1852. Colonel Stover was one of the most gallant of those officers
who laid down their lives in the defence of the Union. Though he
had not the soldier’s honor to perish on the battlefield, his
slow, painful death was in his country’s cause. Colonel Stover was
one of the leaders who headed the Union men of East Tennessee. He
was one of the first to enroll himself among the number who as an
organization were known as the “Bridge-burners.” His patriotic course
attracted the attention of the rebels at once, and without a moment’s
preparation he was driven to the mountains of East Tennessee. During
the inclement months of November and December, 1861, and January,
1862, he was a hunted fugitive, hiding in the holes and caverns of
the rocks. It was during this awful winter that Mrs. Johnson filled
the basket with meat and bread, when her daughter, the sorrowful
wife, was so smitten with anguish that she had not the strength to
perform the task. Every man who tapped at the door of the lonely
farmhouse was supposed to be coming to bring the news that the son
and husband was hanging to a forest tree. Some of their neighbors
had been afflicted in this way, and this dread was the penalty paid
for Unionism in East Tennessee. During this fearful period, in which
Colonel Stover suffered from cold and starvation, the seeds of
consumption were planted in his constitution. At last, through the
efforts of some old personal friends who were strong rebels, he was
allowed to go home; but he brought with him a sharp, rasping cough.
Soon after he was allowed to pass through the rebel lines, in company
with his family and Mrs. Johnson. He proceeded at once to Kentucky,
where he raised a regiment which was afterwards known as the Fourth
Tennessee Infantry. No braver regiment served during the war, and
but very few did the country more effective service; but before this
gallant band had time to distinguish itself in any great battle its
brave, energetic colonel had passed away at the early age of 35.
At the beginning of the rebellion Colonel Stover was living the
independent life of a farmer in affluent circumstances. His large
farm was well stocked with cattle, and his barns were filled. His
house soon became known as a kind of resting and breathing place for
the fleeing Union fugitives. After the departure of the family the
buildings were destroyed. At his death his widow was left with three
small children and a scanty subsistence. Mrs. Stover has never asked
Congress to indemnify her for any losses.
Visitors at the White House during the past two or three years may
retain the memory of a dignified, statuesque blonde, with a few very
fine points which a fashionable butterfly once said would make any
woman a belle if she only knew how to make the most of them. Mrs.
Stover never became a star in fashionable circles, and now that she
has left the gay capital, perhaps for a lifetime, she is remembered
by those who knew her best as the charming companion of the domestic
fireside, a true daughter and a judicious mother.
The eldest son of Mrs. Johnson was killed. Not long after his
receiving his diploma as physician, he was appointed a surgeon in the
First Tennessee Infantry. One bright spring morning, starting on his
rounds of professional duty in the exuberance of youth, health, and
spirits, he sprang upon the horse of a brother officer. He had gone
but a short distance when the high-mettled creature reared upon its
hind feet suddenly; the young man was thrown backward suddenly, and
falling upon the frozen earth, was instantly killed. The concussion
fractured his skull. Mrs. Johnson has grieved for this son as did
Jacob for his beloved Joseph, and not only the mother but the whole
family have mourned with unusual poignancy his untimely death.
Robert Johnson, the eldest living son, entered the army as a
volunteer while still a young boy; and was given a position among
the older men, on account of his father. It was at this time that he
formed the fearful habit of intemperance. As soon as Mrs. Johnson
was settled at the White House, she sent for this son, hoping that
his responsible position as private secretary to the President and
the personal influence of his sisters and herself could reclaim him;
but alas! she found his new position, in its surroundings, a still
heavier death weight to her hopes. Clever, genial “Bob,” the young
man who had the ear of the President at any time, was everybody’s
friend. A crowd followed him wherever he went. The choicest viands
of Willard’s and Welcker’s were set before him, and miniature rivers
were made to float with wine. Robert Johnson is now in an asylum,
hoping and trying to overcome this vice. During the few months of
his sojourn in Washington he provoked no enmity and left many true
personal friends.
Andrew Johnson, jr., the youngest child, who makes the fourth
and last of Mrs. Johnson’s children, is a boy of 15, attending
the college for young boys in Georgetown, D. C. He is a slender,
finely formed youth, characterized by the same modest deportment
usual to the family. His face bears a striking resemblance to Mrs.
Patterson’s, but at present he is only noticeable on account of his
family relations, and because he is the last child of his mother.
Mrs. Johnson is unusually feeble at this time; but, weather
permitting, she will soon leave with Mrs. Patterson for her distant
home in Tennessee.
OLIVIA.
SENATORIAL PEN PICTURES.
FERRY AS A HEART-BREAKER--CONKLING AS A NOVEL READER--EATON AND
ANTHONY IN REPARTEE.
WASHINGTON, _March 20, 1869_.
Like the great flaming carbuncle on the mountain’s brow, the dome of
the Capitol dispels the darkness in Washington. It is night. The moon
peeps out between scudding clouds, the elements howl like a spirited
child, but the Senate is in open session. The original resolution
endorsing the President’s course has been torn in shreds by the
politicians, and such bitter partisans as Cameron of Pennsylvania,
and Dawes of Massachusetts, have paired off and ran home, rather than
remain on the battlefield to bury the dead or carry off the mortally
wounded. Within the Senate chamber the faithful are gathered; Morton,
Anthony, and Conkling to lead the rank and file. The Democracy are in
martial line, defending the independent sovereignty of the States,
with Andy Johnson at the head, ready to die for the Constitution. The
magnificent decorations which make the Senate chamber a marvel of
beauty in the day seemed touched with the fairy hand of enchantment
at night. The incomparable rays of the sun are rivalled by the mellow
beams of artificial light, which sift through the stained glass
above. It falls on the golden stars of the tufted carpet. It makes
an areola around the head of Senator Ferry, the young President pro
tempore of the Senate, who sits in one of those graceful attitudes so
becoming to the bachelor of the period. Major Ben: Perley Poore says
he was born in Mackinaw, Mich., June 1, 1827, consequently he will
soon reach his forty-eighth birthday, and not long after will score
off a half a century. The newspapers call him “young,” and it can be
seen that time has dealt very gently with him. His beard is as yellow
as the golden fleece and his chestnut locks have defied the frost.
Content with himself, content with the world, is written all over
his manly person. Has he a heart? This is a question which none are
able to answer, but nevertheless he has been proved to be the most
adept “lady-killer” of his day, and a bill is soon to be introduced
by Senator Spencer, a rival bachelor, to arrest, if possible, this
wholesale destruction. Senator Ferry never fails to gather a harvest
of hearts during their proper season. When each generation of girls
attains that point on life’s journey when the affections are like
the mellow flush of a juicy peach he walks in the garden, when lo!
presto! change! something is gone! The young statesman is not harmed.
His eye has a brighter light, his cheek a warmer flush, and the
renovation lasts until the season approaches for another seed time
and harvest. One-half the mischief lies in the fact of his being a
member of the Young Men’s Christian Association, and the other to the
exquisite bouquets which are furnished free to Congressmen from the
National greenhouse. When the bouquets arrive regardless of time and
number, it is a sign of a funeral where the corpse is invisible and
the mourners dare not show their heads. This kind of man is always in
love, deep love with himself, and, though a woman were as wise as a
Juno and lovely as Hebe, she could never upset his vanity.
The doorkeepers are curled up asleep on the cushions in the corners
of the galleries. Many of the Republicans have left their seats, and
are to be found chatting and smoking in the adjoining cloak-rooms.
The fragrance of dying Havanas ascend to the galleries, reminding
one of the days of the Randolphs and Jays, when men sat in their
seats in the Senate with their hats on, and smoking their clay pipes
in full view. The habit is not cured, but it is concealed, and this
must be one of the facts which marks the progress of civilization. A
tall man arises to address the Senate. It is Kernan, the new Senator
from New York. He has reached the mid-autumn of human life. It is
his first speech, and a bouquet of Senators cluster around him. The
back of his head has a heavy covering of dark iron-gray hair, but
his fine, scholarly face is rimmed with a fringe of pure white,
which at once stamps his individuality on the memory. His Creator
never designed him for an orator, but he gives us good, sound sense,
dressed neatly in pure English. He does not speak to convince his
opponents. He seems to realize that what he says will be heard by
the millions of people in the State of New York. His colleague,
Conkling, sniffs him from afar, as one mastiff does another, if it
be a stranger of the same tribe. Roscoe has been reading a pamphlet
with a yellow cover, which he holds daintily between his finger
and thumb. If it were any other but our Roscoe, the “yellow cover”
would be a serious suspicion of “Braddon” or “Ouida,” but the fact
is self-evident that the book was obtained because the binding is a
complete match for his hair. Senator Conkling is the Apollo of the
Senate. His beauty is the aqua-marine type. It resembles a very fine
diamond considerably off color, unless one is fond of flame; then
the delusion is perfect. If Senator Conkling was a planet, he would
be called Mars, not because of his rapid revolution around the great
central power, but owing to that precious high-colored ingredient
which was used so lavishly in his physical construction, and which
serves to keep his pride burning like the lamp of the vestal virgins,
that neither time nor circumstances can put out.
Come back to the Senators that cluster around the Speaker! All new
men except Allison, of Iowa, one of the most polite and genial men to
be found. Out of courtesy, alone, if nothing else, he listens to the
maiden speech of his peer irrespective of the fact of his politics.
The first man that heads the list is Wallace, of Pennsylvania,
whom the gods have blessed with a fine face but a finer form, and
yet it is evident that the Creator took no special pains with his
construction; for he has thickly sprinkled just such men in every
town of the State, cities of course excepted. Senator Wallace has
reached the Senate chamber in the noon of life. The sun is stationary
over his head. His face is not the kind that tells its own story.
The tempest of passion has swept over it, but left no signs of the
tornado in its track. If he has had deep thoughts they have ploughed
no furrows. In his battle with time so far he has won. As he has
never tried his wings, it is too soon to pronounce him a senatorial
eagle, but as he hails from Pennsylvania he may turn out an honest
bird of prey.
To the right of Senator Wallace may be seen B. K. Bruce, of
Mississippi, a handsome man, whom the Creator cast in bronze.
Darker by far than Douglass or Pinchback, but superior to either
so far as beauty is concerned. Below the colossal, but above the
average size, with a pure type of the Anglo-Saxon features, thin
quivering nostrils, and a mouth such as the colored women are known
to admire. His mahogany person is every day swathed in the finest
linen and broadcloth, ornaments, diamond shirt-studs. The day he was
elected the members of the legislature of Mississippi owned great
quantities of scrip, worth less than sixty cents on the dollar. But
on that auspicious day some speculator bought the scrip and paid
for it at par; but Senator Bruce had nothing to do with it, because
he is a very rich man, and only white men have been known to bribe
legislatures. Senator Bruce says he intends to stand by the civil
rights bill, and proves it by employing white men to wait on him,
and furthermore declares that he has no objection to Mrs. Bruce
associating with the wives of white Senators so long as their moral
characters are above reproach, and they have committed no more
serious crimes than Rev. Henry Ward Beecher.
And now we come to General Burnside, whose fine person bears
the brand of the military aristocracy, just as the blue-blooded
Englishman is sometimes stamped duke; just the right size for a
general, and with plenty of intellect to represent so small a State
as Rhode Island. His graceful whiskers are festooned on his dainty
cheeks and curl like the tendrils of the grape on the wall. As a man
among men he is the same as a banana among fruits. The frost of time
has sweetened and brought him to the highest state of perfection.
Among the most remarkable of the new men is the one who is just
rising from his seat. When sitting he does not attract particular
attention; but when he attempts the perpendicular one mentally
asks: “When is he going to stop?” Hail! Cameron of the illustrious
family of that name--the successor of the festive and woman-loving
Carpenter, of Wisconsin. “Ye banks and braes of bonnie doon” is
written all over this grizzly Scotsman, who is composed entirely of
bone and muscle, and destitute of meat as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
What a superb specimen of the Highlander! If he could only be induced
to wear his Tartan, bring his bagpipe and show the Senate what is
meant by bringing together the two wings of the Cameron clan. Oh,
Carpenter! Carpenter! will the time ever come when Wisconsin will
weep tears of blood because she so bitterly scourged thee?
The man who occupies a seat this side of Cameron is Jones, of
Florida. Another red man, but not of the Saxon type of Conkling. The
clay from which he is made must have been formed of iron pyrites. A
smooth face, thickly strewn underneath with arteries and veins, in
which the scarlet fluid comes and goes at the slightest behest of
the passionate will. Tall and broad above the average of men, and,
so far as physical appearance is concerned, a fitting representative
of the lovely State of magnolia and orange groves, the Mecca of the
invalids, and the luscious retreat of the happy alligator.
And this is dainty, delicious Pinckney Whyte, of Maryland, whose
pedigree is as clean and well defined as Victoria of England, and
who, by the way, in some remote manner, claims kinship to him. How
good it must feel to have such blood in one’s veins, and yet Pinckney
has made no complaint to the Senate. If he has scrofula like old
George the Third, there is no visible sign of it, and the only
evidence of insanity he has shown was when he consented to come to
the American Senate. In violation of the maxim that precious things
are never done up in large parcels, he is fully up to the average
size, with a handsome face, and features as finely cut as those of
an exquisite cameo. What thin ears and slender fingers! It is true
he has not tried his strength in the senatorial race, and it is
not known whether he will succeed in writing his name high on the
scroll of fame, but he has a mission, a noble mission, in which he
must succeed, for his presence helps neutralize the effect of the
carpetbaggers; and even this small bit of the purest respectability,
like the yeast in dough, in time may come to leaven the whole lump.
Senator Eaton, of Connecticut, is speaking. He plays the sovereignty
of the States like Ole Bull’s whole opera, on one string; but Senator
Anthony has tripped him by asking: “How can a State be ‘sovereign’
when she can neither make treaties, coin money, or go out to stay
all night without asking her father, who is all the time her Uncle
Sam?” Senator Eaton replies that he would answer that question to the
satisfaction of the Senator from the little State of Rhode Island,
but he is sick and cannot be interrupted in his patriotic argument,
and he again declares the sovereignty of the State, because little
Rhody, Connecticut, and pretty Delaware are the peers and equals of
Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. Why? Because they are independent
sovereigns, and command the same respect.
It is now almost midnight. Behold the conquering hero comes. It is
Andy Johnson, the veteran warrior of Tennessee. For the first time
he arises to address the highest legislative body on the face of the
globe. There is an ominous silence. He is asked by a brother Senator
if Monday, the next day of the Senatorial calendar, will not do. An
affirmative answer is received, and the session of the night adjourns.
OLIVIA.
SENATOR SPRAGUE.
A NEW CHAMPION OF A PANACEA FOR ILLS FINANCIAL.
WASHINGTON, _April 14, 1869_.
A new music reaches the ear of Washington. It is the voice of the
workingmen, with brass instruments in their hands, saluting their
new leader. All hail! Senator Sprague of Rhode Island. The man who
touches the pulse of the invalid with an earnest desire to do the
patient good is called a kind physician. The man who feels the
feverish pulse of a suffering nation, sees the people rise in their
awful majesty, and immensity, echoes, “Here! Here!”
Senator Sprague has been studying the rise and decline of nations.
He reminds us that there is a vicious something which underlies
the basis of modern as well as ancient society, a nameless horror
which picks the bones of a nation just as Victor Hugo’s devil-fish
finishes the last delicate morsel of what was once a man. It is the
same to the nation that the destructive worm is to the ship. It is
the accumulation of tubercular deposits in the national tissues. The
fatal seed of dissolution is already planted, and the harvest, when
garnered, will be safely packed away in the frightful storehouse
of death. With blanched face, in the distance, we shrink from the
leprous patient, but upon closer examination we find the “sick man”
is old Uncle Sam, and his old war wounds are still unhealed, though
in a healthy condition, and none give him any trouble to-day except
the sabre cut of Finance. In the early part of the last winter
General Butler laid his hand on this tremendous wound. The nation
quivered with hope and expectation, but Uncle Sam said, “Hands off,
my brave general; don’t you see just so much of my substance has
been shot away? If a lobster loses one of its claws, will any patent
medicine make it grow again? Leave the lobster to the care of the
kindly elements, and a new member, precisely like the old one, makes
its appearance, beautifully, by degrees. The humblest reptile can
teach the wisest man important wisdom.” When just so much substance
has been destroyed by fire and sword, is it not the folly of madness
to try to replace it by “financial policy”? Is there no other way
to make a dollar except to dig the metal out of the bowels of the
earth, take it to the mint, and give it a legitimate birth? The
smallest child can understand the great “financial problem” as it
exists to-day. Did General Butler enlighten us on the subject? We
owe just so many gold dollars. As a lawyer he pointed out the way
in which we could avoid a partial payment of our honest debts. The
people said to General Butler, “We like your sagacity as lawyer, but
we still believe that time is the best cure for all.” General Butler
then subsided on the finance question. A new champion has arisen to
point out a greener path over which to journey, as we march heavy
ladened. It is the youthful millionaire, Senator Sprague. His bill
before the Senate can be summed up in exactly three words: “Make
more greenbacks.” This is the way to make money plenty? Why not? If
Senator Sprague wants ten thousand yards of calico, he manufactures
it. If the workingman wants more money, he is advised to manufacture
the same. It is a great deal easier to print a paper dollar than
to earn the gold the paper is expected to represent. But Senator
Sprague was born into the manufacturing business, and, as it has
been of such vast importance to him, is it a wonder that he advises
the same employment to others when he has reaped riches and honor,
whilst he is yet a growing man? Senator Sprague would also make the
Government a kind of “Grand Lama”--a huge autocrat doing business
for himself, just like Astor, Vanderbilt and Stewart. He would have
him loan money; also, make him liable to sue and be sued. To be sure,
this would extinguish all millionaire upstarts. So far so good; but
would it not also add fresh fuel to the fires of corruption? What is
the whisky ring but a set of dishonest officials, acting in the name
of the Government, covering their plunder with the garments of Uncle
Sam? Instead of diminishing the power to rob the people, Senator
Sprague advocates an additional supply of the grand army officials.
The flock of to-day may be compared to a cloud of locusts. “No!” say
our legislators. Only a lunatic attempts to extinguish a fire by
throwing on more fuel. A good government should be like the azure
vault of heaven, resting on all alike, protecting the poor man in his
cabin, the rich man in his palace, if he has honestly acquired his
wealth. It should fall upon the honorable citizen like a web woven
by fairy fingers; upon the criminal, whether powerful or weak, like
the lariat flung by the unerring hand of the Indian hunter of the
pampas. Senator Sprague and the workingmen who endorse him propose to
take from the Government this most holy inheritance bequeathed us by
our Revolutionary ancestors, baptized anew by the precious blood of
three hundred thousand lives, and set it up in all the great cities
of the Union, as the golden calf was set up in the wilderness, and
the people, instead of being told to bow the knee, are advised to
borrow. How will this help the poor man who has no security to give;
or is the great national broker expected to lend without any security
at all? No one disputes the fact that a great harassing debt annoys
the people. It might have been much less. With sorrow we remember the
millions that were flung into the sea by the incompetency of the late
Navy Department; but with this folly our creditors have nothing to
do. It is for us to say that we will pay to the last farthing. Shall
we allow speculators in the name of Uncle Sam to use the people’s
money and take the risk of being benefited in the end? Never! No,
never! It is proven beyond a doubt that if the tax on whisky and
tobacco could be honestly collected and turned over to the Treasury
Department it would liquidate every penny of the interest of the
public debt; other taxes would then gradually consume the principal.
But if we are in haste, as we ought to be, to pay our debts, let the
noble women of this country say, “No more of our gold shall drift
seaward to bring us back jewels, silks, and knick-knacks.” Let the
graceful, elegant wife of Senator Sprague be content with a wardrobe
which vies in costliness with that of an European princess. Thirty
silk walking dresses, all made to fit the same exquisite image, were
within hearing of the workingmen’s serenade.
If, then, sharp Benjamin Butler has knocked a hole in his keel by
cruising amongst the financial breakers, Senator Sprague, so much
younger, with much less experience, need not be ashamed to strike his
colors before he goes down. No man in the Senate has a better record
than this intrepid young Senator. We may question his good taste
about bringing his Rhode Island battle upon the floor of the American
Senate, but this harms no one but himself. In the strife for honor
and fame at a nation’s hands he has had two difficulties to overcome.
The talent of his early life has been obscured by his immense wealth;
in later years he has dwelt in the blighting shadows of greatness.