officer of the hour. How admirably he becomes the sombre, dignified
place. Nature has cast this man in a noble mould. Broad forehead,
clear gray eyes, and features as handsomely chiseled as if fresh
from the hands of a first-class sculptor. Few men in the Senate have
the simple tastes of Senator Harlan. His personal presence would
be superb if it were not for the general appearance of threatened
disruption which marks his every-day attire. But, notwithstanding
the inclination of his coats to wear out under the arms and fringe in
exactly the wrong place, no Senator at the capital is more beloved or
trusted by the people of his own State now residents of Washington
than Senator Harlan.
The funding bill still agitates the waters of legislation, and
Senator Morton, of Indiana, arises slowly, leaning upon his cane.
What subtle influence brings to the mind’s eye the picture of a tiger
chained to a broken cage? Surely that powerful organization was made
to last three-score years and ten. What a glorious casket! Away with
the cane! The pallor of his countenance is a part of the uncanny
mockery of the night. There is no better speaker on the floor of the
Senate. His thoughts flow fresh, clear, sparkling, like water from a
hill-side spring. It is true, Indiana is a benighted State, morally
defective, as seen by her divorces; her territory swampy, with fever
and ague a yearly crop. But which is the best harvest a State can
yield? Why men, to be sure, and when this fact is considered Indiana
need not feel ashamed of herself.
At this hour of the evening the floor is thickly strewn with all
sizes of fragments of paper. It rustles under the feet of the nimble
pages. Senator Wilson is opening his evening mail. He snaps the
letter envelopes and hauls out the insides as gracefully as a bear
scrapes honey out of a hollow tree. He is so earnest, and there is so
much to do, and the sun will not stand still even for Massachusetts.
He takes the time to read the name only of his correspondents; the
reading through these letters must be done by a private secretary.
What a huge pile of papers menace him! Public opinion says he is a
man of “practical talent.” Is not this the best gift bestowed upon
man? Blessed, thrice blessed, is the State that has a man in the
Senate connected by an electric cord to the least of her people!
Senator Cameron is walking up the broad aisle, erect and stately as
a majestic pine in midwinter. This man is not one of the brilliant
figures of the Senate, but he is high like the mountains and deep
like the mines of the great powerful State he represents. Few, if any
men, carry greater weight in Senatorial legislation.
Senators Conkling and Stewart may be seen in their respective seats,
and these two men may properly be called the “blondes” of the Senate.
If these Senators were women they would have the whole masculine
world at their feet. It would seem as if the forces of nature
conspired to keep them at a red heat, these men are steeped in liquid
sunshine; their beards, at a distance, are the best kind of imitation
of spun gold. Once a watery veined Senator was actually seen warming
his hands only a short distance from Senator Conkling’s head; but
notwithstanding this fact a handsomer man is seldom seen on the floor
of the Senate.
There is evidence of strong-coming impatience. Senators pace the
floor as lions stride their dens. When will the interminable talk
cease? No one heeds it. Senator Sprague is seen in a leaning attitude
against the wall. The golden background helps to make a fitting
picture of the young millionaire. His face has a marble pallor which
the rosy light of the chamber cannot dispel.
Very few people are in the galleries. A few dusky faces may be
seen at the right of the reporters’ seats. The diplomatic space is
unoccupied. In the ladies’ gallery is the intellectual countenance of
Mrs. Secretary Cox. She is followed by a suite of pretty, youthful
faces. Mrs. Sprague is also present, superbly graceful as ever. This
elegant woman is not only ornamental, but useful to the world. When
she is traveling amongst foreign nations her manners reflect honor on
the country that gave her birth.
But the gavel has sounded, and the night session ends.
OLIVIA.
THE ROBESON TEA PARTY.
THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY AWARDED THE PALM FOR ENTERTAINING.
WASHINGTON, _March 22, 1870_.
Humiliating as the task may be, it must be acknowledged that in
every race undertaken by the two sexes at the same time, for reasons
which never can be explained, the men will manage to come out ahead
in the exquisite art of millinery and dressmaking, where it would
seem natural that woman’s nimble fingers and dainty tastes should
rival the work of the fairies; yet stubborn facts bring us face to
face with Monsieur Worth, the masculine milliner of Paris, who has
stepped on to the throne, and by superiority of judgment has robbed
woman of her rightful heritage. “Ah!” said an American of rare taste,
just returned from abroad, “you should have seen the dress prepared
by this man for the Queen of Prussia. It was made of the simplest
material, being composed of grass and lace, but the lace was filmy
tulle, almost as ethereal as the moonbeams, and the grass was soft
and velvety, such as may be supposed to adorn the river banks in
Paradise. Over this faultless combination was flung a shower of
seed pearls.” From whence did this man Worth get the pattern? He
went to Nature’s glorious book, just as all Earth’s children must
when they seek inspiration. Dear reader, have you seen in the early
morning a handkerchief of cobweb glisten with pearly dew spread out
on the grass? Monsieur Worth has noticed this fairy work, and the
hint enabled him to fashion a queen’s dress which was pronounced
by competent judges to be the most faultless ever worn by royalty.
Dresses imported from Paris by the score may be seen in Washington
society; but these costumes have not received the last touches of
grace from the hands of the great masculine dressmaker. Monsieur
Worth has all the orders he can fill for such women as Eugenie,
Clothilde, the Queens of Prussia, Belgium, and others, without
puzzling his dainty brains for the simple daughter of a Republic, who
may be somebody to-day but nobody to-morrow.
This letter is written, in all humility and sorrow, to prove that
the great social success of the season has been awarded (must the
truth be told?) to a man, and the citizen is known to the world as
the Secretary of the United States Navy. Whilst the President of the
Republic has tickled society with his levees, and the married men of
the Cabinet have held their receptions, Secretary Robeson, the jolly
bachelor tar, has given a tea-party, and such a one as would make the
Widow Bedott clap her hands with joy. No other woman in Washington
in fashionable society would have dared ape the custom of other
days; but the gallant Secretary, after donning a mental armor as
invulnerable as ironclad, has sailed into the face of public opinion
and won a victory as complete as McClellan’s capture of the wooden
guns.
It will be remembered that at the tea parties given in the old times
by the Widow Bedott the dear old snuff-taking stocking knitters
assembled of an afternoon and talked their honest gossip by the light
of the patient sun. But owing to the hard day’s work which has to be
performed by the Secretary of the Navy the company was not assembled
until long after candle-light; but as candles are not as plentiful as
they used to be in the good old days of our grandmothers,--a modern
substitute was found to light the mansion, by the flame of which
every wrinkle was visible on the faces of his guests.
Thirty persons attended the tea party, but the most astonishing
feature consisted in the fact that nearly one-half of the company
were men. It is true the Secretary is single and these men were
possibly invited for protection sake; but what hindered him from
stationing a squad of marines outside of his modest home, within easy
call, in case superior strength was needed? There is not a house in
Washington fitted up so snugly and cosily as the home of the bachelor
Secretary. Everything about it is suggestive of every-day comfort.
Instead of heavy silken drapery at the windows, chintz, modest
chintz, pure enough to smile on the dreams of a bachelor, shuts out
the sun’s too obtrusive rays. Chintz covers the luxurious sofas and
twines around the broad-shouldered, deep-chested chairs. All these
happy surroundings had much to do with the jolly comfort of the
guests of the tea party. Two hours were spent dallying with music
before the tea-room was disclosed. At the expiration of that time a
pair of folding doors were opened as if by magic, and in the offing
might have been seen a tea-table such as would have brought tears of
envy to Mrs. Potiphar’s eyes. It has been proved that the moon is
made of green cheese, and Secretary Robeson had a piece of it on his
tea-table. Then there were muffins, crisp as a frosty morning, and
a pot of tea for which a war vessel had been dispatched with sealed
orders, and the captain, under threats of dismissal, was commanded to
return within a given space of time, bringing from Japan the exact
quantity of tea requisite for the occasion. It was also rumored, but
the writer cannot vouch for the facts, that the vessel brought over
a Japanese man to brew the tea, and, after the awful thing was done,
the miserable Jap committed hari-kari.
Besides the pot of tea the table groaned under a huge weight of
dainties too numerous to mention. Terrapins, quails, oysters, salmon,
honey sweet as that of the bees of Hybla, chickens broiled in the
same style as they are always cooked in Mrs. Southworth’s novels,
confectionery, and cream such as exudes from the Sacred Cow. But
this table was not to be approached except by those anointed for the
purpose. In the room were sprinkled around tables of all sorts and
sizes, from the dining cover, capable of supplying six to eight
persons, to the modest light stand, which had been hastily abstracted
from a chamber. The guests could seat themselves in any manner they
chose, provided they kept away from the fountain of supply. At one
of the little tables might have been seen a youthful pair in the
highest attitude of human enjoyment; there was just room enough for
themselves, and no more. It can safely be said that the bachelor
Secretary did more in the match-making line that night than all
the manoeuvring mammas at the capital in the whole season. Some of
the tables accommodated four persons; others more or less. In the
meantime waiters performed their duty with the regularity of American
watches.
But if there is one person more than another at the capital that
deserves a national reputation it is the cook belonging to the naval
establishment of the United States. The sex of the person cannot be
ascertained, but this is of no mortal consequence so long as men and
women are henceforth to stand on the same platform. Women have served
on the jury in Wyoming, which proves that the reputation of a person
has nothing to do with the sex. Secretary Robeson’s cook eclipses
the President’s Italian “Melah,” and Professor Blot is requested
to keep away from Washington if he has any regard for his well
earned laurels. Two festive hours were spent at Secretary Robeson’s
tea-table. Conversation rolled as easily as a clean, smooth-bottomed
war vessel with a flowing sail and a rolling sea. When the guests
found themselves unable to hold any more tea they reluctantly wended
their way back to the neglected parlors, where a band of music had
been stationed to compose their sensibilities. It must not be omitted
that the wine and punch freely mingled with the tea, but this must
be looked upon as a modern improvement attached to a harmless old
fashion. Dancing and the german completed the grand social success of
the season, and history will baptize it “A naval tea-party.”
OLIVIA.
DELEGATES FROM THE SOUTHLAND.
PLEADING THEIR CAUSE BEFORE PRESIDENT AND LEGISLATORS.
WASHINGTON, _March 24, 1870_.
Before the late war a man’s life was unsafe south of Mason and
Dixon’s line, if he professed to believe in the abolition of slavery.
The same malignant spirit exists to-day. It is not safe to be a
Republican in many parts of the sunny South. In the sparsely settled
districts men are shot and whipped for the offence of forming what
are termed “Grant clubs.” Murder succeeds murder, and the offenders
never feel the hand of justice. Officers of the United States
Government are assassinated in cold blood; but it is the helpless
freedman that is made to feel most the sharp edge of the situation.
Before the war, when this part of humanity had a money value, it
was different. The overseer on the plantation which belonged to the
husband of Fanny Kemble Butler said he generally managed “to work
’em up once in seven years.” What has the freedman gained by the
boon of liberty if he is still to be hunted and killed like the wild
beasts in the jungle? What hinders the Government from wiping out
the Ku Klux Klan of the South? Late Confederate soldiers have laid
aside the gray uniform, and now wear the mask of the inquisition,
and their work is performed with the horrible secrecy of that
medieval conclave. General Grant has sent the Quakers to look after
the Indians. Why will not Congress enact a law to send General Phil
Sheridan and Colonel Baker on a mission after the Ku Klux to protect
millions who are as helpless as so many orphan children?
When President Lincoln issued the proclamation of emancipation 5,000
slaves were held in bondage by the Chickasaw and Choctaw Indians; or,
in other words, three-fourths of a tribe of people held the other
fourth as slaves. When the chattels of the Republic became free these
bond people expected their freedom also; but this was denied them by
their Indian masters because it was claimed that these masters owed
no allegiance to the United States. A subsequent treaty was formed,
freeing the parties, containing two conditions: First, that the
freedman should have forty acres of land as their share and right in
the Territory, or in case they should leave the Territory they were
to receive $110 each, and the Government was to reserve this amount
of the Indian fund and pay it to those who chose to emigrate. The
freedmen desire to remain in the Territory, but the Indians will not
allow them to occupy the land; will not permit them to have a right
or privilege which an Indian is bound to respect. These patient
men and women, native Americans, born to the same heritage as the
President of the United States, are slaughtered in cold blood. Oh!
there is no language strong enough to paint the hideousness of the
Indian character. Was an Indian ever tame? These poor, forgotten
outcasts of a distant Territory have sent a man to lay their sad case
before Congress.
A band of loyal Georgians are in Washington, praying that the power
of the Government may be exerted for their protection. They have seen
the President, who did not hesitate to give them some kind, strong
words; but it remains to be shown whether Congress will hearken to
them. The delegation is composed mostly of colored men, with Governor
Rufus B. Bullock at their head. A meeting was called at Lincoln
Hall, by the citizens of the District, to show their sympathy for
the cause which these Southern men represent. Mayor Bowen presided;
John W. Forney made the welcoming address; while Senator Thayer and
Representative Maynard spoke some good, strong, manly words, which
must have brought the blush to Congress if Congress had been present
to hear it. The great feature of the evening were the speeches made
by the Southern men. Governor Bullock said little. Governor Scott
of South Carolina, though unaccustomed to public speaking, made his
short sentences into arrows, and fired them at the audience with the
precision of a William Tell. Governor Scott has been a soldier. The
exigencies of war stranded him on Southern soil. He has taken root
there, where he has grown into a goodly tree, and not a single Ku
Klux has yet dared to lay the axe at the root of it.
It will always remain a secret “who struck Billy Patterson” and why
the noble governor of Georgia should be surnamed Bullock, for in
personal appearance he bears not the slightest resemblance to that
fiery, untamed animal. It is true, he has a handsome shock of hair on
his head, but he is as destitute of horns as the administration is of
knavery, and a better looking white man is seldom to be found.
Most noticeable on the platform was Simeon Beard, chairman of the
Georgia delegation, a man whose superb oratory and strange personal
appearance are most difficult to describe. Take away the prejudice
of the race which, alas! descends to us in the same way as the color
of our eyes or the length of our hair--a prejudice which education,
prayer, or any other softening, refining influence of civilization
never can remove--rend this veil asunder, and we should see a man
that we could honor as President.
Simeon Beard has the lithe, erect form, and the smooth, raven locks
of the Indian. Both African and white blood course in his veins;
his complexion is that pale, rich brown--the same color with which
nature loves to tinge the leaves in mid-autumn. But the spirit of
some animal long kept at bay looks out of his deepset eyes, and
his words burn as if they had been forged in a redhot furnace. He
made the audience feel the print of the nails in far-away Georgia.
Only a little longer will Frederick Douglass stand the acknowledged
mouthpiece of the mixed races and the darker stratum which underlies
it.
Simeon Beard was followed by a Texan, Mr. Ruby, another member of
the proscribed family. How shall we describe this swarthy man, who
appeared to be made up of sharp, glittering points, and who seems
to bear the same relation to the human family that a dagger does
to other weapons? He had the indescribable sway of the body of the
children of the sunny climes. When his youthful face appeared it did
not seem possible that he had the essential requisites to address
such an audience, but surprise gave way to admiration and applause.
He spoke in behalf of Georgia, asking nothing for Texas. “Why is
it,” asked the speaker, “that the same atrocious state of affairs
does not exist in middle and western Texas as in Georgia to-day?”
Lowering his voice until it hissed, “I’ll tell you; when a Union man
was killed a rebel was made to bite the dust. Only one man was shot
in my neighborhood. He was a poor colored preacher who had started
a school. Some men disguised went in broad daylight and shot him in
the schoolroom. Mind ye, he was a poor man with no friends; but every
man engaged in that day’s work was hunted down. We killed them as we
would so many reptiles (raising his voice until it sounded like a
musical instrument); that is the way we stamped out treason in our
part of the world.”
A colored man of polished education followed this fierce and war-like
Texan. His words were admirably chosen. The glowing appeals flowing
from the lips of Messrs. Beard and Ruby seemed like the virgin ore
torn from the rocks where it had been imbedded for ages. The smooth,
handsome sentences of Professor Langston fell from his tongue like
coin from the mint, each word having an appreciable value. Professor
Langston is at present at the head of the law department in the
Howard University. He was born in Maryland, of slave parentage,
but was emancipated at a very early age, and received a thorough
classical education through the indulgence of his paternal ancestor.
After leaving college he studied law, and he now occupies one of
the most honorable positions in the country. Like all of his race
at the capital, he takes the deepest interest in the welfare of
the freedmen farther South. The delegation earnestly asks that the
Bingham-Farnsworth amendment, which is tacked on to the last law of
reconstruction, may be crushed in the Senate, as its passage would
hand the loyal element to the tender keeping of the late masters of
Andersonville and Salisbury.
OLIVIA.
THE TREASURY TRIO.
WYMAN, TUTTLE AND SPINNER GUARD THE TREASURY DEPOSITS--JEWELS IN
STORAGE.
WASHINGTON, _December 28, 1870_.
From time to time fabulous stories have been afloat in Washington
concerning the secret of the United States Treasury vaults. It has
been whispered by certain snowy-locked clerks who have been noted
for years for strictest veracity that hidden away in the dust and
darkness of a certain vault might be found jewels that would vie
with or possibly eclipse those found in the diamond cave by Sinbad
the Sailor. Hidden away in the wooden boxes, it has been said that
pearls as large as pigeon’s eggs have nestled, their waxen beauty
undisturbed by human eyes, whilst diamonds, both great and small,
have winked and blinked without awakening a shaft of feminine envy.
In this same vault it has been known that parcel after parcel has
reposed, whilst hands that placed them there have crumbled into dust,
and the mystery connected with them has been lost to this generation
forever.
In this connection it must be mentioned that this particular vault
is the ninth in the Treasury calendar, and it bears a resemblance
to a bottomless pit, because heretofore anything under the head of
“special deposits” placed therein has never been heard of again.
Amongst other bits of dainty information, it may be chronicled that
the famous Field medal was placed here for safe keeping. Once while
Andy Johnson was President an order came from “headquarters” to send
the medal to the White House for inspection. The medal left the
building, but was returned, unknown to some of the lawful custodians
of the place.
It has been the habit from time immemorial to never disturb the ashes
of the sepulchre; hence the Field medal rested, but no great harm
ensued. It is true, Andy’s reputation for a brief time was under a
passing cloud, and the hardest worked man in the country was accused
of not reading the newspapers; and here the mischief ends, because
the same plates were used to make a new medal, whilst the first one
is worth its weight of precious metal, and only a small amount of
human labor is lost.
But in order to have a thorough understanding of this mysterious
conglomeration of metal, mortar and stone, a description of the
men who know the secret of the locks should be forthcoming. Nine
locks are concealed in the solid door, and each more desperate and
secret than the other. Three men only in the country understand
this wonderful combination, but as it is an established fact that
no one ever dies or resigns in the Treasury, there need be no fear
of a national calamity. United States Treasurer Spinner, Assistant
Treasurer Tuttle, and Cashier Wyman are the men designated for the
awful duty. As it would stretch this article to a most unreasonable
length to do anything like justice to the lives and duties of these
faithful public men, it is only necessary to say that General Spinner
is the most honest, bluff, inflexible servant that the people ever
employed; that he gives out the same kind of metallic ring as one of
his own gold coins when properly tested. Assistant Treasurer Tuttle
bears the same relation to the Treasury Department that one of Hoe’s
cylinder presses does to a newspaper office, and that he is a rare
combination of faithfulness, strictest integrity, business talent,
and hard work, is a fact never disputed in Washington. Cashier Wyman
is the third man of the trio whose business it is to hold the awful
keys, and he guards the Treasury vaults just as Cerebus is said to
stand sentinel over a remote region, though instead of three heads
only one is visible. Whilst Treasurer Spinner and his able assistant
know the secret of the locks, it is Cashier Wyman who daily performs
the necessary duties connected with them, and he who goes through
the awful door must pass his body, dead or alive. During the recent
interesting investigations it gave every indication of life.
Treasurer Spinner says: “There is nothing in my Department that I’m
not willing the people should know all about, unless it is something
under seal turned over to me for safe keeping by the War Department.
Some things are here subject to an order from the Secretary of War.
I don’t know myself what is in the vault. I think the Secretary had
better send some one, and, with others of this office, a thorough
understanding can be had, and the authorities will know what is best
to do in the matter.”