be eating in public. History tells us that a great monarch used to
take his emetics and vomit gracefully in the presence of the court,
but even royalty could not add dignity to, nor throw a rosy glamor
over, one of Nature’s disgraceful freaks. And in the high court
of impeachment no pink-lipped, amber-haired beauty can afford to
distort her features and wantonly assail the ears of her neighbors
by cracking nuts with her pearly teeth. If a woman has neither youth
nor beauty, and commits the same fatal error, “Angels and ministers
of grace defend us!”
OLIVIA.
A FAITHFUL SERVANT.
A COMPREHENSIVE REVIEW OF THE LIFE WORK OF HON. THADDEUS STEVENS.
WASHINGTON, _April 28, 1868_.
After the storm and cloud of an eventful life, Thaddeus Stevens
lingers on the disc of the Western horizon, surrounded by the glory
of departing day. As he stands the central figure in the House of
Representatives, he likewise occupies the same place at the manager’s
table in the high court of impeachment. Like Lord Brougham, his
intellectual powers seem to lose little by age, and his argument in
behalf of the House has none superior, if any equal to it. Short,
compact, conclusive, it was made up of the cream of the whole matter
in the dispute. On the day of its delivery, as the Chief Justice
ceased speaking, the galleries were hushed into more than attentive
silence. Slowly the venerable speaker advanced to a chair on the
platform so as to be able to face the Senate, his position being
at the same time such that he could be plainly seen by the crowd
in the vast galleries, who were listening, intent on catching the
faintest word. He seemed to be impressed with the solemnity of the
surroundings, also to realize that the present effort was to be the
last great crowning work of his life. Slowly he rose, trembling, yet
brilliant as the flame that sometimes shoots upward when the taper
burns low in the socket before it expires. His reading, at first low
and tremulous, grew stronger and stronger until it reached every
nook of the vast Senate chamber. As he sat in his easy chair, the
beholder could not help but feel that Thaddeus Stevens lives to prove
to the world the immortality of the soul. He shows that the body is
not necessary to human existence. He shows that passion can live
notwithstanding the fire of life is nearly out; and though every
window of his mansion of clay is broken, and through each rent and
crevice the storm of the outer world pours in, yet, like a couchant
lion in his den, his mind is ready to spring upon an adversary; and
in any work that devolves upon the servants of the country, Thaddeus
Stevens is ready to accept the royal share.
As every season of the year has its beauties, so has every season
of life. Though it be winter, it is only the poor who sigh for the
summer heats. He who is rich in intellect, though he stands upon
the snows of age, partakes of the holiest and most elevated joys.
Far up the mountain the traveler has ascended. Human life, with its
contentions and struggles, is spread out before him in the valley
below. He can look down upon his fellow-man kindly, lovingly, for he
sees the thorn and the bramble, the hidden ditch and the concealed
stone, over which his brother may stumble and sometimes falls. But
as he climbs higher and still higher, the valley, with its smiling
river and fairy dells, fades imperceptibly, the twilight of the upper
world surrounds him, and he sees, both above and below, in letters
of living fire, the single word JUSTICE; and happy is he who, like
Thaddeus Stevens, has made this solemn word his song by day, his
pillar of fire by night, for eternal justice is the living God.
A great many years ago, a Green Mountain boy was fairly embarked on
the ocean of life. No gaily-painted merchantman was at his command;
only a little life-boat, whose paddles were a pair of strong hands;
no supplies, only those so deftly hidden away in the cunning recesses
of his brain. In the beginning he said it is not good to be alone;
so he fashioned himself a banner, inscribed with the golden letters
of Universal Justice, Liberty, and Education. With this flag upon
his bosom, singlehanded and alone, he fought the ignorant prejudices
of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. This childless bachelor
said the State should be taxed to educate the children. Was it light
from the Infinite shining upon Mr. Stevens that enabled him to see
deeper into the welfare of these children than their own parents
or guardians? He met the most powerful opposition, but proved
himself as invulnerable as Achilles without a heel. He conquered.
The commonschool system of Pennsylvania owes its being to Thaddeus
Stevens, and unborn myriads may owe their success in life to this
great benefactor.
There was weeping and wailing heard through the centuries. The
stifled sob of slave mothers smote the air because their babes were
sold into bondage, and though they might be living on the earth yet
were dead to them forever. The slave-pen lifted its atrocious head
and flaunted its pestilential shadows within the call of the nation’s
capital. The auctioneer’s voice rang shrill and clear, going! going!
gone! whilst the American Shylock advanced and paid for his pound of
human flesh. The torturing chain and lash were held in the hand of
the overseer, and with no hope, no refuge, for the fugitive but the
deadly morass or more desolate canebrake, there to be followed by the
keen-scented bloodhound or his still more relentless foe. The people
of Israel lay prostrate with faces buried in the dust, forgotten by
the nations of the earth, apparently forgotten by their God. But the
clouds of wrath gathered, and at last overspread the whole land.
The youthful Republic saw, for the first time, a serious civil war.
Although tried on many a battlefield before, it was in the great war
for the downfall of oppression that Thaddeus Stevens sprang into
existence as the “leader of the House.” It was in the vast arena of
Congress, that awful place, where even more than average men are
lost in its immensity, that Thaddeus Stevens shone with a steady
unfaltering light--a sun with a solar system around him. It was not
alone the untiring efforts of great generals, or the spilling of
blood or the wasting of treasure, that saved the life of the nation.
He who helps to keep the fountain of legislation pure, who keeps the
mantle of trust reposed in him by the people clean and free from
the speck or blemish at all times, whether it be war or peace, is
a nation’s benefactor. Let the nation’s head be uncovered in the
presence of Thaddeus Stevens.
It is the work of a biographer to follow a great man through a long
and well spent life; and it is extremely unfortunate that Mr. Stevens
has never been known to make the acquaintance of a Boswell, for how
much that is crisp and readable must now be lost. It may be pleasant
to know that he has sold his lots in the two cemeteries of which he
was an owner because colored people were refused burial in them;
though it may be possible that he feels that he shall have future use
for them. It is so natural to forget to say that a noble character
has any faults. But who remembers the spots on the sun? It is enough
to know that we owe life to its benign influence.
Long, long, will Mr. Stevens remain photographed upon the minds
of those who now have the honor to behold him, as he sits in his
easy chair day after day. Nature did not make him handsome, but she
fashioned him with a bold, rugged outline, suggesting power and
sublimity, like the solemn mountain or the surf-beaten cliff.
OLIVIA.
JOHN A. BINGHAM.
ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH HONORS IN FORENSIC CONFLICT.
WASHINGTON, _May 7, 1868_.
Never, even during the late days of storm and darkness, has the sun
set upon such scenes as were enacted on the last day of argument
before the High Court of Impeachment. No more can it be said that the
age of oratory has fled, for John A. Bingham has shown that there
is a man amongst us who possesses the rare power of electrifying
the multitude: of making one vast sea of humanity throb with
overwhelming emotion. I might as well attempt to “paint the sunbeams”
as to give a description of his glowing words. From history he drew
the parallel between James the Second and our recreant President.
Mirabeau’s immortal answer to the king’s usher, “Go tell your master
that bayonets have no power over the will of the people,” seemed
as if uttered anew by the spirit of the great Frenchman. Never in
the history of the world has any man been called to plead before
such a bar, and for such a cause. No court has existed like it in
the world’s annals, and no such criminal has been called to answer.
Only the attributes of conceded genius sustained Mr. Bingham, and
made him strong for the work assigned to him. He seemed to feel that
this trial was not simply a means for the punishment of one daring
offender, but that it was to prove the strength and stability of
republican institutions for all time--to prove that the strongest
are as imbecile before the majesty of the law as the beggar of the
highway.
Upon the floor of the American Senate the majestic scenes of history
are again repeated. One man stands out from the multitude, pleading
the cause of myriads against the aggressive encroachment of a wicked
ruler. Every inch of available space in the vast chamber contains a
human being, and the silence of the grave prevails. Little by little,
blow after blow, as the sculptor chisels the marble, the orator is
building a monument--one which is to stand through the centuries,
long, long after lithe, supple John A. Bingham is only a handful of
dust. No link is missing in the chain; no dead sentiment clings to
his ideas; his perfect sentences are steeped at once in logic and
poetry. It is the handwriting on the wall in letters of living fire.
The orator closes. A momentary silence like that which precedes
the hurricane’s crash, and there arises from floor to ceiling such
confusion which even the vigorous blows of the Chief Justice’s gavel
are inadequate to suppress. It was like the voice of the gallant sea
captain commanding the elements to be still. Then Senator Grimes
comes to the rescue, and moves that the galleries be cleared. Senator
Cameron hopes that the galleries will not be cleared, and that
allowance will be made for the extraordinary occasion. Mr. Fessenden
and Mr. Reverdy Johnson call Mr. Cameron to order, whilst Mr.
Trumbull moves that not only the galleries be cleared, but that all
disorderly persons be arrested. At the same time the British minister
and others in the diplomatic inclosure are seen apparently contesting
their rights with the doorkeepers, whilst a flutter appears in the
reporter’s gallery similar to that noticed in a flock of blackbirds
when a handful of shot has been remorselessly distributed amongst
them. From his throne, which was only a plain, cane-seated chair,
Manager Bingham surveys the tumult. He who has sown the whirlwind
smilingly surveys the storm. He is weary and exhausted, and his cheek
has the pallor of the grave, but he feels that the applause was for
him. The uproar continues. At last the inexorable fiat is understood.
The galleries must be cleared upon the instant. So a surging tide
of humanity pours out of every open door. Little knots of people are
scattered here and there the whole length of the long corridors, all
talking about the one absorbing theme. Grand tableaux of excited
men are grouped in the rotunda, even the stairs have caught stray
whisps of surplus, standing humanity, all madly intoxicated with the
enthusiasm of the hour. The world never seems weary of Boswell’s talk
about Dr. Johnson; and with the same desire to please, let it be told
that Mr. Bingham was asked how he felt after the proudest triumph
of his life. Using his own words: “I don’t know how I feel; I only
know I have spoken enough to make thirty columns in the Congressional
Globe. God knows I have tried to do my duty; it is in the hands of
the Senate now. The great work of my life is done.”
Day after day we see our neighbor, John A. Bingham, an unpretending
man of simple tastes, and whose mind is a storehouse of classic
culture. About the average height of his fellow-men, he is far more
slender and graceful, and though not handsome according to the
prescribed rules of beauty, yet like the High Court of Impeachment,
which is a law unto itself, he looks like John A. Bingham, and there
is nothing better by which he can be compared, estimated, or measured.
OLIVIA.
ANSON BURLINGAME.
HIS TRIUMPHANT CAPTURE OF THE INHABITANTS OF THE FLOWERY KINGDOM.
WASHINGTON, _June 20, 1868_.
A new and startling drama is performing on the world’s stage. The
Occident and the Orient are at last united. The oldest nation on the
face of the earth is shaking hands with the youngest. Gray-bearded
China, after being hermetically sealed during the long ages, opens
her arms to embrace Young America, and in the height of her good
humor includes the rest of the world. Another laurel is added to
the fame of America. A countryman of ours has shown what genius
and courage can accomplish in the great field of diplomacy. Anson
Burlingame has smitten the strongholds of China as Moses smote the
rock in the wilderness, and the sweet waters flow forth in Washington
in the shape of dozens of pig-tailed, almond-eyed, silken-clad
Orientals, who charm by their picturesqueness, and who leave the
gates of wonder standing ajar every day. To the eye of an ordinary
“barbarian” one Chinaman looks as much like another as two pins
from the same paper; but a very close inspection shows that the two
mandarins are made of a little finer clay than the “suite.” There
is just about the same difference as between their own exquisite
porcelain and the modern French china.
Owing to the fashionable shoes of their mother, the mandarins have
inherited feet made expressly for Cinderella’s slipper, whilst their
delicate taper fingers vie with any high-born damsel’s in the land.
They are exceedingly attractive, but the sentiment they inspire is as
strange as themselves. It isn’t the usual homage that woman gives
the opposite sex, and their fluttering silken skirts and fans help to
keep up all sorts of illusions. They have brought a miniature China
with them, in the shape of all that goes to sustain life--their own
servants, cooking utensils, favorite beverages, etc.
The Metropolitan Hotel had been turned into a Chinese pagoda, and
Minister Burlingame and his elegant wife are the presiding seers,
whilst the multitude flock to offer incense at their shrines. Not
an hour can they call their own; and though they are very weary
this exhausting weather, Mr. Burlingame says, “I am so glad to meet
with so much kindness from my countrymen.” It is this warmth--these
genuine, electric flashes of the soul--that melts all opposition.
Since the birth of our young Republic how many wise and good men have
been sent to China; but we must acknowledge that we never sent the
right man before. All honor to the young pioneer who reflects so much
credit upon American diplomacy. It is a plain citizen of our Republic
who introduces the oldest monarchy to the whole civilized world.
In answer to the question, “How did you bring it about?” “Bring it
about?” said he. “I studied Chinese character. I made them feel
that we meant them no harm. It has been the habit in times past,
if any demand or request was made by foreign powers to the Chinese
Government and the request was not favorably received, to dispatch
a gunboat to make a warm impression. This never was my course of
action. I never resorted to force. I labored to make them feel that
my propositions were for our mutual good; and,” he continued, “I
must not forget to say how much influence women have in China; for
if the two most influential women in the Empire had not favored the
expedition we should not have been seen in this part of the world. Of
these august ladies one was the Empress’ mother; the other the wife
of the Emperor.”
Mr. Burlingame did not say whether he met these ladies face to
face; but, if he did, the birth of the Chinese embassy is no longer
a wonder, for even Queen Elizabeth, one of the greatest sovereigns
that ever lived, was never proof against those subtle, insinuating
influences far easier felt than described.
Mr. Burlingame was cast in one of nature’s finest moulds. Towering
just enough above the medium height to be called commanding, with
proportions as symmetrical as a perfect tree in the forest, a face is
added that is strikingly classic, which attracts the eye for a moment
only, giving way to the spiritual impression.
Whilst this Chinese panorama was unfolding, a graceful woman for a
moment was pictured on the canvas--Mrs. Burlingame, the only woman
who accompanies the party. There was a gleam of a pair of dark,
lustrous eyes; a shadow cast by the heavy coils of black, wavy hair;
something blue and filmy as Oriental gauze enveloped her fine figure;
a side door opened, and the vision was gone.
Striking points of similarity exist between the old monarchy and
the young Republic. China is divided into provinces as our country
is divided into States. Education is within reach of all. From the
humblest beginning merit can rise and divide the honors with the
imperial blood. An inexorable fiat envelops China as with a network
of bristling steel. It is the supreme law of the land. There is
no appeal from its decree. It holds the highest and the lowest in
its vise-like grasp. Like death, it respects no private claim. The
Emperor is as impotent before it as the Chinaman who has not the
wherewith to provide a dinner. This is the one great principle, the
all-powerful cohesive force which has kept this vast Empire together
from time immemorial. Let America try to forget the past, and in this
respect walk in the footsteps of the imperial China.
OLIVIA.
A TALENTED QUARTETTE.
MADAME LE VERT, GAIL HAMILTON, VINNIE REAM, AND MRS. LANDER.
WASHINGTON, _January, 1869_.
A reception at the governor’s mansion occupies that middle ground
which may be supposed to be between a President’s levee and the
private party given by a well-to-do Congressman. The governor
must invite everybody because he is everybody’s servant, like the
President, only he has no White House and paid retinue of lackeys, no
fuel and gas found, and no fifty thousand per year. On the contrary
“he must find himself,” and this he will be obliged to do whenever
the enormous bills are paid. If one could have seen the crowds that
for four mortal hours filled the governor’s large dining-hall they
would have prayed for a repetition of the same miracle that took
place some eighteen hundred years ago, when the bread and fish could
not give out, and water was spoiled by being turned into wine.
But the worst comes. We have got a governor--none of your
milk-and-water kind--and who looks every inch a governor, as much
as the great Napoleon looked like an emperor. We have so many
“figure-heads,” which are the result of the appointing power, that
when the real article turns up let us thank President Grant for his
act, for it makes no difference to us whether he does the right thing
by design or mistake. But the governor’s ball. Everybody was there.
The governor stood at the entrance of the broad door that led to the
right of the hall, arrayed with the usual ministerial black-looking
robe, and acting only as a governor should. By his side stood my
lady, tall, elegantly dressed in charming simplicity. She is still
very youthful to be called to occupy so prominent a place. Her dress
was simple white muslin with an overdress of black velvet, white
ruche at the throat with tiniest of rosebuds in the pleatings; no
jewels, no gewgaws. She must have taken Madame Thiers, the wife of
the early President of the French Republic, for her model, or, later
still, Madame MacMahon, not only the first lady but one of the most
sensible women in France.
The governor’s mansion is admirably arranged for entertaining
large companies. The rooms seemed to be fastened to the arc of a
circle. The guests entered the broad folding doors, followed on
from room to room, and came out near the point where they started;
a turning wheel of glaring colors, a huge human kaleidoscope--what
better comparison? We will suppose you are behind the governor, as
Mephistopheles is said to have stood behind Faust. But then you are
only a harmless correspondent, and the image is in the very worst
taste; and yet, even in newspaper comparisons, it is well to keep
all the best things for one’s self. You are behind the shadow of the
governor--invisible, you see nothing, but you feel a great deal. A
turn of the wonderful kaleidoscope and there comes to view the great
warrior Tecumseh, sometimes called General Sherman, the Beau Brummel
of fashionable life in Washington. Straight as one of those guns he
carried so successfully to the sea, and just about as useful at the
present day, yet very dear to us, because he is the best paid for
the least work of any man in the Union. And yet he was seen at the
Burns Festival, as well as many other places, with Vinnie Ream on
his arm, and who knows what the veteran warrior may have suffered?
Vinnie is not large, neither is a Minie ball, and yet if either one
should hit the mark the most direful consequences might follow. When
we compare Vinnie Ream to the great men who work in stone she grows
beautifully less, but when we compare her with women she rises almost
beyond feminine proportions. She is a very small man, but a very
great woman. Go ahead, Vinnie! Bust Tecumseh, or somebody else will!
Our great men must be busted by some one, and women ought to have a
hand in that kind of work. We intend to write a book about the famous
women of Washington, and you, dear, persecuted, self-sacrificing
little sprite, shall have almost the best place.
Another turn of the wheel. Who comes there? It is our tall, lordly
speaker of the House--our handsome would-be next President--polished
as steel, and Colfaxian to the last degree, except the smile. But
he is our Speaker of the House, and, as Don Quixote said about his
own Dulcinea, we challenge the world in his defence, and if an enemy
chooses to break a lance they can do so at their own risk.
Here comes Mrs. Blaine, frozen as a New England landscape in
midwinter. The salt mist of the gray sea! Ugh! ugh! Turn the
kaleidoscope quick. The air is so cold the artificial flowers are
nipped by the frost.
And here is the sunny, laughing Gail Hamilton. Her warm face and
yellowish hair would melt an iceberg. Even her dress is the color of
sunbeams. Why is she not sent to open the Northwest passage? It is
true Franklin, Kane, and Hall have failed, but that is because they
did not take along enough fire. And yet we could not spare Gail, for
what single woman would be left to teach married ones how to manage
their husbands? Who would teach us how to bring up our children in a
bazaar-like way? It is true Gail Hamilton is not a mother, but this
may be her misfortune, besides she may not be old enough to assume
such enormous responsibilities in a small way.
A galaxy of stars blaze in the neighborhood of Gail Hamilton. The
woman in black with such elegant lace is Mrs. Lander, of histrionic
fame. Queen Elizabeth on the stage! Queen Elizabeth in private life!
This is her court--dukes, lords, princes of republican blood. A wave
of the jeweled hand and they are gone.
A ship full-rigged, with a fair wind, in the offing. It is great
and good Mrs. Ann S. Stevens, Philadelphia’s fair jewel; long may
she blaze. What a faultless costume! Quaker color, and such glorious
lace. By her side stands her slender, amber-haired daughter, clad in
white satin and tarletan, with pearls at her snowy throat and thin
ears; “blooded,” you may be sure of that.