had little or no effect on the matrimonial market, although it is
confidently believed that Charley O’Neill is holding a vast amount
of “stock.” Notwithstanding the danger and difficulties of carrying
this weight, he has decided to enact the role of the immortal Don
Quixote, and has already planted the banner of his famous predecessor
on the soil of the capital of the New World. But lest Philadelphia
take umbrage at this unnatural exploit, as it looks like spurning
the city of his beloved soul, he wishes it understood that had he
fixed Philadelphia as a starting-point he would have been confined
by the meshes of the Camerons, whereas Washington, being the centre
of civilization, offers facilities that cannot be breached until
the farthest limit of the whole country is reached. As matters now
stand, there isn’t a maid or widow at the capital whose heart is not
pit-a-pat, and even married women are providing against a morning
of storm which might close in perpetual sunshine. Already the first
celebrated battle has been fought, and contrary to the usage of
ancient chivalry. But as this is a different age, and bottom side
the globe as to Spain, it must not be expected that ancient rules
will be followed. When Charley O’Neill attacked the windmills the
other day in the House it was found that he had hit Sam Randall in
disguise. When he learned that he had got the wrong pig by the ear,
he soon scattered his forces and comforted himself by thinking, if
he had not destroyed a windmill of which Philadelphia would be well
glad to be rid, the skirmish at least had been fought in the “Cave
of the Winds,” and if not up to the standard of “knight errantry,”
had sufficient of the Quixotic flavor to answer every modern purpose.
For the present he has decided to save the expense of a “Squire,”
unless Congress will make an appropriation. Besides, Sancho Panza
would be in the way if he were the true metal of the Spanish sort.
But to remove this difficulty a private secretary has been found
who will open his tender missives; escort distressed damsels to
the theatre; gorge himself at “society lunches,” and sigh like a
“lying trooper” when the proper parties are around. Charley O’Neill
wants Philadelphia to know that most of his mischief is performed
by proxy, and when he returns he will be none the worse for wear.
On account of the slippery pavements he will not be provided with a
“Rosinante,” but not to disappoint his constituents he has determined
to get upon his “high horse” on the floor of Congress whenever a
pestiferous Democrat shows his hand. A magnificent belle of the
“West End” has offered him a plume for his hat, but he disdains
such marks of frivolity and declares that he will appear only in
the simple armor of an American citizen. This consists of a clean
white shirt, a neat broad-cloth coat--which under no circumstances
can be “swallow-tail”--Wanamaker pantaloons and patent-leathers.
The hat--a soft felt hat--capable of almost any expression. When he
enters the Capitol in this harmless disguise the sensation would
be indescribable if the attention was not divided by the roar of
Kelley, he who has played the role of lion ever since his celebrated
interview with Bismarck, which settled the bi-metallic squabble in
both hemispheres.
The editor of _The Times_ is notified that a column could be
furnished concerning Charley O’Neill, the Quaker City’s favorite
son, and the article would be as crisp and tender as young radishes
in spring, but will it pay to build up a reputation that will last
as long in the future as Don Quixote has in the past? Whilst _The
Times_ is solving the important problem, the dainty and delicate
Acklen shall be served up. Congressman Acklen, of Louisiana, is
one of the youngest and handsomest “bachelors” in the House, and
whilst attending strictly to his Congressional duties he has been
fortunate enough to get mixed up in more “scrapes” in which women
have a part than any half dozen members put together. Last winter he
figured at Welcker’s in what might be termed a “celebrated case,”
or would be if the bottom facts could be found. His partner in the
melee was a beautiful golden-haired widow from New York. Telegrams
flew all over the country; there was a suspension of the rules of
the House. The principal witness, an army officer, who appeared to
have conscientious scruples, fearing an “investigation,” escaped to
Canada. The widow published a card in the papers, announcing that
Congressman Acklen had “offered” to marry her, but she refused to
be comforted in that way. This performance healed the young widow’s
reputation. Mrs. Welcker published a card also, saying nothing of the
kind ever occurred at her house. This saved the honor of the hotel.
At the same time a kind of Chinese din was kept up, which proved that
the army officer left suddenly to avoid “a debt of honor,” whilst
the widow ran away to California and set the whole Russian fleet on
fire, which happened to be temporarily stopping in the San Francisco
harbor. In the meantime Congressman Acklen occupied his seat in the
House, “the observed of all observers,” looking as innocent as a
Thomas cat whose whiskers are scarcely bereft of the cream. He had
all the sympathy of his brother members, because they felt certain he
would learn their caution in time; but, sad to relate, he had hardly
set foot in his beloved New Orleans before he tripped and fell
into another “scandal.” It would consume too much of the valuable
space of _The Times_ to record this part of his history, but it can
all be found in any of the files of last year’s Louisiana papers.
But he is here again, as clean and bright as ever, and to prove his
restoration he has left the unhealthy moral atmosphere of the “West
End” and rented a mansion on the pure heights of Capitol Hill, where
every spot is hallowed by the virtuous Father of his Country. To be
away from temptations of all kinds he has taken an aged widow for
housekeeper, with her two beautiful grown daughters, just to keep the
sex in mind. In this way he puts down scandal, and he is never seen
going to his own house except at the proper hours of the day. Just as
the banana and the orange, by their lusciousness, show their tropical
origin, Congressman Acklen proves by his appearance that he is the
“Son of the Sunny South.” Hardly beyond the middle size, beautifully
moulded, with raven hair and scarlet lips, he impresses the beholder
with his curious intensity and concentration, just as the diamond
flashes out its liquid fire; but he is a real “lady-killer” in the
longest, broadest, deepest sense of the word, and he is only 30 years
old, and refuses to be sobered by the holy bands of wedlock; but
the edge of his wickedness is being borne away by the attrition of
national notoriety and the fast-increasing fastidiousness of his own
taste, and yet his reputation rather endears him than otherwise to
fashionable “society.”
Pennsylvania has more bachelors in the House than its proper quota as
compared to other States; but this may be the harmless way which the
“Old Keystone” takes to get rid of her extra rubbish. Hiester Clymer
is here, apparently cold, hard, and indestructible as Allegheny
granite, and he strikes those with whom he is brought in contact
by the same feeling awakened at the touch of rugged sublimity. The
grandeur of the mountain! The solemnity of the sea! Who would dare to
laugh and jest in his presence? The writer has been informed by some
of his brother members that he has a remarkably sweet and winning
manner to the few privileged to occupy the chambers of his soul; and
we should remember the rough, brown husk of the nut is no indication
of the kernel. High-toned and kingly in manner on the floor, always
the right word in the right place. For nearly if not quite a dozen
years, for we write from memory only, his stalwart form has been a
landmark in the Pennsylvania delegation, or a sort of Democratic
wharf against which the spray and foam of the Republican ocean has
madly dashed in vain. In reputation, so far as women are concerned,
his character is the reverse of Congressman Acklen; but suppose he
had been contrived on a sugar plantation, done up in a creole skin,
forged, as it were, under the very eyelids of the tropics? What then?
Shouldn’t Pennsylvania get down on her stony old knees and thank
heaven that her Congressmen are not made like Southern men?
As if to correct the acidity of the delegation, Congressman Herr
Smith is added on, just as the last lump of sugar is put in to
perfect the coffee cup. Whilst having all the virtues, he is believed
to have none of the vices, and his moral character at the capital
is always quoted No. 1; risks few and readily taken. Society knows
little or nothing about him, but the quantity, small as it is, may
be set down to his decided advantage. He has the reputation of being
rich, but there is little show or ostentation. He is always in his
seat, always at work, apparently with nothing but his constituents’
interests at heart. It would be better for our sex if it were
otherwise, but no delicate-minded woman would think of disturbing the
serenity of his soul, and he keeps so far away from the other kind
that an accident never can happen. No one doubts but at some period
of his life the ocean of sentiment in his bosom has been traversed by
gulf streams of romance, and he, too, like Whittier, can sing: “The
saddest of all, it might have been.” Blessed be the spiritual hand
that touches the human heart-strings only to awaken the divinest
melody, and thrice blessed is he who knows how to avoid those pits in
the soul whose black depths reflect bitterness, satire, and irony.
Side by side in every great mind the Creator has ranged the awful
caldrons of good and evil. Congressman Smith knows how to thread the
mazy way with pleasure to himself and honor to all concerned.
As it has been the intention to give the South the same fair showing,
apples and oranges, hardy roses, and magnolias, Georgia comes in with
a Congressman who, though never a “bachelor,” is a festive widower of
five months’ duration. “Emory Speer, Athens, Georgia,” is engraved on
his cards, and considering what should be termed his “recent grief”
it would seem very wrong to embalm him in the papers. But he gives
public parties at his hotel, leads off in the “german,” flirts with
the girls, and is not that sufficient reason to believe that he is
not the kind who enjoys the luxury of grief without some sort of
mitigation? Possibly he may have taken this dashing way to cover his
sorrow, but the young ladies believe that he is in dead earnest, and
if it were not for his five children and lack of permanent fortune
he would be considered already one of the “catches” of the season.
He was a Confederate soldier when only 16 years of age, served all
through the late war, studied law with Ben Hill and became his
successor when he was promoted to the Senate. Singularly handsome
in person and winning in manner, volatile and boyish to the last
degree, he is not to be judged by the hard, stern law to which we
cold-blooded Nor’westers bow the knee. At any rate, he is sincerity
itself, and probably he may be a big child in disguise. Who knows
when the threshold of manhood or womanhood has been passed? There
is a character in Hawthorne’s “Marble Faun” always supposed to be
romance. But here in Congress is the case that fits it. Who dare sit
in judgment on a fellow-mortal? He that is wisest is the most humble,
and those who are dearest will give us a rest.
OLIVIA.
THE BOTANIC GARDEN.
SOME SIDE GLANCES AT THE EXPENDITURES FOR THAT INSTITUTION.
WASHINGTON, _January 18, 1880_.
Although a fraction only of the single men in Congress have cut a
figure in these papers, a little deviation takes place this week
to show the people what it costs to keep Congressmen armed with
bouquets, for these are the weapons in modern use which bring down
the game which is best worth bagging. But it must not be thought by
the reader that the vast greenhouses at the capital, kept in being
at government expense, are appropriated entirely by the bachelor
Congressmen. On the contrary, married Senators and members leave
their orders through a page. This has been proved time after time by
a Congressman’s wife receiving a bouquet with a card attached bearing
another woman’s name; but as her husband’s, in fact no male signature
of any kind appears she immediately seeks her mirror in proof of
another conquest. True, she realizes that her youthful hey-day is
over; that mutton has taken the place of lamb-chop (Ben: Perley
Poore is the authority for declaring that “all men prefer it”),
but she knows that some mutton always stays tender, and when this
kind can be found even Ben: Perley Poore or Senator Conkling will
not disdain it. But coming back to the national greenhouses, which
are as distinct from the Agricultural Department as the different
Cabinet portfolios; in other words, the Botanic Garden sustains the
same relation to Congress as the conservatory of any mansion to its
solitary owner. The Republic furnishes another garden and immense
conservatory for the exclusive use of the White House; and when it
is seen how hundreds of thousands of dollars of the public funds go
for the luxury of flowers alone, it will not be wondered that the
growth of “imperialism” is going ahead with breakneck speed, for it
is very sweet and lovely when all jobs and bills can be squared by an
“appropriation.”
A spectator standing on the western terrace of the Capitol sees an
innocent tract of land enclosed by a most costly fence. Broad avenues
and romantic walks disturb the monotony of the closely-shaven velvet
sward; while trees rare as oriental sandal wood have been brought
from every portion of the earth’s surface to adorn this domain of
republican royalty. Almost hidden by the fence and far removed
from the vulgar eyes of the common herd outside, the magnificent
Bartholdi fountain spurts its fair life away. Instead of putting
this exquisite fountain at the intersection of Pennsylvania avenue
and Seventh street, or even at the foot of the Capitol, now turned
into a graveyard by the mouldy genius of Admiral Porter, it has
been smuggled into the low grounds of the Botanic Gardens for the
exclusive use of romantic Congressmen who, when wandering slowly
with women who incline to be fast, turn their modest faces toward
the genius of Bartholdi in the hope that the soothing play of the
immortal fountain will at once arrest any demonstration not of the
straight-laced kind. To the rear the greenhouses assert themselves
with a grandeur of architectural beauty which the Government funds
alone can bestow. To get a foretaste of Paradise, or to recall the
glory of the Garden of Eden, it is only necessary to wander through
the mazes of lovers’ paths with which the Congressional greenhouses
are profusely intersected. From the foot of the most northern crag
kissed by the fiery aurora borealis to the molten girdle that clasps
Africa’s burning waist the vegetable glory of the earth has been
wrested to minister to Congressional comfort. In the pursuit the
trackless sea has been plowed alike by war vessels and merchantmen.
The most interesting spot connected with the greenhouses is the
“propagating garden,” where all sorts of curious experiments are
tried. Not content to let each flower produce after its own kind,
all sorts of horticultural black art is invoked to produce mongrel
types, which come from a curious propagating performance, which even
a Congressman cannot understand. Sometimes the gardener succeeds in
doubling the leaves of a single flower, to the loss of all sweetness
and perfume, just as we have seen the thing happen when the flowers
were human instead of vegetable. Striped roses and lilies are
obtained in place of the good, old-fashioned solid colors. To produce
these freaks, or to make old Mother Nature change her every-day
program, appropriations are made that would astonish the people,
considering the surroundings of most of the Congressmen before they
are born into official life.
In 1836, or nearly half a century ago, the beaux in Congress
concluded it would be a good thing to have bouquets fashioned for
their buttonholes at the public expense. Flowers in those primitive
days were obtained with much trouble and expense, so the initiatory
steps to free flowers was taken by an appropriation of $5,000 to be
used in this way: “For conveying the surplus water of the Capitol
to the Botanic Garden, making a basin, and purchasing a fountain
from Hiram Powers.” Before the year was ended it was found that
$5,000 would not relieve the Capitol of its surplus water, and
an additional appropriation was made the same year of $3,614.04.
From 1836 to May, 1850, nothing was taken from the public funds
for flowers. In place of nosegays to titillate the Congressional
nostrils these rough old forefathers used snuff, but this was
also provided at Government expense and the modest snuff-boxes on
either side of the Vice-President’s chair, and those to be found
in the House, will remain for all time as simple reminders of the
habits of our modest ancestors in comparison to the ravages of the
Congressional greenhouses as they stand in the pillory of public
opinion to-day. With the departure of dear old Thurman the last of
the old-time snuff-takers disappears. The last wave of his ancient
bandana heralds the Senatorial coming of one of the most aggressive
movers on the stronghold of all the appropriations. In 1850, $5,000
was taken from the public funds and in 1851, $750 only. A rest came
here until 1855, when $1,500 was taken to build a house in which to
store the plants brought from Japan, and during the same year $12,000
was taken at one time and $3,000 at another to fix up the grounds
of the Botanic Garden and put them in proper order. In 1856 the
grounds still wanted to be fixed to the amount of $5,650 at one time
and $11,000 at another of the same year, and the “grounds” hardly a
scant half-dozen acres in extent; in fact, only two squares long,
but not two whole squares deep. Following up the official figures it
is found that $6,000 more was expended on the Botanic Garden, taken
from another appropriation, making for the year 1856, $22,650. This
it was claimed was paid for “draining the grounds in the vicinity
of the national greenhouses.” In 1857--$2,600 at one time, $5,000
at another, but all the same year, and from another appropriation
$3,360, making in all $10,960 for the year 1857. In 1858, $2,600 at
one time, $3,360 at another, making the round sum of $5,960. The
years 1859 and 1860 only required a thousand each for the bouquets,
and during the war, to the credit of Congress let it be recorded, not
a dollar was sunk in the Botanic swamp so far as can be ascertained
in the Congressional records. But in 1866 the rage for flowers broke
out afresh, and it required $2,500 to stop the wound, which continued
when the vast sum of $25,057.90 was required to build the bouquets
to the right proportion--a sum which exceeded the President’s yearly
salary the same year. In 1867 it took $35,000; in 1868, $41,784.05,
etc., etc. The figures alone stretch out until the crack of doom. Let
it be understood that such men as that pure statesman Garfield held
the strings of the public purse and helped on these appropriations.
General Garfield is promoted to the Senate; Thurman, the statesman,
remanded to private life.
In 1874 the last of the large appropriations was made, and this
represented $16,925. About this time the Republican party began
to weaken, and with it the innocent taste of lovely flowers. It
must not be understood these vast sums represented the flowers at
so much apiece; but it always happened that the Botanic Garden
was crying for tools, more greenhouses, fertilizers, brick walls,
iron fences, glazing and painting. Its pathways were in a constant
state of eruption; its gates always hanging on broken hinges.
Seneca stone was constantly giving out and always in peremptory
demand. The substantial fences were always going out of fashion and
needed to be replaced as often as a woman’s headgear. The call for
“tubs, pots, packing materials, labels, seeds, envelopes, grading,
repairing, sewers, horse hire and manure,” ascended to heaven like
the cry of the young ravens for food. Could Garfield, chairman of
the Committee on Appropriations, withstand these demands on the
public funds? During these historic days of fat appropriations
the Woodhull sisterhood attempted to establish a “colony” at the
Capitol. Brisbane, of pneumatic fame, succeeded in getting a
$15,000 appropriation to sustain life whilst he should dig a ditch
from the Capitol to the Government printing office. The colony was
being planted, the ditch was being dug all at the same time, and
extra flowers were needed for the Christian statesmen in Congress
to reclaim the “colony,” or at least make it so fragrant that the
citizens of the District could endure the new innovation sustained
by Congressional influence and protected by the sacrifices of the
Christian statesmen. Flowers in the missionary cause were needed, and
Parson Garfield, chairman of the Committee on Appropriations, stood
at the mouth of the public purse and dealt out the shining thousands
as Aladdin showered the sequins brought him by the genii invoked by
his wonderful lamp. To the credit of a Democratic Congress let it
be recorded that no vast sums have been “appropriated” to keep the
bouquet business in full bloom. If the Confederate brigadiers wear
the “society” bouquet, they pay for them as they do their cigars.
It is declared by those who ought to know that the Botanic Garden
is on the road to swift decay; that it has little or no support,
except from the water which flows from the Congressional baths, and
considering the source, it is astonishing what excellent results have
been achieved. Sam Randall declares that so long as the greenhouses
can be made to flourish in this way he will not “object” to the
cleanliness if it will prevent an “appropriation;” besides the
bouquets derived from such a source are almost sentimentally equal
to the flower which the maiden sent her lover that had been “watered
with her tears.”
For many years the luxurious accessories of the toilet have been
on the free list in the Senate. Thousands of dollars are invested
yearly in soap, tooth brushes, infant powder, perfumery, brandy and
whiskey, combs, Turkish toweling, lemons, and tea. And this is one
of the safest investments of the public funds. What right has the
nation to elect Senators if they cannot afford to keep them clean?
Isn’t cleanliness next to godliness; and isn’t this purity of the
body about as close to the Creator as the average Senator attempts
to reach? Free flowers have been the only free luxuries in which the
less aristocratic branch had the same right, and is it a wonder that
it required more than $41,000 in a single year to make the sweets go
around?
OLIVIA.
WHITE HOUSE RECEPTIONS COMPARED.
CUSTOMS PREVAILING UNDER THE LINCOLN, GRANT, HAYES AND JOHNSON
REGIMES.
WASHINGTON, _February 6, 1880_.