satin gown, great, black Oriental eyes, exotic of the South.
She makes you think of a magnolia blossom, even the perfume in
imagination stifles you. This is Madame Le Vert, sweet, loving,
trustful woman--hurt her? Not much, if you only knew how to avoid
it. She steals your heart out of your bosom, you cannot tell how;
you only feel that you have missed something, you search for it and
it is gone. Oh! these Southern women, so savage in war, so loving,
so winning in peace. Our John used to say “you can’t trust ’em.” But
who wants to trust ’em. We never expect to marry a woman if life and
death were staked on the result.
Another turn of the human kaleidoscope, lo! here is Congressman
Harmer, of Philadelphia, with his handsome wife. What a superbly
matched pair. Quicker than electric flash the mind goes back to Eden,
to the first Adam and the first Eve, and you are comforted with the
proof that creation goes on in pretty much the same faultless way,
making pairs, each half for the other. It is true there is often a
missing link, but that makes the union all the more beautiful by
comparison of the broken parts tossed helplessly on a sea of trouble.
But Mrs. Harmer, her dress must have been faultless, for alas,
nothing is remembered but her fine figure and handsome face.
General and Mrs. Albright were there. Pennsylvania at large had to
be represented, and who could do this so well as this kind-hearted,
able, and accomplished woman, with her husband to do all the heavy
work. She reminds one of a piece of sterling gold. In the course of
years she will lose no appreciable weight. How about increasing in
value? She will increase just like this precious metal, for suppose
we drain the country for exports, and water the currency, and the
bottom of the mines fall out? This is a fruitful subject, but no time
to do it justice.
But there was a woman there whose gorgeous outfit reminded one of
the tales in the Arabian Nights. Her jewels were of the rarest and
most costly kind. With the exception of a necklace worn by a Peruvian
beauty, and the Russian gems which used to adorn Madame Bodisco,
nothing has been seen lately at the capital so dazzling. A pendant
pearl, which hung from the centre of the enchanted string around her
neck, was as large as the egg of a humming-bird. Oh, the diamonds,
the emeralds, and all the other precious stones! There was a mass of
silk, feathers, and lace, and no doubt a woman swaddled somewhere,
but she could not be seen for the imprisoned glory of those shining
stones. She went away before 12 o’clock, else no doubt her godmother
would have turned her fine horses into mice. Who was she? Listen,
now; hold your breath! if we must tell--the wife of the correspondent
of the New York _Herald_!
“Who is that man, did you say?” This is he whom the cruel Don Piatt
has dubbed the “Mighty Mullet,” and yet the facetious Don may be
telling more truth than he intends, for, like the noiseless coral, he
is at work rearing his strongholds all over the land. Think how many
glorious tombstones he will have, pyramids that will last hundreds
of years. He is our Ptolemy. Who dares dispute it? When asked his
opinion of a celebrated beauty he replied: “If she only had a
southern exposure and that attic story was removed and a French roof
put in its place, she would be all right.” Architecturally speaking,
I mean. A man never should have but one idea, if it is the right one,
and a great architect should have nothing but a house in his head.
But the saddest part was when this great performance was drawing
to a close. The writer, in company with Colonel Magruder, went down
to the subterranean regions below. Such a sight met the eye of the
spectator. Colonel Magruder said that nothing had ever been done in
comparison to it by the board of public works. “It is a matter of
money. I can tell you that,” said he, “and no appropriation.” The
tables still groaned under the fragments of the enormous feast. But
the caterers and waiters were in a fainting condition. For hours
they had gallantly stood at the plates, and still the coming of morn
would insure safety to the enemy advanced, and it was feared that
only besieged. The first three hours exhausted the vast stores of
both Wormley and Welcker. Willard sent word that no provisions could
be spared on account of the hop the same evening. Cake acknowledged
that he was probably safe, because the crowd had been at Belknap’s
and the governor’s first, but as good luck would have it, there was
abundance for all, but, not satisfied with the feast, some of the
vandals in the shape of men destroyed the beautiful ornaments of
pyramids and other elegant et ceteras made for the eye alone, in
order to carry off some good-for-nothing trophy. One would think such
manners must be found in some hungry contractor. But, no; let us beg
the workingman’s pardon. It is the same set of cormorants who manage
to get into good society. The same men who disgraced themselves
at Admiral Porter’s and at the costly entertainments given by the
Japanese to the distinguished Americans at our capital. No one should
be allowed to enter the governor’s mansion or a Cabinet Minister’s
without his card of invitation. This is the only way to exclude these
well-dressed harpies. And yet all this spoliation goes on for the
women. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” This must be borne,
however, because “women are the connecting link between men and the
angels.” The governor’s ball--the story is not half told.
OLIVIA.
THE DRAGONS OF THE LOBBY.
MESSRS. GOULD, HUNTINGDON, AND DILLON AND THEIR COHORTS.
WASHINGTON, _February, 1869_.
Winding in and out through the long, devious basement passage,
crawling through the corridors, trailing its slimy length from
gallery to committee room, at last it lies stretched at full length
on the floor of Congress--this dazzling reptile, this huge, scaly
serpent of the lobby. It is true, Senator Thurman is on hand fully
equipped with his judicial arrows; but what is Thurman--dear old
Thurman--in the face of such a statesman. Philadelphia’s charming
daughter--fair, fat and forty--embraces him with eyes whose seductive
powers have only been intensified by the years. A luscious, mellow
banana; a juicy, melting peach; a golden pippin, ripened to the
very core. From India’s coral strand comes the two thousand dollar
cashmere wrap that snuggles close to her fair shoulders. Diamonds,
brilliant as the stars in Orion’s jewelled belt, adorn her dainty
ears, whilst silk, satin, velvet, feathers, and laces prove what a
railroad can do when its funds are applied in the proper direction.
To-day a remarkable set of men are engaged in digging, burrowing,
and blowing up senatorial rock--men whose faces seem carved out of
the very granite that kissed of the Mayflower many years ago. Is it
possible that all the iron endurance and savage aggressiveness so
necessary to make indomitable character has been entirely absorbed by
the railroad kings?
In the Senate wing, in a room so perfect in its appointments that
it might be taken for a jewel casket, may be seen Jay Gould, the
Napoleon of the hour. A small picture, but a great deal of time
spent on the work. How elaborately and how exquisitely finished.
About the height of the Little Corporal, but more delicate and
slender. A rare head, well rounded, with ears such as all blooded
animals possess. Pallid in complexion, like every other mortal whose
blood is pumped up into the brain to keep the huge mental fires
blazing. Eyes radiant and piercing and hair tinted like the locks of
the Prince of Darkness. If Samson’s strength lay in his curls, Jay
Gould’s must be found in his nose, for it is a feature that betrays
the whole character of the man. As there is but one Jay Gould on the
face of the earth, there is but this solitary nose, which is neither
Grecian, Roman, aquiline nor pug, but a nose abundantly able to poke
into every earthly matter and manage to come out victorious in the
end. His mouth is another extremely attractive feature--the kind,
however, that is not given to talk. It is more useful as a dainty
receptacle for terrapin and champagne, though it may be considered a
chasm of another dangerous kind, from which women are warned for all
time to keep modestly away.
For many months Jay Gould has kept one of the most beautiful women
in Washington busily employed on the Congressmen, and, astonishing
to relate, the Senators seem rather to enjoy it than otherwise.
Before Senator Ben Hill made his late exhaustive railroad speech--in
fact, just before he arose on the Senate floor--a woman, the most
notorious of the lobby, had his ear. A Northern Senator may listen to
the “queen,” but it takes the courage of the sunny South, the rare
chivalry for which that clime is noted, to permit the contact in the
broad, open light of the day, with the eye of the press of the whole
country upon him.
Floating in Congressional waters, but unlike his awful prototype
which is securely fastened to the bottom of the sea, at all hours of
the legislative day may be seen the burly form of Huntington, the
great, huge devil-fish of the railroad combination, bearing not the
slightest resemblance to his elegant associates, so far as grace of
manner or personal appearance is concerned. Cast in the same colossal
mould as William M. Tweed, with all the grossness exaggerated and
all the majesty left out, he ploughs the Congressional main, a shark
in voracity for plunder, a devil-fish in tenacity of grip; for once
caught in the toils of the monster for the helpless victim there is
no escape. At the beginning of every session this representative of
the great Central Pacific comes to Washington as certain as a member
of either branch of Congress; secures his parlors at Willard’s, which
soon swarm with his recruits, both male and female, until scattered
in the proper direction by order of the commander-in-chief. What a
motley collection of camp followers. To the naked eye are visible
ex-senators and ex-members, discharged Capitol employees who are
thoroughly informed as to the “ropes,” whose business it is to warn
those who have the privilege of the floor the auspicious moment
for a successful raid. Every weakness of a Congressman is noted,
whilst the wily Huntington decides whether the attack shall be
made with weapon of the male or female kind. Tall and broad, both
round and square, a quivering mass of concentrated sensuality, bold
enough to appear in public with the scarlet woman on his arm, a
heroism which daunts the courage of the vilest of his own sex, not
content with his already princely gains he now seeks, like the late
Jim Fisk, to lay a whole continent under his avaricious tribute.
Said a member of Congress: “He can draw his check for hundreds of
thousands of dollars; everything which is in the market he can buy.”
During his life the time is too short for the people to learn how
to checkmate him. He is to this age what Alexander, Hannibal, and
the great Napoleon were to the past. He governs, but not with cold
iron or steel; he uses keener and more subtle weapons. Instead of
the bullet which cleared the way in a former age, man’s honor is the
point which receives the poisoned poniard. What will be the fate of
the Republic when all national legislation is permitted to become
defiled? Within the memory of middle-aged men foreign ministers were
not allowed the privilege of the floor. These sacred aisles have now
become headquarters for the kings of lobby, who are as much at home
there as the Senators of the widest fame.
This is Sidney Dillon, president of the Union Pacific, and one
of the most superb creations to be found within the marble walls
of Congress. What a princely presence and distinguished bearing,
towering far above the average of his sex in height, with features
as classic and clear cut as a cameo gem. In action, the embodiment
of an Achilles, and in repose as graceful as the statue of the Greek
slave. Can it be possible there is warm, red fluid in his veins, or
a fountain of human kindness in his breast? As he stands mentally
playing with a Senator, he might easily be mistaken for something
more than human, yet neither horns nor tail are visible. What power
has he which the Congressmen appear to have not? Step a little
closer. No sound is heard issuing from his finely chiseled lips. He
is speaking, but there is no expression at play with the classic
features. Solemn, icy, apparently immutable, he only needs the Hebrew
cast of countenance to become the living personification of the
Wandering Jew. Unlike Jay Gould and Huntington, his work is seldom
trusted to women. Though one should approach him as fascinating as
the serpent of the Nile, as lovely as Venus, or as perfect as Hebe,
the Union Pacific would lean back on its everlasting snow-sheds
and defy the powers of darkness and Mother Eve combined. Taken
separately, or all together, no such trio of men have ever appeared
on the Congressional floor at the capital and no such corporation has
ever been known to exist in the whole civilized world.
OLIVIA.
PRESIDENT GRANT’S INAUGURAL.
ENTERING UPON THE DUTIES OF THE EXECUTIVE.
WASHINGTON, _March 5, 1869_.
On the 4th of March the goddess of day arose with bedraggled garments
and watery eyes; but as the sun advanced to her meridian the clouds
trembled and dissolved in mid air, and the atmosphere grew balmy as
an infant’s breath, and at high noon all nature seemed decked in
holiday mood to crown the eighteenth President of the United States.
A magic card was the “open sesame” to the Capitol, and once inside,
the beholder was dazzled with a picture as gorgeous as anything ever
beheld in the far-famed halls of the Montezumas. Here were seen
the great, strong arms of the Government, as represented by both
branches of Congress, the Army and the Navy, and the Supreme Court.
The foreign ministers in their gay court dresses, bespangled with
decorations and shimmering with gold lace, gave the last finishing
touch of brilliancy to the scene upon the floor. The diplomatic
gallery was filled with ladies through whose veins coursed the bluest
blood of Europe, though in personal attractions they were equalled
and in some cases totally eclipsed by the grace and beauty of the
American queens around them. Never has the Senate been filled with
a more aristocratic assembly, and yet an occasional pretty Treasury
girl’s face peeped out, proving some great man’s exquisite taste, as
well as that exclusiveness was not carried so far as to add the last
feather to the camel’s back.
One of the front seats had been reserved for the use of Mrs.
Grant and the friends who might be with her, but she did not take
possession of it, and it remained unoccupied during the entire
ceremonies. The seat retained for Mrs. Colfax and her friends was
filled by that lady and her relatives, while every available square
inch of the room in the vast gallery reflected some root, branch,
or favorite of the men in power to-day who represent the leading
Departments of the Government.
At precisely the hour of noon the buzz of whispered conversation
was hushed, and in came the “coming man,” the cynosure of all eyes,
Ulysses S. Grant, who was about to receive a new honor--the highest,
the holiest, within the gift of a sovereign people. He was plainly
attired in citizen’s dress, nothing noticeable but his yellow gloves.
Many of the audience would have said: “He seems as modest, diffident,
and shy as ever.” Others would have seen a man of power, reticent,
self-possessed, and as far removed from his near surroundings as the
first Napoleon upon the eve of battle. He took his seat in front
of the Vice-President’s desk, where he sat as immovable as though
encased in armor, while the President pro tempore administered the
oath of office to Schuyler Colfax, and pronounced a requiem by simply
saying, “the Fortieth Congress is no more.” In clear, distinct tones
Mr. Colfax took the oath of office, and immediately entered upon his
duties as Vice-President of the United States.
At the east front of the Capitol a different scene was enacting.
At a proper distance from the platform stood the rank and file of
the people, white, black, and intervening all shades, promiscuously
mixed, a fair representation of the genuine glory of the Republic.
For long, long hours the multitude had stood upon the cold, wet
earth, waiting for a passing glimpse of the last closing scene;
but their weary eyes were not to be feasted with dainty gold-laced
foreign ministers and the great dignitaries of the land. It is true
the Senate chamber could not hold the masses, but the national
square contains room enough for all, and is it not time these old
relics of another age were packed in the dust, like so many small
clothes outgrown by the country? It is the royal people who are the
sovereigns, and who has the right at any time to push them from their
own marble temples with glittering bayonets? Soldiers are machinery
to be used in time of war, and not engines of power in days of peace
to thrust the cold steel into the breasts of loyal citizens.
No accident marred the festivities of the day. The long procession in
its picturesqueness more than surpassed the public expectation. The
soldiers were there, clean and trusty as their own polished weapons,
and among them might have been seen the “black boys in blue.” The
gallant firemen were out in gala dress, their engines gaudily decked
in holiday attire, and all the different organizations in and out of
the city seemed to vie with each other which should lend the most
glory to the passing hour.
Just as the choicest viands are served for dessert, it was meant that
the inaugural reception should eclipse all its predecessors as well
as shine by itself after the manner of the mighty Kohinoor in the
crown jewels of England. The place selected for this festival seemed
most appropriate.
In the structure known as the Treasury building were gathered
thousands of both sexes and the brilliant scene carried the spectator
back to the middle ages. It was like some haughty chief in his feudal
castle, summoning together the proud nobility of the land. Nowhere
could be seen the simplicity of a republic. Only the crowns were
wanting; everything else was there.
Mrs. Grant stood by the side of the new President in faultless dress
of white satin and point lace, with pearl and diamond ornaments, and
just beyond her stood the Vice-President and Mrs. Colfax, unassuming
as a violet, in pink satin and illusion. Her ornaments were also
pearls.
The various committees had endeavored to make preparations for every
emergency except the most important one; they had made no calculation
for numbers. When it was too late to remedy the error, the members
of the committee discovered they had sold too many tickets; but
this must have leaked out beforehand, for very few leading men
were accompanied by their wives. In many cases they were seen with
daughters or other young people clinging to their arms, whose youth
would seem a shield against the fearful annoyance of the crowd.
Toward midnight the jam culminated. The interesting spectacle might
have been seen of two thousand people trying to get through a single
door at the same instant into the supper room. It was the camel
attempting once more to go through the needle’s eye. A short time
after this, there was a grand division of the guests, composed of two
parties--those who had fared sumptuously and those who had been used
like Mother Hubbard’s darling:
“And when she got there the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog got none.”
Three to one could sing the old faithful nursery song. A supper had
been set aside in another part of the building for the President,
Vice-President and their friends, and rumor said that it was a most
superb affair; but this only aggravated the famished ones who had
paid their money for the substance and when about to grasp it had
caught only an empty bubble with “Inaugural Ball” stamped on the
rainbow-tinted, soapy, globular nothing.
The breaking up of the inaugural reception baffles description. The
tearing up of the icebergs in the Arctic seas of a spring morning
might seem more solemn, but alas! alas! not half so enthusiastic and
interesting. The hats and coats of the gentlemen had been numbered,
and then all thrown pell-mell together. As a matter of course when
a check was presented, the hunt commenced. For hours men waited, and
then were obliged to go home without hats or coats. In the meantime,
the ladies, weary of waiting, sunk down in graceful attitudes on
the carpeted floor, or else called their carriages and took their
departure alone, leaving their escorts to follow as soon as the
hat-and-coat trouble found solution.
When the sun arose on the 5th of March, his rays gilded eight hundred
frantic men, who still stood doggedly at their posts, calling in vain
for their hats and coats; but as this letter has nothing to do with
anything but the 4th of March, the kaleidoscope is finished with the
dawn of a new day.
OLIVIA.
PRESIDENT JOHNSON’S FAMILY.
TRAITS OF THE FEMALE AND YOUNGER MEMBERS THEREOF.
WASHINGTON, _March 9, 1869_.
The family of Mr. Andrew Johnson was the least ostentatious of any
that has yet inhabited the White House, and its members preserved at
the capital the simple manners of their former State. The retirement
and quiet of their life was so great that many are curious to know
of them, and a few words of description may be interesting to your
readers.
During her occupancy of the Executive Mansion Mrs. Johnson has
lived almost as secluded as a nun. This has been in part owing to a
bronchial difficulty and a consumptive tendency, with which she was
first afflicted at the beginning of the rebellion. This physical
trouble was subsequently aggravated by the loss of her eldest and
favorite son, who was thrown from his horse and instantly killed,
at the beginning of the war, whilst on his round of duty as surgeon
of the First Regiment Tennessee Infantry. Very few American women
have suffered more than Mrs. Johnson in behalf of the Union. She has
known what it was to fill with her own hands the basket of bread and
meat that was to be stealthily conveyed to a hiding place in the
mountains, to keep from starvation her daughter’s husband. It was
a chastened spirit she brought to the White House, and though her
presence was seldom denied to personal friends, with the glitter and
pomp of state she had nothing to do.
Mrs. Andrew Johnson, whose maiden name was Eliza McCardel, was born
in 1811, and will be fifty-eight years of age her next birthday.
She is two years younger than her husband, and not older, as the
newspapers are in the habit of telling the story. She was married
in Greeneville, Tenn., when she was in the 18th year of her age.
Her young husband at the time was not 20. The honeymoon was spent
in teaching the future President the rudiments of education. Mrs.
Johnson says she “taught him the letters, but he was an apt scholar,
and acquired all the rest himself.” With the exception of a few
months in the early part of Mrs. Johnson’s married life, her home
has always been in Greeneville, Tenn. It was here her five children
were born, three sons and two daughters, of whom Mrs. Patterson is
the eldest. This daughter’s name is Martha, and she was married to
Judge Patterson in December, 1855. Soon after their marriage, Mr.
Patterson--who was practicing law at the time--was appointed judge
of the first judicial district of East Tennessee. During most of the
time of President Johnson’s administration he has occupied a seat in
the Senate.