There is a sagacity acquired by travel on the subject of forage and
quarters, which is useful in all other cities in the world where one may
happen to be a stranger, but which is as inapplicable to the emergencies
of an arrival in Washington as waltzing in a shipwreck. It is a capital
whose peculiarities are as much _sui generis_ as those of Venice; but as
those who have become wise by a season’s experience neither remain on
the spot to give warning, nor have recorded their experiences in a book,
the stranger is worse off in a coach in Washington than in a gondola in
the “city of silver streets.”
It is well known, I believe, that when the future city of Washington was
about being laid out, there were two large lot-buyers or land-owners,
living two miles apart, each of whom was interested in having the public
buildings upon the centre of his own domain. Like children quarrelling
for a sugar horse, the subject of dispute was pulled in two, and one got
the head, the other the tail. The capitol stands on a rising ground in
solitary grandeur, and the President’s house and department buildings
two miles off on another. The city straddles and stretches between,
doing its best to look continuous and compact; but the stranger soon
sees that it is, after all, but a “city of magnificent distances,” built
to please nobody on earth but a hackney-coachman.
The new-comer, when asked what hotel he will drive to, thinks himself
very safe if he chooses that nearest the capitol—supposing, of course,
that, as Washington is purely a legislative metropolis, the most central
part will naturally be near the scene of action. He is accordingly set
down at Gadsby’s, and, at a price that would startle an English
nobleman, he engages a pigeon-hole in the seventh heaven of that
boundless caravansary. Even at Gadsby’s, however, he finds himself over
half a mile from the capitol, and wonders, for two or three days, why
the deuce the hotel was not built on some of the waste lots at the foot
of Capitol hill, an improvement which might have saved him, in rainy
weather, at least five dollars a day in hack-hire. Meantime the
secretaries and foreign ministers leave their cards, and the party and
dinner-giving people shower upon him the “small rain” of pink billets.
He sets apart the third or fourth day to return their calls, and
inquires the addresses of his friends (which they never write on their
cards, because, if they did, it would be no guide,) and is told it is
impossible to direct him, _but the hackney-coachmen all know_! He calls
the least ferocious-looking of the most bullying and ragged set of
tatterdemalions he has ever seen, and delivers himself and his
visiting-list into his hands. The first thing is a straight drive two
miles away from the capitol. He passes the President’s house, and
getting off the smooth road, begins to drive and drag through cross
lanes and open lots, laid out according to no plan that his loose ideas
of geometry can comprehend, and finds his friends living in houses that
want nothing of being in the country, but trees, garden, and fences. It
looks as if it had rained naked brick houses upon a waste plain, and
each occupant had made a street with reference to his own front door.
The much-shaken and more-astonished victim consumes his morning and his
temper, and has made, by dinner-time, but six out of forty calls, all
imperatively due, and all scattered far and wide with the same loose and
irreconcilable geography.
A fortnight’s experience satisfies the stranger that the same journey is
worse at night than at morning; and that, as he leaves his dinner which
he pays for at home, runs the risk of his neck, passes an hour or two on
the road, and ruins himself in hack-hire, it must be a very—yes, a
_very_ pleasant dinner party to compensate him. Consequently, he either
sends a “p. p. c.” to all his acquaintances, and lives incog., or, which
is a more sensible thing, moves up to the other settlement, and abandons
the capitol.
Those who live on the other side of the President’s house are the
secretaries, diplomatists, and a few wealthy citizens. There is no hotel
in this quarter, but there are one or two boarding-houses, and (what we
had been lucky enough to secure ourselves) furnished lodgings, in which
you have every thing but board. Your dinner is sent you from a French
cook’s near by, and your servant gets your breakfast—a plan which gives
you the advantage of dining at your own hour, choosing your own society,
and of having covers for a friend or two whenever it suits your humor,
and at half an hour’s warning. There are very few of these lodgings
(which combine many other advantages over a boarding-house,) but more of
them would be a good speculation to house-owners, and I wish it were
suggested, not only here, but in every city in our country.
Aside from society, the only amusement in Washington is frequenting the
capitol. If one has a great deal of patience, and nothing better to do,
this is very well; and it is very well at any rate till one becomes
acquainted with the heads of the celebrated men in both the chambers,
with the noble architecture of the building, and the routine of
business. This done, it is time wearily spent for a spectator. The finer
orators seldom speak, or seldom speak warmly, the floor is oftenest
occupied by prosing and very sensible gentlemen, whose excellent ideas
enter the mind more agreeably by the eye than the ear, or, in other
words, are better delivered by the newspapers, and there is a great deal
of formula and etiquetical sparring which is not even entertaining to
the members, and which consumes time “consumedly.” Now and then the
senate adjourns when some one of the great orators has taken the floor,
and you are sure of a great effort the next morning. If you are there in
time, and can sit, like Atlas with a world on your back, you may enjoy a
front seat and hear oratory, unsurpassed, in my opinion, in the world.
The society in Washington, take it all in all, is by many degrees the
best in the United States. One is prepared, though I cannot conceive
why, for the contrary. We read in books of travels, and we are told by
everybody, that the society here is promiscuous, rough, inelegant and
even barbarous. This is an untrue representation, or it has very much
changed.
There is no city, probably no village in America, where the female
society is not refined, cultivated, and elegant. With or without regular
advantages, woman attains the refinements and tact necessary to polite
intercourse. No traveller ever ventured to complain of this part of
American society. The great deficiency is that of agreeable,
highly-cultivated men, whose pursuits have been elevated, and whose
minds are pliable to the grace and changing spirit of conversation.
Every man of talents possesses these qualities naturally, and hence the
great advantage which Washington enjoys over every other city in our
country. None but a shallow observer, or a malicious book-maker, would
ever sneer at the exteriors or talk of the ill-breeding of such men as
form, in great numbers, the agreeable society of this place—for a man
of great talents never could be vulgar; and there is a superiority about
most of these which raises them above the petty standard which regulates
the outside of a coxcomb. Even compared with the dress and address of
men of similar positions and pursuits in Europe, however (members of the
house of commons, for example, or of the chamber of deputies in France,)
it is positively the fact that the senators and representatives of the
United States have a decided advantage. It is all very well for Mr.
Hamilton, and other scribblers whose books must be spiced to go down, to
ridicule a Washington _soirée_ for English readers; but if the
observation of one who has seen assemblies of legislators and
diplomatists in all the countries of Europe may be fairly placed against
his and Mrs. Trollope’s, I may assert, upon my own authority, that they
will not find, out of May Fair in England, so well-dressed and dignified
a body of men. I have seen as yet no specimen of the rough animal
described by them and others as the “western member;” and if David
Crockett, (whom I was never so fortunate as to see) was of that
description, the race must have died with him. It is a thing I have
learned since I have been in Washington, to feel a wish that foreigners
should see Congress in session. We are so humbugged, one way and
another, by travellers’ lies.
I have heard the observation once or twice from strangers since I have
been here, and it struck myself on my first arrival, that I had never
seen within the same limit before, so many of what may be called “men of
mark.” You will scarce meet a gentleman on the sidewalk in Washington,
who would not attract your notice, seen elsewhere, as an individual
possessing in his eye or general features a certain superiority. Never
having seen most of the celebrated speakers of the senate, I busied
myself for the first day or two in examining the faces that passed me in
the street, in the hope of knowing them by the outward stamp which, we
are apt to suppose, belongs to greatness. I gave it up at last, simply
from the great number I met who might be (for all that features had to
do with it) the remarkable men I sought.
There is a very simple reason why a Congress of the United States should
be, as they certainly are, a much more marked body of men than the
English house of commons or lords, or the chamber of peers or deputies
in France. I refer to the mere means by which, in either case, they come
to their honors. In England and France the lords and peers are
legislators by hereditary right, and the members of the commons and
deputies from the possession of extensive property or family influence,
or some other cause, arguing, in most cases, no great personal talent in
the individual. They are legislators, but they are devoted very often
much more heartily to other pursuits—hunting or farming, racing,
driving, and similar out-of-door passions common to English gentlemen
and lords, or the corresponding _penchants_ of French peers and
deputies. It is only the few great leaders and orators who devote
themselves to politics exclusively. With us every one knows it is quite
the contrary. An American politician delivers himself, body and soul, to
his pursuit. He never sleeps, eats, walks, or dreams, but in
subservience to his aim. He cannot afford to have another passion of any
kind till he has reached the point of his ambition—and then it has
become a mordent necessity from habit. The consequence is, that no man
can be found in an elevated sphere in our country, who has not had
occasion for more than ordinary talent to arrive there. He inherited
nothing of his distinction, and has made himself. Such ordeals leave
their marks, and they who have thought, and watched, and struggled, and
contended with the passions of men as an American politician inevitably
must, cannot well escape the traces of such work. It usually elevates
the character of the face—it always strongly marks it.
_A-propos_ of “men of mark;” the dress-circle of the theatre at Power’s
benefit, not long since, was graced by three Indians in full costume,
the chief of the Foxes, the chief of the Ioways, and a celebrated
warrior of the latter tribe, called the Sioux-killer. The Fox is an old
man of apparently fifty, with a heavy, aquiline nose, a treacherous eye,
sharp as an eagle’s, and a person rather small in proportion to his head
and features. He was dressed in a bright scarlet blanket, and a crown of
feathers, with an eagle’s plume, standing erect on the top of his head,
all dyed in the same deep hue. His face was painted to match, except his
lips, which looked of a most ghastly sallow, in contrast with his fiery
nose, forehead, and cheeks. His tomahawk lay in the hollow of his arm,
decked with feathers of the same brilliant color with the rest of his
drapery. Next him sat the Sioux-killer, in a dingy blanket, with a crown
made of a great quantity of the feathers of a pea-hen, which fell over
his face, and concealed his features almost entirely. He is very small,
but is famous for his personal feats, having, among other things, walked
one hundred and thirty miles in thirty successive hours, and killed
three Sioux (hence his name) in one battle with that nation. He is but
twenty-three, but very compact and wiry-looking, and his eye glowed
through his veil of hen feathers like a coal of fire.
Next to the Sioux-killer sat “White Cloud,” the chief of the Ioways. His
face was the least warlike of the three, and expressed a good nature and
freedom from guile, remarkable in an Indian. He is about twenty-four,
has very large features, and a fine, erect person, with broad shoulders
and chest. He was painted less than the Fox chief, but of nearly the
same color, and carried, in the hollow of his arm, a small, glittering
tomahawk, ornamented with blue feathers. His head was encircled by a
kind of turban of silver-fringed cloth, with some metallic pendents for
earrings, and his blanket, not particularly clean or handsome, was
partly open on the breast, and disclosed a calico shirt, which was
probably sold to him by a trader in the west. They were all very
attentive to the play, but the Fox chief and White Cloud departed from
the traditionary dignity of Indians, and laughed a great deal at some of
Power’s fun. The Sioux-killer sat between them, as motionless and grim
as a marble knight on a tombstone.
The next day I had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Power, who lived at
the same hotel with the Indian delegation; and while at dinner he
received a message from the Ioways, expressing a wish to call on him. We
were sitting over our wine when White Cloud and the Sioux-killer came in
with their interpreter. There were several gentlemen present, one of
them in the naval undress uniform, whose face the Sioux-killer
scrutinized very sharply. They smiled in bowing to Power, but made very
grave inclinations to the rest of us. The chief took his seat, assuming
a very erect and dignified attitude, which he preserved immovable during
the interview; but the Sioux-killer drew up his legs, resting them on
the round of the chair, and, with his head and body bent forward, seemed
to forget himself, and give his undivided attention to the study of
Power and his naval friend.
Tumblers of champagne were given them, which they drank with great
relish, though the Sioux-killer provoked a little ridicule from White
Cloud, by coughing as he swallowed it. The interpreter was a half-breed
between an Indian and a negro, and a most intelligent fellow. He had
been reared in the Ioway tribe, but had been among the whites a great
deal for the last few years, and had picked up English very fairly. He
told us that White Cloud was the son of old White Cloud, who died three
years since, and that the young chief had acquired entire command over
the tribe by his mildness and dignity. He had paid the debts of the
Ioways to the traders, very much against the will of the tribe; but he
commenced by declaring firmly that he would be just, and had carried his
point. He had come to Washington to receive a great deal of money from
the sale of the lands of the tribe, and the distribution of it lay
entirely in his own power. Only one old warrior had ventured to rise in
council and object to his measures; but when White Cloud spoke, he had
dropped his head on his bosom and submitted. This information and that
which followed was given in English, of which neither of the Ioways
understood a word.
Mr. Power expressed a surprise that the Sioux-killer should have known
him in his citizen’s dress. The interpreter translated it, and the
Indian said in answer:—
“The dress is very different, but when I see a man’s eye I know him
again.”
He then told Power that he wished, in the theatre, to raise his war-cry
and help him fight the three bad-looking men who were his enemies
(referring to the three bailiffs in the scene in Paddy Carey.) Power
asked what part of the play he liked best. He said that part where he
seized the girl in his arms and ran off the stage with her (at the close
of an Irish jig in the same play).
The interpreter informed us that this was the first time the
Sioux-killer had come among the whites. He had disliked them always till
now, but he said he had seen enough to keep him telling tales all the
rest of his life. Power offered them cigars, which they refused. We
expressed our surprise; and the Sioux-killer said that the Indians who
smoked gave out soonest in the chase; and White Cloud added, very
gravely, that the young women of his tribe did not like the breaths of
the smokers. In answer to an enquiry I made about the comparative size
of Indians and white men, the chief said that the old men of the whites
were larger than old Indians, but the young whites were not so tall and
straight as the youths of his tribe. We were struck with the smallness
of the chief’s hands and feet; but he seemed very much mortified when
the interpreter translated our remark to him. He turned the little
sallow fingers over and over, and said that old White Cloud, his father,
who had been a great warrior, had small hands like his. The young chief,
we were told by the interpreter, has never yet been in an engagement,
and is always spared from the heavier fatigues undergone by the rest of
the tribe.
They showed great good nature in allowing us to look at their ornaments,
tomahawks, &c. White Cloud wore a collar of bear’s claws, which marked
him for a chief; and the Sioux-killer carried a great cluster of brass
bells on the end of his tomahawk, of which he explained the use very
energetically. It was to shake when he stood over his fallen enemy in
the fight, to let the tribe know he had killed him. After another
tumbler of champagne each, they rose to take their leave, and White
Cloud gave us his hand, gently, with a friendly nod. We were all amused,
however, with the Sioux-killer’s more characteristic adieu. He looked us
in the eye like a hawk, and gave us each a grip of his iron fist, that
made the blood tingle under our nails. He would be an awkward customer
in a fight, or his fixed lips and keen eye very much belie him.