Part 2

Just before the time arrived for opening this great historical meeting Washington contained two sets of people besides the saints and sinners, and these were the envious and the envied. The envied were the fortunate holders of tickets to the meeting, and the envious were the great outsiders. But when the third hour of that memorable speaking arrived the tables were turned. Members began to twist around as if they were schoolboys, the victims of pins which in some unaccountable way had been put in the cushions of their chairs, points upward. A celebrated New York politician treated himself to a newspaper; tobacco-boxes circulated freely and all sorts of expressions came over the human countenance which are possible when men get into positions where they are obliged to behave themselves and don’t want to. I will add, everything must come to an end, and so did this great occasion.

As I have nearly filled the allotted space, I must only glance at the great ball at the Marquis De Montholon’s and say it was equal, but not superior, to the same kind of parties given by our accomplished countrywoman, Mrs. Senator Sprague. In both cases no expense is spared in the entertainment of guests, and any amount of greenbacks, duty in the shape of costly silks and laces; but I learn that precious stones are more or less abandoned, since the shoddy and petroleum have learned to shine.

The shadows of Lent are upon us, and this fact crowded the President’s last levee to suffocation. It was exceedingly painful to notice the violation of good taste in some of my countrywomen by their appearance before the Executive and the ladies of the mansion in bonnet and wrappings. Unless ladies can conform to the usages of good society they had better remain at home.

OLIVIA.

ADVICE POLITICAL.

PRESIDENT JOHNSON GIVES EVIDENCE OF HIS OCCUPANCY OF THE CHAIR OF THE EXECUTIVE.

WASHINGTON, _March 1, 1866_.

It is so well known that it is almost needless for me to repeat that politics in Washington are shaken from center to circumference, and the country seems astounded at the bearing of a little innocent speech which emanated from His Excellency the President, from the balcony of the White House. Didn’t Mr. Johnson take measures to prepare the minds of Congress and the people by his veto and still more significant message? Didn’t he send his “Premier” to the great metropolis to assure the people that “the war would cease in ninety days”? If the people are astonished, who is to blame for it? Have they forgotten the fact that they have a Southern President? Andrew Johnson is a man. Andrew Johnson is human. This is proved by his wise and decorous behavior on inauguration day, by his kindness of heart to the down-trodden, and by his willingness to grant pardons to those who humble themselves so much as to ask it. Isn’t his adopted State shivering out in the cold, and his own flesh and blood by marriage denied admittance to Congress--said flesh and blood holding credentials in his hands the genuineness of which cannot for a moment be doubted? But there is one way by which a great deal of trouble can be saved the country and end the war which is surely coming upon the land. It is not a war of cold steel, but the clash of mental weapons, and it is feared that the party which can rally the most humbug is sure to win, just as they used to do in the good old Democratic days when Andrew Johnson sat in the Senate and had political sagacity to see in what direction power lay. Wasn’t he a “Dimmicrat” then? And isn’t he a Democrat to-day? Having no further use for the cloak called Unionism, he throws it aside. Shall we acknowledge that we have been humbugged--acknowledge that we have been dolts, idiots? No; rather let us uphold the President and the Constitution. Let us all turn Democrats--every man, woman and child in the land--and then there will be nothing to fight for. But lest some unscrupulous politicians may fail to profit by good advice, I hasten to call the attention of postmasters and custom-house officers who have lately been flying the star-spangled banner, and advise them to lower it immediately; also to make haste and don a new political garment, made by the first tailor in the land, else they will come to grief, for already the Democrats, those long-neglected sufferers, are on the wing for Washington, to be present at the distribution of the spoils, and those unfortunate Republicans who were so unwise as to vote for Andy Johnson deserve to be ousted, and the vacant places should be filled by those returned rebels, for shouldn’t there be more rejoicing over the one that is found than the ninety and nine who never go astray?

And would all this trouble have come upon the land if the men had stayed at home managing business and the women had done the legislating? Was a woman ever known to take a frozen viper to her bosom? This great triumph was left for man to accomplish. After the sad experience of masculine politicians, I trust they will be content to remain quietly at home and let wiser and weaker heads take the affairs of the nation into their hands, and our word for it Charles Sumner and Thaddeus Stevens, the cause of this anguish, will have to hide their diminished heads. Sumner and Stevens are both unmarried men; they have been bachelors ever since they were born, and this headstrong course which they have taken, bringing anguish and woe into every city and hamlet in the land, is owing to the want of the softening and refining influence of woman. The President didn’t mention this fact from the balcony of the White House, but he no doubt would have done so if Messrs. Clampit and Aiken (counsel for the conspirators) had called his attention to it.

If some of my readers take exception to the political caste of the beginning of this letter, I will say that nothing else is thought of in Washington, much less talked about, and it is surprising to see the ladies conning newspapers that are devoted exclusively to politics. Never, since the opening guns upon Sumter, has so much feeling been expressed.

The solemnities of Lent are upon us, but, as the heads of the church wisely say that no fast need be indulged in if it endangers the health and life of the penitent--and fasting always does so--the fair Episcopalians of Washington, those of my acquaintance, take the season of Lent to repair their constitutions which have been so sadly used in the whirl of gayety and the frivolity of fashionable life. I am glad the gay season is over. How comfortable to pack away ermine, and banish moire antiques to trunks seldom or never used, there to repose until another season, in company with odors of “night blooming cereus” or some such delicate perfume. But the best use which can be made of dresses which have done duty for one winter is to send them off by express to country cousins. But one must be careful what kind of country cousins one has, for any little generous act of this kind might upset one’s cream for a whole summer. It is a solemn fact that ladies have such sharp eyes that they can detect an old dress made new instantly, and any woman who has the audacity, for the sake of a little well-meant but foolish economy, to humbug her friends of the community in this way deserves the fate which is sure to be meted out to her--that of a little downward slide on the social scale. This applies to the extreme fashionables.

But there is another picture of Washington life. There are some women who come to Washington who bring with their presence the very atmosphere of the State which has the honor of sending their husbands here. They bring the old-fashioned country ways of living and thinking. They refuse to lower the necks of their dresses and are perfectly willing somebody should eclipse them. They even sit with old-fashioned knitting work in the evening, whilst their husbands are writing letters to their constituents, for all members do not keep a private secretary. And I have always noticed that men who wear stockings of their wives’ knitting are the ones who stand firmest when the shock of battle comes.

Spring is upon us. The winter has departed so gently that we almost forgot that he has been our guest for the last three months. And young Spring, with his balmy breezes, is here, for he brings none of his boisterous, blowy gambols with which he regales our kinfolk in more northern latitudes. The season has come suggestive of new-laid eggs and frisky calves gamboling in the pastures, all unmindful of the cruel knife. Oh, for a quiet week in the neighborhood of the Quaker City.

“Man made the town, but God made the country.”

OLIVIA.

A PLEA FOR THE NEGRO.

THE PITIABLE CONDITION OF THE COLORED RACE DEPLORED.

WASHINGTON, _March 9, 1866_.

National affairs are becoming a little more settled in Washington; at least it is hoped that the iron cloud has a silver lining. Mr. Johnson has assured a well-known politician that he shall make his fight entirely within the lines of the Union party; also that he has no office to bestow on “Copperheads.” This is the last manifesto that has been issued from the White House to my personal knowledge. It is true that politicians declare that they will not believe any more of his assurances, because he is sure to contradict himself next day. But isn’t it a historical fact that all great rulers have always been fond of changes? Didn’t good Queen Bess have a new dress for every day in the year? One day Mr. Johnson assumes a political garb that brings great joy to the rebels, alias “Copperheads.” The next day he dons a suit particularly soothing to the ruffled feelings of the Unionists. To-day he chooses to lay aside the Presidential garb, which, by the way, is as heavy and irksome as a coat of mail, and assumes the garb of a humble citizen, and indulges in a few personal insinuations; and shouldn’t we be thankful that the citizen isn’t lost sight of in the mighty ruler? Isn’t this a proof of the soundness of American institutions? From the North, East, and West, from Tennessee, come scathing denunciations from the men who placed him in power, aided and assisted by one Booth; but he bears it with the dignity becoming his high position.

I have not heard of any dismissals from office on account of differing with him in opinion, but some have been dismissed for expressing them.

Among the number I notice Mrs. Jane Swisshelm, a woman not entirely unknown to fame. She has held an office in the War Department ever since the Indian atrocities in her late home in Minnesota; but her out-spoken sentiments in the paper which she is editing here sealed her fate, and the Secretary of War caused a letter-envelope to be laid upon her desk as potent in its designs as any other of the many warlike and immortal plans which have issued from time to time from his fertile brain, to his credit and honor, and the world’s benefit. And how fortunate for the country that we have a Tycoon who has the undaunted courage to resist the blighting influence of the so-called gentler sex, and is not above reaching forth his hand, thereby making woman feel that he is not to be trifled with. Mrs. Swisshelm’s paper, _The Reconstructionist_, still survives, upheld by its unflinching editress, and if it fails to throw light upon reconstruction, it is because the President is blind and will not see, for her dismissal from office proves that she has not hid her light under a bushel. But it is rumored in political circles that she has been relieved from office in order to go into the Cabinet, as there are Cabinet changes hinted at, more or less, every day.

The beautiful spring weather in Washington is totally marred by the clouds of dust that sweep the length and breadth of our grand avenues. I can compare it to nothing but those moving pillars of sand which bury travelers in the bosom of the great Sahara. ’Tis true one can escape with life, but new bonnets and dresses are nearly if not quite ruined, and the sacrifice is about the same thing; for in the latter case we realize the loss, whilst in the former our friends are the only sufferers.

But the clouds of dust do not prevent our sooty neighbors from spading the gardens, and just now they are engaged in turning up the soil with their blades in that gentle, easy manner which none but a negro knows how to practice. Washington is a Southern city in every sense of the word. It may have been partially redeemed by Yankee thrift during the war, but it is now fast sinking back to its original condition as it was in the days of the “old regime.” Slavery is dead, it is true, but the black man is not a citizen. He is the humblest laborer in the vineyard. But hard as their lot appears, it is far preferable to hopeless slavery; and though thousands of lives of the present generation may be sacrificed upon the altar of freedom, a new future awaits them; and if their Moses has changed his mind, or concluded that he has other work to do, they must bide their time, and raise up a leader of their own race and color, for the Lord has ordained that every people shall work out their own salvation. This is not a political view of the subject, only a feeble woman’s, who can do nothing for the freedman but utter shriek after shriek for him, which has proved just as efficient as anything that has been done in various quarters. Congress has done all it could do; the President has promised to be their “Moses,” and the negro persists in suffering. Who is to blame for it? Do they not bring their sufferings upon their own heads? What business have they to be born? Isn’t it a crime of the darkest dye? I leave this painful subject for wiser heads to explain, but should anything new transpire in regard to it, I shall make haste to inform my readers at the earliest moment.

Since the grand speech from the White House one is astonished at the sudden development of a spirit which was supposed to have collapsed with the rebellion. Great flaunting pictures of General Lee appear at conspicuous places to attract the attention of passers-by. He has taken Washington at last. One prominent bookstore balances his picture by that of General Grant; but a certain other bookstore betrays its ideas very ridiculously by a set of pictures--General Washington being in the center, Jeff Davis on one side and Jesus Christ on the other! Had the shopkeeper displayed the picture of our lamented Lincoln side by side with the assassin Booth my astonishment would have been no greater. Does the community think treason a crime when such things are allowed in our midst? We hear of no more balls, levees or receptions.

It seems as if the early days of the revolution were upon us again, as if we must prepare ourselves for events which possibly might become calamities in the end. New gypsy bonnets are displayed by milliners, but we have not seen a face peeping out from one, either handsome or ugly. And isn’t this a symptom of the earnestness of the times, just as straws show which way the wind blows? I did not mean to write a political letter; but there are times when we are caught in a storm, our eyes blinded with lightning, our ears filled with thunder; rain pouring, and no umbrella; mud deep, and no overshoes. When the storm subsides may we greet our readers under pleasanter auspices.

OLIVIA.

AT DRY TORTUGAS.

SEEKING PARDON FOR THOSE IMPRISONED ON THAT ISLAND.

WASHINGTON, _February 16, 1867_.

The reticence of General Grant covers the future with a haze of obscurity. Different Cabinet combinations appear before the public vision, like so many dissolving views of a midsummer night’s dream. The President-elect appears at a dinner party and escorts one of the gentlemen home, and the latter fortunate individual is decided to be an embryo Cabinet minister, and the lobby cries, “Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!”

It is very quiet in Washington, but it is the sultry calm which precedes the storm. All are waiting for the secret which is locked in General Grant’s mind as securely as the genie was fastened in the copper box under the seal of the great Solomon. In the meantime President Johnson is busy providing for his friends, as well as other unfortunates, who are not clamoring at the door of the Executive chamber in vain. Day after day, for months, a few fearfully bereaved women have haunted the White House. Among the number might have been found the wife of Sanford Conover, alias Charles A. Dunham, who perjured himself on the trial of John Surratt, and since his sentence has been serving out his term in State’s prison. Day after day this pale-faced, indefatigable woman has been haunting Mr. Johnson; haunting every man whom she supposed could have any influence in her behalf. At last her unwearying efforts have been crowned with success. Judge Advocate Holt and Honorable A. C. Riddle (one of the counsel on the trial) have said that Conover “without solicitation gave valuable information to the Government, which was used to assist the prosecution, and that he is entitled to the clemency of the Executive on the principle that requires from the Government recognition of such service, and that he has already served two years of his term.”

Another smitten woman’s feet have pressed the costly Wiltons of the Executive Mansion as sorrowfully as Hagar’s did the parched sward of the wilderness. It is the wife of Dr. Mudd, the man who was tried with the other conspirators, and is now serving out his life term at the desolate “Dry Tortugas.” During the last dreadful yellow fever epidemic, our officers on the island testify to the almost superhuman efforts of Dr. Mudd in behalf of the prisoners and soldiers. He seemed to have a charmed life among the dead and dying. There was no duty so loathsome that he shrank from it, and when he could do no more for the sufferers in life he helped to cover their remains with the salted sands. Armed with this testimony of the officers, for months Mrs. Mudd has attended Andrew Johnson like a shadow.

One day last summer a personal friend of the President’s was admitted to the Executive presence. As he took the lady’s hand, he smilingly remarked: “I am sorry that I kept you waiting.”

She replied, “There is another lady who has been waiting longer than I have.”

“Do you know her?” asked the President.

“I never saw her before,” said the lady.

The President called a messenger, saying, “See who is in the ante-room waiting.”

A smile crept over the messenger’s face as he answered, “It’s only Mrs. Mudd.”

“Only Mrs. Mudd,” echoed the President, while a spasm of pain chased over his countenance. “That woman here again, after all I have said?” At the same time the President put both hands to his face.

“Why do you allow yourself to be so annoyed?” said the friend, using the license which belongs to a woman’s friendship.

“The President of the United States ought not be annoyed at anything; besides, I have no right to put any one out of this house who comes to see me on business and behaves with propriety. Don’t let us talk about that; let us think of something else.”

Of all forsaken places on this planet, there is none that will compare in terror to the Dry Tortugas. By the side of it St. Helena is a kind of terrestrial paradise. Neither friendly rock, shrub, tree nor blade of grass is to be seen on its surface. It is a small, burning Sahara, planted in the bosom of the desolate sea, without a single oasis to relieve its savage face. The garrison and prisoners have to depend on cisterns for their supply of water, and out of the thirty-seven carpenters who, in the beginning of the rebellion, went there with the corps of engineers to look after repairs, only four returned alive, and two of these have been confirmed invalids ever since. When one of the carpenters was questioned to explain the great mortality, he said it was owing, at this particular time, to the miserable quarters prepared for the workmen, and to the bad water that was dealt out to them, of which, bad as it was, they could not get enough to supply their pressing wants. The island swarms with insects that bite and sting; and if the soldiers on duty there were not frequently relieved and sent to the mainland, mutiny and its attendant horrors would be sure to follow. When a criminal deserves to expiate ten thousand deaths in one, it is only necessary to send him to the Dry Tortugas.

For several months people have been at work here upon certain nominations which have been sent to the Senate. Mrs. Anna S. Stephens has not been only at work on the life of Andrew Johnson, which she has foretold will end with the one immortal triumph (his escape from his impeachment foes), but she also succeeded in getting her son nominated as consul to Manchester, England. While the venerable mother has labored at the White House, the would-be consul’s wife, in charming silks and costly gems, has sought introductions to leading men who might have some influence with the stony Senate, if they only chose to exercise it. It has become well known in Washington that whenever a man feels ambition swelling in his bosom the best remedy is to send some interesting feminine diplomat to court, and if she does not succeed he will then know it was because the case was hopeless from the beginning. In the good old days of Queen Bess, diplomacy was almost altogether in the hands of the woman; then that was certainly one of the most remarkable eras in the world’s history.

James Parton, the distinguished magazine writer, has been here for several days. He has been seen on the floor of the House, and also in close consultation with many leading members of Congress, as well as doorkeepers, messengers, pages, and all others who are supposed to be wise and serious when talked to in regard to a certain very delicate subject. It is said that Mr. Parton is preparing an article upon the Washington lobby. It is said he is going to hold up the monster in the broad light of day--this creeping, crawling thing, which, in more respects than one, bears a strong resemblance to Victor Hugo’s devil fish; for while it is strong enough to strangle the most powerful man, if once fairly drawn under the surface in its awful embrace, yet if you attempt to pluck it to pieces, piecemeal, you are rewarded with only so much loathsome quivering jelly.

This nation will never realize the debt of gratitude it owes the men who are standing as sentinels at the doors of the Treasury. The Committee on Claims are besieged by an army more terrible in its invincibility than ever stormed the earthworks of fort or doomed city. It is true, the arms used by the enemy are of a kind as old as creation, whilst the flash of an eye answers to the old flintlock or modern percussion cap. As yet these noble men have defended every inch of ground, and many of these fair Southern braves have withdrawn their claims for the present, waiting for another set of sentinels who will replace those on duty now. But more of this anon.

OLIVIA.

STATE ASSOCIATIONS.

IOWANS ASSEMBLE AT THE RESIDENCE OF SENATOR HARLAN.

WASHINGTON, _February 25, 1867_.