funeral march.
But sad as this procession seemed, painful almost beyond expression,
there was still a sadder sight. It was the same fashioned ambulance,
with “U. S. Hearse” marked in large letters on the side of it. Our
ears could never distinguish the movements of this from any grocer’s
wagon. Sometimes we have been crossing a street, this solitary
equipage would dash past, and if we were quick enough to catch a
glance at the open end of it, we might see a stained coffin, perhaps
two of them, with nothing to distinguish them but their manly
proportions. No carriages, no mourners, no comrades, even, with
reversed arms, all alone, save detailed soldiers enough to perform
the act of burial; even the “chaplain” often absent.
Happening to meet an old soldier whom we knew just as the Government
hearse was passing, said he, “I hope you don’t mind that; you see
that is only a part of the play. It don’t make much difference how
you drop the seed; the Lord will take care of the harvest.” In
an instant religion stood stripped of its vaulted roof and broad
aisles--_Te Deums_, new bonnets, gewgaws and pew rent. Anxious for
his salvation, we inquired, “Do you ever go to church?” and thus this
bronzed soldier answered, “Got too much faith to go very often. They
don’t ask a fellow to sit down. Got to stow away somewhere in the
back gallery, or near the door, out of everybody’s way. And besides
that, I don’t want to go to their heaven. I ain’t got on the right
kind of uniform to serve under their General. But hang it, Heaven is
big enough for us all--horses and dead rebs into the bargain.”
Only yesterday, as it were, the cloud, the vapor, the storm of war,
the wrath of the conflict, bleeding wounds, breaking hearts. To-day
the sun shines upon free, proud America, the most powerful nation on
the face of the earth--a nation that stands forth pure and undefiled,
her late difficulties overcome, or will be just as soon as old Thad
Stevens reports the surgical operation a success. Fifteen able
doctors are at work, and have been ever since Congress has been in
session, and the country can rest assured that everything is going on
as well as can be expected.
It is a pleasant place to visit, this Capitol of ours, on a
sunshiny afternoon. ’Tis true that when once seated in the House of
Representatives there is that feeling which one might be supposed to
have if hermetically sealed up in a huge can; but one is disabused
of this feeling as soon as the greatness of the surroundings is
comprehended. There is no mistaking the Republican side of the House;
there is such a placid, self-satisfied look upon the faces of the
members, as much as to say, “We have got it all in our own hands.”
The Democratic side is greatly in the minority, so far as numbers are
concerned; but they are a plucky set of men, mostly with thin lips,
which they are in the habit of bringing tight together, reminding one
of a certain little instrument made for torture; and woe to the House
when an unfortunate Republican falls into the trap, for then follow
long, windy discussions of no mortal use to the country and amounting
to only so much waste of time and money.
The gallery known as the “Gentlemen’s” is generally filled with
masculines who have little or nothing to do; but as they do not
impede the wheels of legislation, and are kept out of the way
of mischief in the meantime, the country is obliged for their
attendance. And now I come to the ladies who grace and honor with
their presence the national Capitol. How shall I describe these
beautiful human butterflies in glaring hoops and gig-top bonnets,
curls and perfumery? If the eyes of the traveler ache to behold in a
solid mass the different strata of American society, let him visit
the national Capitol when Ben Wade is going to make a speech. Nobody
from the White House! These ladies have a good old-fashioned way
of staying at home. (Wonder if they dry their clothes in the East
Room as good queen Abigail used to do?) Carriages arrive at the east
front of the Capitol--solemn carriages; heavy bays--made more for
strength than beauty; driver with a narrow band around his hat, a
little badge--just enough to show that he does not belong to “them
independent Jehus that lurk around Willard’s and the National.”
Driver and footman blended in one piece of ebony; driver descends,
opens the carriage door, and madame, the proud wife of a Senator,
descends, not with agility, for senatorial dignity brings years,
rich, ripe, golden maturity, perfection of dress and manners, dark,
rich silk, velvet mantle--none of your plebeian coats! The portals of
the great Capitol open and Madame le Senator disappears.
Now come the wives of the wealthy members; not the leading ones, for
great men seldom take time to get rich. Showy carriage, driver and
footman in gloves, an elegant carriage costume, an occasional flash
of early autumnal beauty, oftener positively commonplace. And now
comes Jehu, who has left his “stand” before Willard’s or the National
just long enough to turn an honest penny. Perhaps he is bringing a
member’s wife whose carriage costume outshines her neighbor, the
owner of the footman in gloves. She wishes it understood that she is
not a resident of Washington; here temporarily, just long enough to
keep her husband from butting his brains out against reconstruction.
She disappears, and still the carriages are arriving and we see many
heads of bureaus, the Army and the Navy represented, and a sprinkling
of upper clerk’s wives. More carriages, and the demi-mondes flutter
out, faultless in costume, fair as ruby wine, and much more
dangerous. The carriages bring the cream, and the street cars the
skim milk. But there is another way of going to the Capitol, which
is quite as exclusive as in carriage, and does away with that clumsy
vehicle. I am speaking of those who detest the street cars, and yet
remember that carriages more properly belong to gouty uncles and
invalid aunts. It is to pick one’s way daintily over the pavement.
Sniffing the pure air and the fragrance of the dead leaves in the
Capitol grounds--good anti-dyspeptic tonic. Try it and speak from
experience as we do. The allotted pages filled, au revoir.
OLIVIA.
LINCOLN’S BIRTHDAY.
MEMORIAL ADDRESS OF HONORABLE GEORGE BANCROFT.
WASHINGTON, _February 19, 1866_.
The 12th day of February has passed into history, wisely chronicled
by one of the first historians of the age, and ere this the oration
of the Honorable George Bancroft has been discussed in almost every
hamlet in the land. It was an able effort, but nevertheless, one
longed for a little less history and a little more Lincoln.
All the great and wise men of the nation were gathered together, and
there was a man in the gallery busily employed in taking photographs.
Hereafter the wise men of the country will bear witness that the
Honorable George Bancroft is a better writer than speaker. And here
let me record an historical fact. It is the memory of a delicious
little nap indulged in by one of the Supreme Court Judges. Whether it
was the peculiar tones of the orator, like a dull minister’s voice of
a Sunday afternoon, or the sound of the rain pattering on the roof,
or the shadows of so many great men falling aslant the judge’s mental
horizon which caused this somnolence I am unable to say; but he did
sleep for a brief time, bringing great joy to many hearts, for it
proved that those awful judges in black gowns are mortal like the
rest of us and that dignity is something that can be laid aside like
any other covering.
But I proceeded to the foreign ministers, who nobly came forward,
like martyrs, to mingle their sympathy with ours. And it was the
heroic part of the ceremonies to see how manfully these aristocrats
endured the castigation. What business had lords to accept cards
of invitation unless they were willing to be told some unpleasant
truths? Did they suppose the great historian would dwell on the life
and virtues of Abraham Lincoln and leave out the history of this
mighty republic? The Marquis De Montholon, the representative of His
Majesty Napoleon III, drew his expressive brow into a frown terrific
in the extreme, and pulled his kid gloves in a manner which denoted
great nervousness. But this may be owing entirely to the mercurial
character of the French nation.
Another foreign minister drew the cape of his overcoat up over his
head during certain portions of the oration. But it was not owing to
any wish of stopping his ears--merely a preventive to cold-catching,
as the doors were open and certain draft of air perambulated the
hall, taking liberties with these great men just as if they had been
nobodies. Her Majesty the Queen of England’s servant, Sir Frederick
Bruce, is one of the handsomest men of the age. I never look at such
a man without feeling that nature’s laws have been followed and
perfected in such veritable lords of creation. Compare a lion to its
mate, the songster of the forest with plain birds who prefer domestic
duties to gadding about the woods, whistling all sorts of love-sick
tunes, and who disputes where the palm of beauty is found? The most
exquisite woman that was ever made is no more to be compared to the
handsomest man than the humble pea-fowl to his majesty the peacock.
Yet the peacock thinks his mate the most exquisite of all created
things, and what woman would be so unwise as to upset his opinions?
I return to Sir Frederick Bruce, but would as soon attempt to paint
the moonbeams as to describe his personal appearance. He is a
thoroughbred, just like Bonner’s “Silver Heels” and “Fearless;” skin
as translucent as wine; hands and feet as small as a woman’s. Men are
like grapes, they need a little frost to sweeten and perfect them;
and a man is never handsome until he has been rounded and polished by
the hand of Time. And this is confirmed by the additional instances
of Chief Justice Chase and Honorable James Watson Webb, both of them
on the threshold of the winter of life, yet never before so perfect
in manly beauty.
The two men who occupied the most prominent positions before the
oratory were His Excellency the President, and the Chief Justice of
the United States. I am not going to record their lives; the pen of
the historian will do that. I desire merely to say that they were
representative Americans, who rose from the humblest position to
the topmost round of the ladder of fame. And may it prove a solemn
warning to those mothers who are accustomed to apply the slipper to
unruly urchins. I beg them to desist, lest they may be breaking the
spirit or souring the disposition of some future President or Chief
Justice of the United States.
Among the celebrities in the gallery I noticed the widow of Daniel
Webster. But as I have given my opinion about the beauty of women, I
shall make no departure from it, unless the ends shall justify the
means. The wife of the Lieutenant General, Julia Dent Grant, occupied
a front seat in the gallery, just as she had a right to do. She wore
a pink hat, a red plaided scarf, and black gloves, and a little
upstart woman who sat near me had the impudence to say the general’s
lady “looked horrid.” She no doubt would have been put out for the
above expression but the gallery was so crowded that no officer could
be found at the proper time to discharge his duty.
Just before the time arrived for opening this great historical
meeting Washington contained two sets of people besides the saints
and sinners, and these were the envious and the envied. The envied
were the fortunate holders of tickets to the meeting, and the envious
were the great outsiders. But when the third hour of that memorable
speaking arrived the tables were turned. Members began to twist
around as if they were schoolboys, the victims of pins which in
some unaccountable way had been put in the cushions of their chairs,
points upward. A celebrated New York politician treated himself
to a newspaper; tobacco-boxes circulated freely and all sorts of
expressions came over the human countenance which are possible when
men get into positions where they are obliged to behave themselves
and don’t want to. I will add, everything must come to an end, and so
did this great occasion.
As I have nearly filled the allotted space, I must only glance
at the great ball at the Marquis De Montholon’s and say it was
equal, but not superior, to the same kind of parties given by our
accomplished countrywoman, Mrs. Senator Sprague. In both cases no
expense is spared in the entertainment of guests, and any amount of
greenbacks, duty in the shape of costly silks and laces; but I learn
that precious stones are more or less abandoned, since the shoddy and
petroleum have learned to shine.
The shadows of Lent are upon us, and this fact crowded the
President’s last levee to suffocation. It was exceedingly painful
to notice the violation of good taste in some of my countrywomen by
their appearance before the Executive and the ladies of the mansion
in bonnet and wrappings. Unless ladies can conform to the usages of
good society they had better remain at home.
OLIVIA.
ADVICE POLITICAL.
PRESIDENT JOHNSON GIVES EVIDENCE OF HIS OCCUPANCY OF THE CHAIR OF THE
EXECUTIVE.
WASHINGTON, _March 1, 1866_.
It is so well known that it is almost needless for me to repeat that
politics in Washington are shaken from center to circumference, and
the country seems astounded at the bearing of a little innocent
speech which emanated from His Excellency the President, from the
balcony of the White House. Didn’t Mr. Johnson take measures to
prepare the minds of Congress and the people by his veto and still
more significant message? Didn’t he send his “Premier” to the great
metropolis to assure the people that “the war would cease in ninety
days”? If the people are astonished, who is to blame for it? Have
they forgotten the fact that they have a Southern President? Andrew
Johnson is a man. Andrew Johnson is human. This is proved by his
wise and decorous behavior on inauguration day, by his kindness of
heart to the down-trodden, and by his willingness to grant pardons to
those who humble themselves so much as to ask it. Isn’t his adopted
State shivering out in the cold, and his own flesh and blood by
marriage denied admittance to Congress--said flesh and blood holding
credentials in his hands the genuineness of which cannot for a moment
be doubted? But there is one way by which a great deal of trouble can
be saved the country and end the war which is surely coming upon the
land. It is not a war of cold steel, but the clash of mental weapons,
and it is feared that the party which can rally the most humbug is
sure to win, just as they used to do in the good old Democratic days
when Andrew Johnson sat in the Senate and had political sagacity
to see in what direction power lay. Wasn’t he a “Dimmicrat” then?
And isn’t he a Democrat to-day? Having no further use for the cloak
called Unionism, he throws it aside. Shall we acknowledge that we
have been humbugged--acknowledge that we have been dolts, idiots?
No; rather let us uphold the President and the Constitution. Let
us all turn Democrats--every man, woman and child in the land--and
then there will be nothing to fight for. But lest some unscrupulous
politicians may fail to profit by good advice, I hasten to call the
attention of postmasters and custom-house officers who have lately
been flying the star-spangled banner, and advise them to lower it
immediately; also to make haste and don a new political garment,
made by the first tailor in the land, else they will come to grief,
for already the Democrats, those long-neglected sufferers, are on
the wing for Washington, to be present at the distribution of the
spoils, and those unfortunate Republicans who were so unwise as to
vote for Andy Johnson deserve to be ousted, and the vacant places
should be filled by those returned rebels, for shouldn’t there be
more rejoicing over the one that is found than the ninety and nine
who never go astray?
And would all this trouble have come upon the land if the men
had stayed at home managing business and the women had done the
legislating? Was a woman ever known to take a frozen viper to her
bosom? This great triumph was left for man to accomplish. After the
sad experience of masculine politicians, I trust they will be content
to remain quietly at home and let wiser and weaker heads take the
affairs of the nation into their hands, and our word for it Charles
Sumner and Thaddeus Stevens, the cause of this anguish, will have to
hide their diminished heads. Sumner and Stevens are both unmarried
men; they have been bachelors ever since they were born, and this
headstrong course which they have taken, bringing anguish and woe
into every city and hamlet in the land, is owing to the want of
the softening and refining influence of woman. The President didn’t
mention this fact from the balcony of the White House, but he no
doubt would have done so if Messrs. Clampit and Aiken (counsel for
the conspirators) had called his attention to it.
If some of my readers take exception to the political caste of the
beginning of this letter, I will say that nothing else is thought
of in Washington, much less talked about, and it is surprising to
see the ladies conning newspapers that are devoted exclusively to
politics. Never, since the opening guns upon Sumter, has so much
feeling been expressed.
The solemnities of Lent are upon us, but, as the heads of the church
wisely say that no fast need be indulged in if it endangers the
health and life of the penitent--and fasting always does so--the
fair Episcopalians of Washington, those of my acquaintance, take the
season of Lent to repair their constitutions which have been so sadly
used in the whirl of gayety and the frivolity of fashionable life. I
am glad the gay season is over. How comfortable to pack away ermine,
and banish moire antiques to trunks seldom or never used, there to
repose until another season, in company with odors of “night blooming
cereus” or some such delicate perfume. But the best use which can be
made of dresses which have done duty for one winter is to send them
off by express to country cousins. But one must be careful what kind
of country cousins one has, for any little generous act of this kind
might upset one’s cream for a whole summer. It is a solemn fact that
ladies have such sharp eyes that they can detect an old dress made
new instantly, and any woman who has the audacity, for the sake of a
little well-meant but foolish economy, to humbug her friends of the
community in this way deserves the fate which is sure to be meted out
to her--that of a little downward slide on the social scale. This
applies to the extreme fashionables.
But there is another picture of Washington life. There are some
women who come to Washington who bring with their presence the
very atmosphere of the State which has the honor of sending their
husbands here. They bring the old-fashioned country ways of living
and thinking. They refuse to lower the necks of their dresses and are
perfectly willing somebody should eclipse them. They even sit with
old-fashioned knitting work in the evening, whilst their husbands
are writing letters to their constituents, for all members do not
keep a private secretary. And I have always noticed that men who wear
stockings of their wives’ knitting are the ones who stand firmest
when the shock of battle comes.
Spring is upon us. The winter has departed so gently that we almost
forgot that he has been our guest for the last three months. And
young Spring, with his balmy breezes, is here, for he brings none of
his boisterous, blowy gambols with which he regales our kinfolk in
more northern latitudes. The season has come suggestive of new-laid
eggs and frisky calves gamboling in the pastures, all unmindful of
the cruel knife. Oh, for a quiet week in the neighborhood of the
Quaker City.
“Man made the town, but God made the country.”
OLIVIA.
A PLEA FOR THE NEGRO.
THE PITIABLE CONDITION OF THE COLORED RACE DEPLORED.
WASHINGTON, _March 9, 1866_.
National affairs are becoming a little more settled in Washington;
at least it is hoped that the iron cloud has a silver lining. Mr.
Johnson has assured a well-known politician that he shall make his
fight entirely within the lines of the Union party; also that he has
no office to bestow on “Copperheads.” This is the last manifesto
that has been issued from the White House to my personal knowledge.
It is true that politicians declare that they will not believe any
more of his assurances, because he is sure to contradict himself
next day. But isn’t it a historical fact that all great rulers have
always been fond of changes? Didn’t good Queen Bess have a new dress
for every day in the year? One day Mr. Johnson assumes a political
garb that brings great joy to the rebels, alias “Copperheads.” The
next day he dons a suit particularly soothing to the ruffled feelings
of the Unionists. To-day he chooses to lay aside the Presidential
garb, which, by the way, is as heavy and irksome as a coat of mail,
and assumes the garb of a humble citizen, and indulges in a few
personal insinuations; and shouldn’t we be thankful that the citizen
isn’t lost sight of in the mighty ruler? Isn’t this a proof of the
soundness of American institutions? From the North, East, and West,
from Tennessee, come scathing denunciations from the men who placed
him in power, aided and assisted by one Booth; but he bears it with
the dignity becoming his high position.
I have not heard of any dismissals from office on account of
differing with him in opinion, but some have been dismissed for
expressing them.
Among the number I notice Mrs. Jane Swisshelm, a woman not entirely
unknown to fame. She has held an office in the War Department ever
since the Indian atrocities in her late home in Minnesota; but her
out-spoken sentiments in the paper which she is editing here sealed
her fate, and the Secretary of War caused a letter-envelope to be
laid upon her desk as potent in its designs as any other of the many
warlike and immortal plans which have issued from time to time from
his fertile brain, to his credit and honor, and the world’s benefit.
And how fortunate for the country that we have a Tycoon who has the
undaunted courage to resist the blighting influence of the so-called
gentler sex, and is not above reaching forth his hand, thereby making
woman feel that he is not to be trifled with. Mrs. Swisshelm’s paper,
_The Reconstructionist_, still survives, upheld by its unflinching
editress, and if it fails to throw light upon reconstruction, it is
because the President is blind and will not see, for her dismissal
from office proves that she has not hid her light under a bushel. But
it is rumored in political circles that she has been relieved from
office in order to go into the Cabinet, as there are Cabinet changes
hinted at, more or less, every day.
The beautiful spring weather in Washington is totally marred by
the clouds of dust that sweep the length and breadth of our grand
avenues. I can compare it to nothing but those moving pillars of sand
which bury travelers in the bosom of the great Sahara. ’Tis true one
can escape with life, but new bonnets and dresses are nearly if not
quite ruined, and the sacrifice is about the same thing; for in the
latter case we realize the loss, whilst in the former our friends are
the only sufferers.
But the clouds of dust do not prevent our sooty neighbors from
spading the gardens, and just now they are engaged in turning up
the soil with their blades in that gentle, easy manner which none
but a negro knows how to practice. Washington is a Southern city
in every sense of the word. It may have been partially redeemed by
Yankee thrift during the war, but it is now fast sinking back to its
original condition as it was in the days of the “old regime.” Slavery
is dead, it is true, but the black man is not a citizen. He is the
humblest laborer in the vineyard. But hard as their lot appears,
it is far preferable to hopeless slavery; and though thousands of
lives of the present generation may be sacrificed upon the altar of
freedom, a new future awaits them; and if their Moses has changed his
mind, or concluded that he has other work to do, they must bide their
time, and raise up a leader of their own race and color, for the Lord
has ordained that every people shall work out their own salvation.
This is not a political view of the subject, only a feeble woman’s,
who can do nothing for the freedman but utter shriek after shriek for
him, which has proved just as efficient as anything that has been
done in various quarters. Congress has done all it could do; the
President has promised to be their “Moses,” and the negro persists in
suffering. Who is to blame for it? Do they not bring their sufferings
upon their own heads? What business have they to be born? Isn’t it
a crime of the darkest dye? I leave this painful subject for wiser
heads to explain, but should anything new transpire in regard to it,
I shall make haste to inform my readers at the earliest moment.
Since the grand speech from the White House one is astonished at the
sudden development of a spirit which was supposed to have collapsed
with the rebellion. Great flaunting pictures of General Lee appear
at conspicuous places to attract the attention of passers-by. He
has taken Washington at last. One prominent bookstore balances his
picture by that of General Grant; but a certain other bookstore
betrays its ideas very ridiculously by a set of pictures--General
Washington being in the center, Jeff Davis on one side and Jesus
Christ on the other! Had the shopkeeper displayed the picture of our
lamented Lincoln side by side with the assassin Booth my astonishment
would have been no greater. Does the community think treason a crime
when such things are allowed in our midst? We hear of no more balls,
levees or receptions.
It seems as if the early days of the revolution were upon us again,
as if we must prepare ourselves for events which possibly might
become calamities in the end. New gypsy bonnets are displayed by
milliners, but we have not seen a face peeping out from one, either
handsome or ugly. And isn’t this a symptom of the earnestness of the
times, just as straws show which way the wind blows? I did not mean
to write a political letter; but there are times when we are caught
in a storm, our eyes blinded with lightning, our ears filled with
thunder; rain pouring, and no umbrella; mud deep, and no overshoes.
When the storm subsides may we greet our readers under pleasanter
auspices.
OLIVIA.
AT DRY TORTUGAS.
SEEKING PARDON FOR THOSE IMPRISONED ON THAT ISLAND.
WASHINGTON, _February 16, 1867_.
The reticence of General Grant covers the future with a haze of
obscurity. Different Cabinet combinations appear before the public
vision, like so many dissolving views of a midsummer night’s dream.
The President-elect appears at a dinner party and escorts one of the
gentlemen home, and the latter fortunate individual is decided to be
an embryo Cabinet minister, and the lobby cries, “Hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!”
It is very quiet in Washington, but it is the sultry calm which
precedes the storm. All are waiting for the secret which is locked
in General Grant’s mind as securely as the genie was fastened in
the copper box under the seal of the great Solomon. In the meantime
President Johnson is busy providing for his friends, as well as other
unfortunates, who are not clamoring at the door of the Executive
chamber in vain. Day after day, for months, a few fearfully bereaved
women have haunted the White House. Among the number might have been
found the wife of Sanford Conover, alias Charles A. Dunham, who
perjured himself on the trial of John Surratt, and since his sentence
has been serving out his term in State’s prison. Day after day this
pale-faced, indefatigable woman has been haunting Mr. Johnson;
haunting every man whom she supposed could have any influence in
her behalf. At last her unwearying efforts have been crowned with
success. Judge Advocate Holt and Honorable A. C. Riddle (one of the
counsel on the trial) have said that Conover “without solicitation
gave valuable information to the Government, which was used to
assist the prosecution, and that he is entitled to the clemency of
the Executive on the principle that requires from the Government
recognition of such service, and that he has already served two years
of his term.”
Another smitten woman’s feet have pressed the costly Wiltons of the
Executive Mansion as sorrowfully as Hagar’s did the parched sward of
the wilderness. It is the wife of Dr. Mudd, the man who was tried
with the other conspirators, and is now serving out his life term at
the desolate “Dry Tortugas.” During the last dreadful yellow fever
epidemic, our officers on the island testify to the almost superhuman
efforts of Dr. Mudd in behalf of the prisoners and soldiers. He
seemed to have a charmed life among the dead and dying. There was
no duty so loathsome that he shrank from it, and when he could do
no more for the sufferers in life he helped to cover their remains
with the salted sands. Armed with this testimony of the officers, for
months Mrs. Mudd has attended Andrew Johnson like a shadow.
One day last summer a personal friend of the President’s was admitted
to the Executive presence. As he took the lady’s hand, he smilingly
remarked: “I am sorry that I kept you waiting.”
She replied, “There is another lady who has been waiting longer than
I have.”
“Do you know her?” asked the President.
“I never saw her before,” said the lady.
The President called a messenger, saying, “See who is in the
ante-room waiting.”
A smile crept over the messenger’s face as he answered, “It’s only
Mrs. Mudd.”
“Only Mrs. Mudd,” echoed the President, while a spasm of pain chased
over his countenance. “That woman here again, after all I have said?”
At the same time the President put both hands to his face.
“Why do you allow yourself to be so annoyed?” said the friend, using
the license which belongs to a woman’s friendship.
“The President of the United States ought not be annoyed at
anything; besides, I have no right to put any one out of this house
who comes to see me on business and behaves with propriety. Don’t let
us talk about that; let us think of something else.”
Of all forsaken places on this planet, there is none that will
compare in terror to the Dry Tortugas. By the side of it St. Helena
is a kind of terrestrial paradise. Neither friendly rock, shrub,
tree nor blade of grass is to be seen on its surface. It is a small,
burning Sahara, planted in the bosom of the desolate sea, without a
single oasis to relieve its savage face. The garrison and prisoners
have to depend on cisterns for their supply of water, and out of
the thirty-seven carpenters who, in the beginning of the rebellion,
went there with the corps of engineers to look after repairs, only
four returned alive, and two of these have been confirmed invalids
ever since. When one of the carpenters was questioned to explain the
great mortality, he said it was owing, at this particular time, to
the miserable quarters prepared for the workmen, and to the bad water
that was dealt out to them, of which, bad as it was, they could not
get enough to supply their pressing wants. The island swarms with
insects that bite and sting; and if the soldiers on duty there were
not frequently relieved and sent to the mainland, mutiny and its
attendant horrors would be sure to follow. When a criminal deserves
to expiate ten thousand deaths in one, it is only necessary to send
him to the Dry Tortugas.
For several months people have been at work here upon certain
nominations which have been sent to the Senate. Mrs. Anna S. Stephens
has not been only at work on the life of Andrew Johnson, which she
has foretold will end with the one immortal triumph (his escape
from his impeachment foes), but she also succeeded in getting her
son nominated as consul to Manchester, England. While the venerable
mother has labored at the White House, the would-be consul’s wife, in
charming silks and costly gems, has sought introductions to leading
men who might have some influence with the stony Senate, if they
only chose to exercise it. It has become well known in Washington
that whenever a man feels ambition swelling in his bosom the best
remedy is to send some interesting feminine diplomat to court, and
if she does not succeed he will then know it was because the case
was hopeless from the beginning. In the good old days of Queen Bess,
diplomacy was almost altogether in the hands of the woman; then that
was certainly one of the most remarkable eras in the world’s history.
James Parton, the distinguished magazine writer, has been here for
several days. He has been seen on the floor of the House, and also in
close consultation with many leading members of Congress, as well as
doorkeepers, messengers, pages, and all others who are supposed to be
wise and serious when talked to in regard to a certain very delicate
subject. It is said that Mr. Parton is preparing an article upon the
Washington lobby. It is said he is going to hold up the monster in
the broad light of day--this creeping, crawling thing, which, in more
respects than one, bears a strong resemblance to Victor Hugo’s devil
fish; for while it is strong enough to strangle the most powerful
man, if once fairly drawn under the surface in its awful embrace, yet
if you attempt to pluck it to pieces, piecemeal, you are rewarded
with only so much loathsome quivering jelly.
This nation will never realize the debt of gratitude it owes the
men who are standing as sentinels at the doors of the Treasury. The
Committee on Claims are besieged by an army more terrible in its
invincibility than ever stormed the earthworks of fort or doomed
city. It is true, the arms used by the enemy are of a kind as old as
creation, whilst the flash of an eye answers to the old flintlock or
modern percussion cap. As yet these noble men have defended every
inch of ground, and many of these fair Southern braves have withdrawn
their claims for the present, waiting for another set of sentinels
who will replace those on duty now. But more of this anon.
OLIVIA.
STATE ASSOCIATIONS.
IOWANS ASSEMBLE AT THE RESIDENCE OF SENATOR HARLAN.
WASHINGTON, _February 25, 1867_.
Looking at society in Washington from a certain point of view, is
like gazing upon the shifting scenes of a brilliant panorama. But
one of the most delightful and home-like pictures consists of the
different persons temporarily sojourning here, and who have always
retained the right of citizenship in their respective States, joining
together under the name of an “association” for the interchange of
friendly sentiments as well as for the cultivation of fraternal love.
It is the business of the president of these meetings to keep a list
of the names and residence of all who belong to the association, and
strangers coming to Washington can by this means find without trouble
their acquaintances and friends. These Western associations are
particularly flourishing this winter. One week we are told that the
Indiana Association has had a pleasant gathering, and the Honorable
Schuyler Colfax and John Defrees, the Public Printer, the sun and
moon of the little planetary system, have risen and set together, and
the united social element clapped its hands with joy.
Again we read that Iowa, God bless her, with her solid Republican
delegation, and her war record as unblemished as a maiden’s first
blush, has gathered her citizens together in Union League Hall, as
a hen gathered her chickens under her wing. It is at these social
meetings that the old home-fires are kindled anew in the hearts
of the Iowa wanderers; and when the most profitless carpet-bagger
arrives he is treated nearly as well as the prodigal son. Sometimes
it happens that the more prominent members “entertain” the
association, or in other words, “Iowa” is the invited guest.
Only last night Iowa, as represented by the Senate and House of
Representatives, the Departments, as well as the strangers stopping
here through the inaugural ceremonies, were invited to the elegant
mansion of Senator Harlan, where all were welcomed alike by the
Senator and his accomplished wife. Here in the spacious parlors met
the different members of the outgoing with those of the incoming
delegation of that State; and here let it be recorded that neither
Congressmen whose term of office expires on the 4th of March, could
get himself decapitated by his constituents, but was obliged at the
last moment to commit political hari-kari.
Standing a little apart from each other were the two bright
particular stars of the evening--Mrs. Harlan, the agreeable
hostess, and Mrs. Grimes, the wife of the able Senator of historic
fame, two representative women on the world’s stage to-day, and
both alike respected for their intrinsic worth, aside from the
senatorial laurels which they share. One could hardly realize, when
contemplating Mrs. Harlan, a brilliant, sparkling brunette, whose
feet have just touched the autumn threshold of age, in her faultless
evening costume of garnet silk, point lace and pearls--“Wandering,”
say you? Yes, yes; one could hardly realize that this was the same
Mrs. Harlan who had remained all night in her ambulance on the bloody
field of Shiloh, with the shrieks of the wounded and dying sounding
in her ears; and yet, out of just such material are many more
American women made.
Self-poised and dignified as a marble statue stood Mrs. Grimes,
noticeable only for the simplicity of her dress. Yet it was easy to
perceive that it was the hand of an artist that had swept back the
golden brown hair from the perfect forehead and dainty ears. Quiet
in her deportment, she seemed a modest violet in a gay parterre of
flowers. A woman of intellectual attainments, she has few equals
and no superiors here. This present winter she has mingled much more
in general society than usual, and her graceful presence helps to
scatter “the late unpleasantness” as the sun drives away the malarial
mists of the night.