made memorable by the speech of Benjamin F. Butler. Whilst he
was completing his tower of brilliancy and logic, the lightning
was playing with the beginning of it, and when he had finished
the great cities of the Union were as wise as we who sat within
the sound of his voice. The struggle to obtain tickets equalled,
if it did not exceed, the opening day of the trial, and the same
elegant, aristocratic crowd filled the galleries, the women, as
usual, outnumbering the men. The only really odious thing connected
with the trial is the ticket system. Suppose a crowd does gather
in the Capitol, the most perfect order prevails, and there are so
many police on duty that it is very easy to protect the Senate and
push back the waves of humanity. The grocer’s wife, the humblest
citizen, has just as much right to hear the impeachment trial as
the wife or the friend of a Congressman; and when the galleries are
properly filled, what hinders the police from meeting the late comers
and turning their unwilling footsteps away? Anything that smacks
of aristocracy or exclusiveness should instantly be put under the
feet of every American citizen. It is the masses who are the real
aristocracy, because they are the source of all power; and the moment
our public servants dare to draw lines that in any way interfere with
this great, good-natured maelstrom, the least of this mass can put a
stone in a sling which will do as good execution as the pebble of the
immortal David.
Senator Wade has left the chair and Chief Justice Chase immediately
succeeds him. For an instant let us survey this cold, haughty,
handsome face. Not for a moment could one imagine fire coursing along
his veins. His lips move, but only inarticulate sound reaches the
gallery. The New York _Independent_ must be mistaken when it says
“he has become the friend of Andrew Johnson, the idol of the young
Democracy.” Ambition may consume him with its unquenchable fire, but
with the corpse of William H. Seward before his eyes he will never
commit suicide. The Senate chamber is as quiet as a vaulted tomb.
The orator of the day arises, and thousands of eyes are brought
to a sudden focus. Benjamin F. Butler has the floor. History has
associated the name of Burke with Warren Hastings; and inseparably
linked must be the names of Butler and Andrew Johnson. Mr. Butler
is not an orator. He did not attempt to impress a jury. He simply
read a great speech to the whole country, expecting the people to
read it after him, and weigh its arguments discriminately; to note
the strong points, and feel that Benjamin F. Butler had proved
himself equal to the task imposed upon him as a trusted servant of
the American people. In making up the gifts for this rare son, it
must be said that Old Mother Nature denied him beauty; but he had
managed to outwit the fickle old dame and come out even with her at
last, for amongst the few beautiful women in the gallery Blanche
Butler, the petite daughter, was fairest amongst the fair. “What
a strong resemblance between the two!” you say. The crooked eyes
are straightened, a little added to their size, and the same fire
is flung into them both. In one case you have a pair of Oriental
almonds, seen nowhere outside of Correggio’s Madonnas. In the other,
you have eyes belonging to Benjamin Butler. The description ends.
There is nothing on earth out of which to manufacture comparison.
In the exclusive crowd which filled the galleries, it may be said
there were two grand divisions--the aristocracy and the press. The
first named were elevated to their seats by their social relations;
the latter by the divine right of being anointed sovereigns in the
world of mind, born to their inheritance, like the Bourbons and
Hapsburgs. Conspicuous amongst the limited but strictly exclusive set
might be seen the delicate, _spiritual_ face of Mary Clemmer Ames, of
the New York _Independent_. She writes poetry; the newspapers tell
us all that. She also writes stately, solemn prose. Sometimes it is
bitter and pungent, as many of our public men know. How easy and
smooth the machinery of her mind must work! There are no sudden jars
in the cogwheels of her brain, for her face is almost as smooth as
a dimpled babe’s. She is pure womanly, from the low, handsome brow
to the taper fingers, and when the time comes that woman shall stand
upon the true platform of equality and justice Mary Clemmer Ames,
with all the rest of the same sisterhood, will be remembered as the
noble pioneers whose united efforts alone achieved the great work.
Speaking of women in the world of mind, Anna E. Dickinson addressed a
fashionable audience here last night, and as we have taken a solemn
oath to say nothing but honest words we must say that we don’t like
to hear her talk. That she is brilliant and gifted, that Philadelphia
has reason to be proud of this talented child, it were useless to
deny. But God help the woman when honey no longer drops from her
lips, when nothing but gall issues from the coral crevice! She gives
the Republican party no credit for what it has done, but only heaps
abuse and scurrility upon it because it has not done more. She hurls
arguments at the heads with sledge-hammer blows, but she forgets
to use woman’s strongest, surest, most fatal weapon--that jeweled,
nameless, enchanted dagger, that, if found in the hand of the weakest
among us, never fails of reaching the heart.
OLIVIA.
AT THE IMPEACHMENT TRIAL.
“AD INTERIM” THOMAS FLAYED BY GENERAL BUTLER--KINDNESS OF THE WIFE OF
SENATOR WILSON.
WASHINGTON, _April 14, 1868_.
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.”