WASHINGTON, _March 2, 1868_.
The season of Lent has folded its soft, brooding wings over the weary
devotees of fashion in Washington. Luxuriant wrappers, weak tea, and
soft-boiled eggs have succeeded the Eugenie trains, chicken salad,
and all those delicious fluids that are supposed to brace the human
form divine. The penitential season of Lent is just as fashionable,
in its way, as the brilliant season which preceded it. There is
nothing left for the “Jenkinses” but “to fold their tents like the
Arabs, and as silently steal away.”
But as hardy native flowers defy the chilly frost, so Speaker
Colfax’s hospitable doors swing upon their noiseless hinges once a
week, and the famous house known as the “Sickles mansion” becomes a
bee-hive, swarming, overflowing with honeyed humanity; and let it be
recorded that no man in Washington is socially so popular, so much
beloved, as Schuyler Colfax. General Grant, the man who dwells behind
a mask, is worshiped by the multitudes, who rush to his mansion as
Hindoos to a Buddhist temple; but Schuyler Colfax possesses the magic
quality of knowing how to leave the Speaker’s desk, and, gracefully
descending to the floor, place himself amongst the masses of the
American people, no longer above them, but with them, one of them--a
king of hearts in his own right; a knave also, because he steals
first and commands afterwards.
It is needless to say that all adjectives descriptive of fashionable
life at the capital have long since been worn thread-bare. Why didn’t
Jenkins tell the truth and say, instead of “warm cordiality, elegant
courtesy,” pump-handle indifference and metallic smile? Why did he
not tell the dear, good people at home the truth, and nothing but the
truth, and say that madame the duchess practices smiles or grimaces
before the glass, and serves the same up to her dear friends at her
evening receptions? Why should not a smile fit as well as her corsets
or kid gloves? Too much smile without dimples to cover up the defect
destroys the harmonious relation of the features. Not only that, but
it invites every fashionable woman’s horror. It paves the way to
wrinkles, the death-blows of every belle.
“Look at my face,” says Madame B----, of Baltimore, the widow of
royalty, the handsomest woman of three-score years and ten in
America, addressing one who shall be nameless. “You are not half
my age, and yet you have more wrinkles than I; shall I tell you
why?” “To be sure, Madame B----.” “I never laugh; I never cry; I
make repose my study.” Now, let it be added that this aged belle of
a long-since-departed generation on every night encases her taper
fingers in metallic thimbles, and has done so for the last forty
years; consequently her hand retains much of its original symmetry,
and the decay of her charms is as sweet and as faultless as the
falling leaves of a rose.
Speaker Colfax’s receptions, in one sense of the word, are unlike
all others. No prominent man in Washington receives his thousands
of admirers and says to them, after an introduction, “This is my
mother!” She stands by his side, with no one to separate them,
bearing a strong personal resemblance to him, whilst she is only
seventeen years the older. At what a tender age her love commenced
for this boy Schuyler--nobody else’s boy, though he were President!
She has put on the chameleon silk, and the cap with blue ribbons,
to receive the multitudes that flock in masses to do homage to her
son. Pride half slumbers in her bosom, but love is vigilant and
wide awake. There is no metallic impression on her countenance; a
genuine, heartfelt welcome is extended to all who pay their respects
to her idol. So the people come and go, and wonder why Speaker
Colfax’s receptions are unlike others. Only a very few stars of the
first magnitude in the fashionable world shone at the Speaker’s
mansion last night. The Associate Justice of the Supreme Court from
Iowa was there, with his elegant, lavender-robed wife--a woman
who skims over the treacherous waters of society in Washington as
gracefully and safely as a swan upon its native element. David Dudley
Field, of New York, was there--a tall, stalwart man, after the oak
pattern; and the fine faced woman, with gold enough upon her person
to suggest a return to specie payment, was said to be a new wife.
Mark Twain, the delicate humorist, was present; quite a lion, as he
deserves to be. Mark is a bachelor, faultless in taste, whose snowy
vest is suggestive of endless quarrels with Washington washerwomen;
but the heroism of Mark is settled for all time, for such purity
and smoothness were never seen before. His lavender gloves might
have been stolen from some Turkish harem, so delicate were they in
size; but more likely--anything else were more likely than that. In
form and feature he bears some resemblance to the immortal Nasby;
but whilst Petroleum is brunette to the core, Twain is a golden,
amber-hued, melting blonde.
Members of Congress were there. George Washington Julian was present;
great, gifted, good, as he always is, proving to the world that even
a great name cannot extinguish him. Nature was in one of her most
generous moods when she formed him, for he towers above the people
like a mountain surrounded by hills. He dwells in a higher atmosphere
and sniffs a purer air than most Congressmen, and this may account
for his always being found in the right place, never doubtful. People
know just what George Washington Julian will do in any national
crisis. So he is left alone to score the measures of his conscience,
just as the earth is left to her orbit, or the magnetic needle to the
pole.
OLIVIA.
THE HIGH COURT OF IMPEACHMENT.
CHARACTERISTICS OF LEADING COUNSEL AND THEIR ARGUMENTS.
WASHINGTON, _March 14, 1868_.
With lightning leap the historical proceedings of the “High Court
of Impeachment” have flashed all over the country. The bone and
sinew of the matter have been given to the people, but the delicate
life-currents and details which go to make the creation perfect, if
not gathered by the pen, must be buried in the waste-basket of old
Father Time. Decorum, dignity, solemnity, are the order of the day,
and one might as well attempt a “glowing description” of a funeral as
to weave in bright colors the opening scenes of the greatest trial on
record.
Outside the Capitol, in the crowd, the incidents are beyond
description. Men are there from all parts of the country, pleading,
swearing for admittance--offering untold sums for a little
insignificant bit of pasteboard. But the police, stony, frightful
as the “head of Medusa,” shut the doors in their faces, inexorable
as the fiat of the tomb. A limited number of honest, tender-hearted
Senators are trying to smuggle in a few beloved “outsiders;” but the
police are instantly convened into a “court of impeachment,” and
the unfortunate Senator has to bow before the majesty of the law.
A ticket is the only open sesame, and a bit of yellow pasteboard
so dazzles the multitudes that even Andrew Johnson is forgotten
for a time. But the fortunate ticket-holder, when once beyond the
hurly-burly outside, finds that an entrance to a different atmosphere
has been attained. It is like leaving the famished, parched plain
at the mountain’s foot and climbing up into the cool region, almost
among the eternal snows. The Senate chamber, always chilly in
comparison with the warm, leaping blood of the House, is now wrapped
in judicial robes of coldest gray. When it is remembered that
Senators were allowed four tickets and members half that number,
it will readily be understood that even the aristocracy had to be
skimmed to fill the galleries, and with the exception of a few
newspaper correspondents, the chosen ones belong to or are attaches
of the proudest families in the land. And it is a most significant
fact that women hold nearly all the tickets. They sail into the
gentlemen’s gallery like a real “man of war,” shake out the silken,
feathery crinoline, rub their little gloved hands in an ecstasy of
delight, and while perching their heads significantly on one side,
gaze sorrowfully at the few forlorn men stranded amongst their
number, either through accident or to prove to the world that the
genus man under the most trying circumstances is not extinct. As the
Senate clock points to the hour of 1, Senator Wade leaves the chair,
and Chief Justice Chase, robed in his judicial drapery, enters at a
side door and takes the vacant seat. Very soon the managers of the
impeachment file in, Bingham and Boutwell taking the lead. A table
for their accommodation has been prepared, and as they take their
seats the silence seems like the dead, unbroken calm inhabited only
by time and space. The moment has arrived for the utterance of the
most solemn words ever echoed in the Senate of the United States--the
proclamation of the Sergeant-at-Arms calling a recreant President to
stand forth and prove his innocence or else meet the just punishment
of his crime. A momentary silence follows, and the counsel for the
accused advance and take their seats. That which was uncertainty is
now a positive fact.
Andrew Johnson will not meet the august tribunal face to face. There
is to be a state dinner in the evening at the White House, and if
feasting can be thought of at such an hour, it may be possible that
he is engaged on the bill of fare. Louis XV was engaged with his
powders and paint box, Dubarry, Pompadour, and venison, when the
storm was brewing that destroyed his family and swept the innocent
with the guilty off the face of the earth. The counsel, three in
number, face the tribunal. Mr. Stanbery is the first of the number
to speak. Keen and hair-splitting, he seems to think he is going to
carry the day by storm. He rather demands forty days for preparation
instead of requesting it. He is followed by Mr. Bingham, who confines
himself entirely to the law, without the least flourish of rhetoric
or word painting. Very soon the Senate retires for consultation. Then
an hour and a half are devoted to gossip in the gallery, and one
has time to sweep the rows of seats with an opera glass and glean
all the handsome faces; and if the whole truth and nothing but the
truth must be told, old Mother Nature (the more shame on her) has
been just as niggardly and mean in dealing out “magnificent eyes”
and “voluptuous forms” to the creme de la creme as if she were only
managing the family affairs of some poor nobody who has not a ghost
of a chance for Congressional or any other honor in our beloved
country. A limited number of large solitaire diamonds were visible;
but good taste excludes nearly all diamonds except in full dress.
As this was the highest court in the land amongst men, it might as
justly be said that it was the highest court of culture, refinement,
fashion, and good taste amongst the women. If all the elements which
make men great, just, and wise were found on the floor, it can as
truthfully be said that the galleries were never filled by so much
purity, so much that goes to make woman the connecting link between
men and the angels. Who is that noble woman with the silver hair?
The mother-in-law of Edwin M. Stanton. The other whose face time has
mellowed to autumnal sweetness and perfection? The mother of Senator
Trumbull. No, no; that picture of delicacy and grace, arrayed in
silk tinted with the shade of a dead forest leaf, with dead gold
ornaments to match? Why, that is the queen of fashion--the wife of a
Senator, the daughter of Chief Justice Chase.
No more time to notice those chosen amongst the women. The Senate has
assembled, and General Butler has the floor. He takes the largest,
most comprehensive view of the case. He is going to make his mark
upon the age, if he has not already. He seems the very incarnation of
force and will. He is followed by Judge Nelson of Tennessee, one of
the President’s counsel. Originally a preacher, I am told, he brings
the same kind of persuasion to bear upon the Senate that he would
upon rebellious sinners. As the Senate do not look upon themselves
in that light, it follows that something more substantial will have
to be used; but, as the President has chosen each of his counsel for
certain personal qualifications, it is very probable that he expects
nothing but flowery sentiment from him--the ornamental, instead of
the useful. Judge Curtis, the ablest of the President’s counsel,
said but very little, seeming well content with Judge Nelson’s waste
of words. Wilson, of Iowa, one of the ablest judicial minds in the
country, made a few remarks, of which law was the cubic measure; and,
after some amendments and voting, the day and the people vanished;
and thus ended one of the great historical days of the age.
OLIVIA.
MRS. SENATOR WADE.
THE MAKER OF AND SHARER IN HER HUSBAND’S TRIUMPHS.
WASHINGTON, _March 17, 1868_.
A calm steals over the restless political waters, and whilst we are
waiting for the next act in the great drama let us draw near those
who, by the sudden turn of the wheel of fate, are lifted high above
the multitude. Never, even in the days of the French Revolution, have
the women performed more conspicuous parts in the national play of
politics than at the present time in Washington. It can truthfully
be said that there is nothing so malignant and heart-rending in its
effects upon a good man as the burning desire to be President. God
help the man when this iron has entered his soul, for this fiery
ambition drinks up every other sweet virtue, just as the July sun
licks up the purling brook and precious dew drop. It is not man alone
who is consumed by ambition; it is woman also, who, in this as well
as in everything else, often takes the lion’s share. It was Eve who
first ate of the fruit, and gave it unto Adam, and he did partake of
it also. It is a woman who apparently has everything that the visible
or invisible world has to bestow, and yet, like the princess in the
fairy tale, deems her place incomplete unless a roc’s egg is hung in
the centre of the jeweled chamber. There is only one position at the
“republican court” that this most elegant woman has not attained.
She has never “reigned” at the White House. Every other triumph has
palled upon her taste, and if the nation would like the finest and
amongst the largest of diamonds in the country to glisten in the
Executive Mansion, and the most graceful and queenly woman of the
day to eat bread and honey in the national pantry, they will hasten
to withdraw their support from any military chieftain, and bestow the
awful burden upon a man who at this very moment is staggering under
as much as any faithful public servant can very well carry.
Come, reader; let us leave the dusty highway of frivolity and
fashion. Come into the cool, refreshing shade. You are in the
presence of the woman who, in all human probability, will be the
one above all others of her sex to whom the argus eyes of this
great nation will soon be directed. She is in the full meridian of
middle life, tall and distinguished-looking, as one would imagine
a Roman matron might be in the days of Italian glory, and it would
seem that she is precisely such a mate as her bluff and out-spoken
husband would select for a life-long journey in double harness.
It is evident that he must have chosen for qualities that would
wear under the most trying circumstances; and the material must
have met his expectations, else why should they bear such a strong
personal resemblance to each other--the very same expression of
countenance--unless they have suffered and rejoiced together, and
hand in hand tasted the bitter with the sweet?
It is well known in Washington that Mrs. Wade has not the least
ambition to shine in the fashionable world; that she has been heard
to express her exceeding distaste for the formal reception; it has
even been whispered by those who ought to know that she has the
old-fashioned love for the click of the knitting needles; and the
nation may yet find out that the reason why Senator Wade has always
stood so firm for the right was because his feet have been clad in
stockings of domestic manufacture, for this is no more astonishing
than had Archimedes the slightest point on which to place his fulcrum
he might have moved the whole world.
For many years Mrs. Wade’s name has been prominently identified
with the public charitable institutions at Washington as well as
elsewhere. Says the secretary of the “News-Boys’ Home:” “It is her
private benevolence that will longest be remembered, for it is yet to
be known when a worthy object was sent from her presence unrelieved.”
When we remember her scholarly culture, her extensive reading, and
her acquaintance with the best minds of the age, would it not almost
seem that this second tragedy, this suicide instead of assassination
at the White House, was the providential means taken to purify the
halls of legislation at the very fountain head? For if Senator Wade
drifts into the Executive chair, through no fault or effort of his
own, bound by no promise to friend or foe, what hinders him from
seizing the helm of the ship of state, and, with the aid of Congress,
guiding her out of the breakers into the calm, still waters of
Republican prosperity and peace? As only a Hercules can perform this
labor, this may account for the succession, as well as for Senator
Wade’s clear head, broad shoulders, and stout heart; and when it
happens that there will accompany him to the Executive Mansion the
same social atmosphere that characterized the days of Mrs. Adams and
Mrs. Madison, will it not seem like a return of the honest simplicity
of our forefathers, or like the long-delayed perfecting of the
Republic’s youthful days?
OLIVIA.
AT THE PRESIDENT’S LEVEE.
DISGUSTING MANNERS OF A MEMBER OF THE FRENCH LEGATION--HANDSOME
GENERAL HANCOCK.
WASHINGTON, _March 24, 1868_.
It is well known that in every country the foreign diplomats are
among the last to desert the reigning dynasty. There was a new
illustration of the fact in the presence of so many ambassadors from
abroad at the Executive Mansion last night. Conspicuous among the
number was a representative of the French legation, Parisian to the
core, Johny Crapaud in all his glory. Instead of a nosegay, Louis
Napoleon’s decorations dangled from a stray button-hole; and when we
say that his white kids were immaculate, that his necktie eclipsed
the proudest triumph of Beau Brummel, and that he was as plain in
form and feature as only a Frenchman dare to be, we have a complete
picture of foreign diplomacy, one item excepted. This was a little
jeweled opera-glass, carried in his left hand, and when our country
women with bare, dazzling shoulders came within a certain distance of
this august person, instantly the glass was leveled to an exact angle
with the parts exposed, and with no more fear or hesitation than
the doctor who brings the microscope to bear upon a bit of porcine
delicacy when the cry of trichinæ is heard throughout the land.
This may be the perfection of French taste and good manners, but it
is simply revolting to the American. There is a difference between
private life and the public stage; between a Canterbury danseuse and
the daughter of a Senator. It is because we have treated foreigners
so kindly, so forbearingly, that they have learned to despise us.
Between the hours of 8 and 11 the Executive Mansion was thronged by
a crowd, in many senses of the word truly dramatic. There were those
who went to see the “show” and those who were there on exhibition.
There is no surer sign of deterioration in entertainments than the
absence of women, and last night the men outnumbered the gentler
sex ten to one. No doubt these masculines were drawn there to show
their sympathy or gratify their curiosity; but President Johnson
seemed indifferent to all surroundings. His unreadable face was
lighted up by smiles, and when Jenkins tells the world that he
“received his friends with cordiality, and elegant hospitality,”
he will probably be telling as near the truth as Jenkins, by his
profession, is allowed to come. The President was flanked by his
illustrious Cabinet, with one exception. The head was represented by
the so-called Secretary of State, and Secretary Thomas (ad interim)
brought this ingenious combination to an ignoble end. As the real
Secretary of State was killed at or about the same time as our
lamented Lincoln, it would seem that the present incumbent is allowed
to tarry in order to prove to the world what a fearful thing it is to
outlive a once useful, honorable and perfectly rounded life. Let this
great, warm-hearted nation forgive him, and inscribe on his living
headstone: “Here lies the man who brought on his death by wanting to
be President.”
Secretary McCulloch, sleek, oily, blonde-haired, helped to relieve
the background of the Presidential picture; and to look at him
one would hardly realize that he is the rock upon which so many
officeseekers’ hopes have been split; and yet there is a certain snap
about his mouth that would remind one of a tobacco-box shut up and
put away for future use. A fine-faced, matronly woman clung to his
arm, clad in shimmering sea of green moire antique, with almost any
number of milky pearls on her person, and strangers called her Mrs.
McCulloch. Father Gideon occupied the same position and appeared
in the same attitude that he does in the great historical picture
painted by Carpenter. Ever since he has come into possession of the
goose that lays the golden egg he has helped every President to a
seat on his shoulders, just as Sinbad was aided by the “Old Man of
the Sea;” and if our next President becomes saddled, it is only
the seal of the great Solomon or more than mortal heroism that can
cope with this naval magician, for to all appearance he is to be a
national fixture for all time to come. Secretary Browning is a medium
sized, sunny-faced man, attractive as a streaked apple. He had a
youthful, pretty woman on his arm, and it was apparent to everybody
that if any one resigned his Department in order to attend to the
President, or other important business, affairs would be looked after
as faithfully as the Attorney-General’s, or with the same diligent
routine that stamps him an efficient Secretary of the Interior.
General Hancock was there, the handsomest man a woman’s eyes ever
rested upon in the military service. No matter about his record
in New Orleans; no matter about the dubious reasons that brought
him to Washington. Queen Bess, one of the greatest women that ever
lived, would have made him prime minister at once, and if Andrew
Johnson wishes to emulate this illustrious woman, and add glory to
his declining reign, none but a Senate lost to the most exquisite
emotions will interfere. Towering a whole head and shoulders above
foreign ministers and all others in the room, one’s eyes must be
raised to view the stars on his shoulders, just as they are lifted to
the flaming star that rests upon the strap of Perseus, proving him to
be one of the greatest generals in the heavens.
Heretofore a President’s levee has been a fair sample of different
layers of society; this last one has been the exception. There were
the President’s few confidential advisers, and those allied to him
through interest who remained in the room with him, dividing and
sharing the honor which they must feel is slipping away. Secretary
Seward received by the side of Mrs. Patterson. General Hancock
held his reception a short distance from the President; whilst the
policeman on duty and Marshal Gooding, who has to perform the task
of introduction, looked as if they wished the farce was over. The
East Room seemed an immense bee-hive, swarming with black-coated
honeybees, and if the truth must certainly be told, the queens
were as scarce as in any other well-behaved, respectable hive. At
precisely 11 o’clock the Marine Band tied up their shining horns and
scattered in the darkness, the guests vanished, and the Executive
Mansion was left to its uneasy dreams.
OLIVIA.
MARY CLEMMER AMES.
TRIBUTE TO THE TALENTED CORRESPONDENT OF THE NEW YORK INDEPENDENT.
WASHINGTON, _March 31, 1868_.