Part 25

What is that quality which makes the Northern and Southern women so unlike? It cannot be tasted. It cannot be described. It is the same kind of difference which exists between a white, mealy Northern potato and a Southern yam; a Baldwin apple and a banana in the Northern woods and Southern jungle--but only a man’s descriptive powers can do this subject justice.

Mrs. Attorney-General Williams was there, most talked about, most superb woman, in some respects, in Washington. One of your Cleopatras. Such a creation requires a separate paper, just as some gems must have a solitaire setting. And there was Mary S. Nealy, so well-known in letters and art at the capital. There was Mrs. Ames, the amiable and accomplished daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, as well as the widow of the late Admiral Dahlgren, who by the way, is fast earning a place in literature by her perseverance and talent. Possessing an ample fortune, a leader in the fashionable world whenever she chooses to reign, yet, like Lady Jane Grey, she chooses the solitude of the scholar, and delights in the labor of her pen. But newspaper letters must come to an end, because there is no space to write what might be said about the gentlemen who were there. Attorney-General Williams and Senator Stewart alone are as much as one newspaper can carry, if all their good deeds are related. So this will end with a little paper which Mr. King read between the “acts.” He said it had been “picked up in the hall,” in all probability where he dropped it.

“THE GRACES.

“By grace divine we come together here, To pass the time in pleasure and good cheer; To study all the graces that adorn The maiden fair or widow ‘all forlorn,’ The grace of speech, of music, and of song, The grace of conversation, short or long. But name the _graces_, these and all the rest, _Grace_ Greenwood is the grace we love the best.”

OLIVIA.

CARL SCHURZ.

A FIELD DAY IN THE SENATE AND STELLAR ATTRACTIONS.

WASHINGTON, _February 26, 1874_.

Yesterday was termed what is called a “field day” in the Senate. The opposing forces which go to make up the intellectual aggregate of this highest legislative body met in combat, and the whole nation is wide awake as to the result. Two men, both claiming to be Republican Senators, both as ambitious as the Evil One when he led Christ to the mountain-top, engaged in an intellectual hand-to-hand fight, but let it be recorded that Senator Morton alone lost his amiable temper. But who ever saw a chained tiger that did not lose his temper? Physically speaking, no two men could appear more dissimilar. When Carl Schurz is seen sitting in his seat he does not impress the spectator with the idea of a tall man. But when he rises you wonder when his head will stop going up towards the clouds. After he has “towered” to a certain altitude, and all the links and kinks and hinges seem straightened, he gives his shoulders another twist upward, as much as to say, “Shades of the mighty Schiller! if one only could touch the top of space!” Then there is a shake of the long, brown, curling locks as a lion tosses his mane, for all the royal animals of creation use similar signs and symbols. The mouth opens. It is not a growl. The ear is greeted with the sweetest and softest strains of the human voice. Who has ever read Oliver Wendell Holmes’ description of those velvet and flute-like tones that ravish the soul like the heavenly melodies of Beethoven? Carl Schurz has a voice like the wind sighing through the sugar cane, and his classical English floats in a sea of rhythmical measure. In manner this distinguished German orator would not attract notice for either awkwardness or grace. The personality of the man is lost, because the mind is fully engaged in following his subtle thread of argument, which is fairly embroidered with pearls of thought. “I love America! I believe in her people! I have faith in her great future! But America must be honest. She must be true to everlasting principle. Parties, fashions, men, pass away, but incorruptible integrity, whether applied to nations or individuals, remains the same in all ages, from the beginning to the end of time.”

These words, as near as the writer can remember, were meant to bear upon the inflation of the currency. He wishes to have our greenbacks fixed upon a foundation so that our money will have a permanent value. In other words, he says a dollar of the national currency is worth eighty-eight cents to-day; six months hence it may be worth seventy cents value in gold or silver. He believes that a nation like this ought to fix our money in such a shape that the people cannot be at the mercy of the sharpers of Wall street and Boston. Why should the great American Republic have a fluctuating currency? Is it because our greenbacks are only promises to pay, and that the Republic may become a defaulter in the end, therefore the nation’s notes are in a certain way just like the private citizen’s? This mighty problem of finance requires a kind of statesmanship which has not been brought into the arena of politics during this session of Congress. Carl Schurz says if we make more currency that which we already have will be depreciated.

Whilst Carl Schurz was addressing the vast audience, Senator Morton had turned in his seat so that he sat facing the orator. Not a word that fell from the speaker’s lips were lost to this highly gifted product of the great State of Indiana, most noticeable and in one sense the most interesting member of the United States Senate. We have all read the story in the “Arabian Nights,” where the men of a certain city had become so powerful and so very naughty that the genii had to do something that would not destroy the men for all usefulness yet would prevent any outbursts of wickedness or folly. So he touched them all with the enchanter’s wand at some point below the shoulder blades. Instantly the men lost the power of locomotion. Whilst the upper part of their persons were alive, the lower became black marble. But what Senator Morton has lost in one extreme, he has gained in another, for to-day he is the strongest man who attempts to lead in his faction of the Senate. There is something about his head which bears a striking resemblance to the portraits of Webster, and he is thought to be one of the most forcible speakers in the Senate. His arguments are hurled at his opponent as cannon balls fly to kill the enemy. But if he has a hard, rugged, sharp side to his intellect, there is another as fascinating as that said to be possessed by Aaron Burr or Mirabeau. Men may not agree with this opinion, because they never can see that point of his character which is revealed to women alone. Men see only the surface of men. It is left to women to go down into the depths and bring up the pearls and coral.

About the audience that listened to Senators Schurz and Morton. There was a large delegation from the House, composed of those who have apparently taken the deepest hold of the slippery question of finance. Benjamin Butler was there, flushed, worried, and apparently somewhat worn in his encounter with the committee of Boston, Massachusetts.

He had just had a conference with them in regard to the collectorship of Boston in his committee room, and told them “hands off,” and yet he was not happy. They, too, had come over from the House to listen; sharp, keen Puritans, determined as so many bloodhounds. But the nation realizes that when Massachusetts is torn by her own intestine broils the rest of the world is safe, the Centennial will flourish, and no possible harm can follow.

Few men have attracted the notice of the Senate and secured that close attention as did Carl Schurz in his effort of yesterday. Even Senator Sumner laid aside his pen and pushed back his large pile of papers, apparently giving himself up to the fascination of the hour. Senator Mitchell, of Oregon, sat leaning back upon a sofa in a distant corner. He had resigned his Senatorial seat for the time to benefit a prominent member of Congress. As he appeared, with the gorgeous walls of the Senate for a background, no finer picture could be found for an artist’s copy. Tall, elegant, and graceful, with a singular purity of complexion, his head crowned by a glory of chestnut hair, such as the ancient painters used to delight to transfer to their canvas, large deep blue eyes, such as Raphael gave his Madonnas. “Fell into trouble with women,” said the newspapers. Will water fall when the clouds are moist? Will labor seek the neighborhood of capital? Alas! Will a duck swim? Senator Mitchell is not to blame because he is the handsomest specimen in the Senate. He did not make himself. Suppose he made mistakes or committed mischief before the sense of right and justice was crystallized in his mind? Who knows anything about the temptations placed before Adonis? What did Adam do when Eve gave him the apple and told him it would do him good? It is true the Oregon legislature have never discussed the subject of apples, but they sent Senator Mitchell back indorsed by the highest authority of the State, and he has only to take hold of legislation with heart and soul, and live the same pure and consistent life that he has in the last few years, and the country will honor him as one of her most distinguished sons.

Who is that leaning back in all that negligent abandon so becoming the occupant of that particular chair? It is the silver Senator of Nevada--the successor of Jim Nye. “Why, the man that wants my place,” says Jeems, “has a silver mine; do you think I can beat that?” Well, there he is, the monarch of the silver mine, watching with closest attention the eloquent speaker. Everything about him looks as if it had a standard value. If he should happen to trip and fall a metallic ring would be heard, just as if a new coin was thrown upon the pavement. A fine-looking man, rather below the medium height, but the most perfect specimen of high and costly living to be seen in the Senate. One can imagine him looking at the world and saying, “I am bound to get all the comfort. My house shall be a palace, my bath shall be champagne!” As yet he has done nothing to make himself felt as an integral part of this august body, but is prized at the capital because he is pleasing in manner, he is a United States Senator, and last but not least, he is a dashing widower with a silver mine attached.

OLIVIA.

ON CAPITOL HILL.

A VISIT TO THE NAVY YARD--THE CARROLL AND BUTLER RESIDENCES.

WASHINGTON, _September 24, 1874_.

The exclusive aristocracy of Washington is found in that part of the city known as Capitol Hill. Upon the emerald heights crowned with gardens and flowers, the proud old families of ancient lineage occupy their ancestral acres almost under the dome of our beloved Capitol. Whilst standing on the brow of “the Hill,” if the eye is directed southward, the baronial home of the Carrolls scourges the vision with its monastic severity. A wall as round as the arm of beauty encircles the extensive grounds, and the haughty old castle within is a perpetual aggression to the paint, parvenu, and pretence that spread itself at the “West End.” The spirit of holiness seems to envelop this elegant home. At certain hours of the twenty-four the dainty occupants emerge to go upon their rounds of daily charity. Like so many nuns, yet a part of the world, they bear the same relation to modern society at the capital as the old French regime to the Bonaparte reign. Earlier blossoms of the family tree have worn the proudest coronets of England; and these lovely silver-haired sisters are characterized by the same courtly refinement and queenly grace. To the north, but within a stone’s throw of the Capitol, may be seen the pile once known as the city home of General Washington. Within the remembrance of the child of a dozen summers it remained as the great statesman left it, except it had succumbed to the gnawing tooth of Time. The high plateau upon which it was built had in a great measure crumbled. The windows were mostly broken and the chimneys were beginning to fall. But the hand of modern Progress seized it and a pretentious building, made up of the old walls, now marks the site; too large for a boarding-house and too small for a hotel, destitute of kitchens and servants’ quarters, useless as a mansion, but splendid as a tomb. But nothing in the great laboratory of Nature is lost, for the ghostly brick and mortar serves to mark the hallowed spot sacred to the memory of the Father of his Country, and no Mount Vernon corporation can pen cows within the precious enclosure and peddle pale fluid at so much per gallon or so much per glass.

On Capitol Hill may be found Christ Church, where Washington and other early Presidents worshipped. The bricks of which it is constructed were baked on English soil and tossed over the stormy Atlantic. The antique building has none of the fancy airs of the modern cathedral, but it is built square and unpretending, an outward emblem of the spirit of those who gave it birth. It was made as a defence against the elements whilst the inmates were holding communion with the Most High. In the large, square pews sat Washington and Lafayette, whilst the gallant Hamilton held the slip-door that the “first lady of the land” might enter there.

Scarcely three blocks from the church is situated the navy yard, in many respects the most attractive point in Washington, because it is the great headquarters of the maritime power of the Republic. Inside the grounds the visitor is treated with a sight of wonderful naval trophies. Here are the guns captured off Tripoli when boarded by the brave Decatur, and here not long ago might have been seen some of the same kind of iron pots with the lid on that went down on Cape Hatteras with twenty poor fellows aboard. Holmes, Whittier, Longfellow, ahoy! Who will give us the story of the _Monitor_? the triumph in the James River? the tragedy off the stormy cape?

At the navy yard the great war vessels come in on purpose to go into dry dock and have all their corporeal troubles removed. The most majestic object in nature is the awful face of the mountain. The most sublime picture in art is a great war vessel lifted from the water and placed on the land. Look at the enormous hull, with its ribs of oak, sheathed with copper; the lofty masts almost piercing the clouds; and yet these little pigmies, scarce six feet high, put her points together. Certainly one is not to blame for asking if the Lord is as small in proportion to his created works. What artist will give us a picture of the great war vessel that was driven four miles inland by a tidal wave, at the Island of St. Thomas? Think of a ship buried on the land, just as though it were a mortal, and had a soul to be saved! “Cut the ropes, and every man for himself!” rang out the shrill command of the captain above the roar of the elements. “In an instant,” says an eye witness, “the solid wall of water was upon us. Oh, moment of supreme and mortal horror; we felt we were going into the jaws of hell!”

The last ship which left the navy yard, most beloved by the writer, was the ill-fated _Polaris_, of Arctic fame. It seems but yesterday since the decks were trod by those who will see her no more. “Taste that pemmican,” says Captain Hall; “don’t it melt in your mouth like a peach? There is nothing better after you cross the circle unless it is a tallow candle. That is the place where the Esquimaux will sleep, small quarters, but everything is packed, even to the ice, as you go towards the pole. This is my snuggery room for two. That is for the doctor or a companion in case I don’t like to be left by myself. I want you to see the nose of the ship. Seven feet of solid wood, finished with iron, to munch the ice. See the extras that have been sent us. That parlor organ is just the thing to cheer the men in winter quarters.” “Have you no fear, Captain?” “I am going to find the open Polar Sea, and Captain Buddington will take care of the ship.” As he said this a grave shadow flitted over his face. There was a vacant look in his deep blue eyes, as if the soul had stepped back from the windows of vision. At this moment all that was mortal of the ill-fated explorer was photographed on the memory forever.

The navy yard covers about 37 acres, and, besides the workshops, contains the officers’ quarters. The newspapers announce that the fashionable festivities of the season are to be inaugurated the first of next month by a series of Monday morning hops at the navy yard. Can anything be more bright and attractive? Imagine the smooth-shaven sward dotted with historic relics of mighty achievements, and ornamented with the same cannon balls that Henry Ward Beecher seduced into his boyish hat, the darling “middies” in bright buttons and smart blue coats, with all their delightful ocean pranks. Is it a wonder the girls’ hearts are gone before they are quite sure they have any? Besides, a sailor makes love in a different way from an ordinary landlubber. Time is short on shore, and the moments must not be spent in dallying. It is a kiss and a blow, and the blow means matrimony; and God help the woman who has a sailor husband or lover. A person was once heard to say, “My parents were married twenty-seven years, and my father was a commodore in the Navy; twenty-two of those years my mother spent alone on the land, for in those days no woman was allowed on a United States war vessel. When I was a little child, I remember a tall, bearded, rough-looking man, who used to come once in a great while to our house, and mother would call, ‘Children, come and see your father!’ The only time I was glad to look at him was when he brought us a parrot.”

Leaving the navy yard, you stroll to other parts of Capitol Hill, and soon become aware why the noble Capitol was planted on the heights, and why the adjacent grounds towards the east were chosen as the homes of the early aristocracy. Here Nature has lavished her most precious gifts. Our magnificent Capitol is the public building which dwarfs all others by comparison. Its superb front faces the homes on the hill. Its rear, from polite necessity, must be forever turned towards that western end, where speculation runs riot, and fortunes have been made in a single night.

One never tires writing about the Capitol. It is pronounced the finest architectural creation in the world, and the most costly, with the exception of a palace in Lisbon. It represents the accumulated grandeur of human taste, as it has been handed down in stone through the centuries. From the Egyptian Pyramids it borrows its overpowering massiveness, chastened and etherealized by the tone of the Greeks. After the Roman Temple of Jupiter Stator it takes its pillared porticoes, Corinthian in order, but here the resemblance to ancient architecture ends. The antique temples were open courts, and the porticoes were the useful part of the building. Before the letters of the alphabet were invented philosophers stood on the portico of the temple and taught the people. We have covered our open court with a roof, and put our instructors and lawmakers inside. What have they done? They have abolished the franking privilege, and wrested from the Government their back pay, but they will not send the public books to the people, therefore our modern Jupiter Stator is a fraud. One-half a million volumes have to-day accumulated at the Capitol. The vaults of this stupendous building are packed tier upon tier until space can nowhere be found. Already the broad aisles are choked, and the great highway is becoming impassable. Books! books! like the madman’s fiends, are above, around, and everywhere. Twenty bags full were sent to Congressman Dawes last week, and they are no more missed than so many leaves from the forest. In a brief time the Capitol will be stuffed with its own garbage, like a huge turkey in Christmas time, and the economical Congressmen will be driven to the porticoes outside. Then will return the pristine glory of ancient Rome.

We have no Anaxagoras or Petrius, but we have General B. F. Butler, a greater Roman than them all. As a last leap up the ladder of fame, this distinguished Congressman has decided to become an aristocrat and an old settler, and to this purpose he has bought a delightful site on Capitol Hill, and is building a residence worthy of the constructor. This costly creation may be called a stone triplet, as three houses will be born at the same time. The first faces the east, but its northern side salutes the Capitol. It is said this is intended for a grand “club house,” but the gambling will be exclusively confined to politics. All this is in anticipation of the grand hurdle race which will probably come off in 1876. The second house remains a mystery. The last has already been rented to the Coast Survey for a library. Henceforth Capitol Hill claims General B. F. Butler. He is our Congressional cloud by day and our political fire at night. There is a great deal of legislative chaff, and only a few grains of wheat. Capitol Hill has drawn her solitary ration and is satisfied.

OLIVIA.

GEORGETOWN ARISTOCRACY.

THE BELLS, MADAME BODISCO, MRS. SOUTHWORTH, AND GOVERNOR COOKE.

WASHINGTON, _October 20, 1875_.

Recently some stones have been unearthed in Georgetown of great value to the student of antiquated taste. These slabs bear a date so remote that most of the letters have been eaten away by the teeth of Time, but sufficient remains to identify the Bell family, who occupied Georgetown Heights in the early part of the last century. Far back in the shadowy past the clear ringing tongue of this English Bell might have been heard as it poured its melody in the ear of an Indian princess, who soon after became his wife. The first nest of the young pair was a tent; afterward a quaint English cottage snuggled on the woody heights. Below them moved the silvery waters of the solemn Potomac. To the east stretched their vast possessions, which embraced all the land within the scope of vision which lay between the cottage and the rising sun. Here Madame Bell, attended by her pale-face consort, led the fashions without rivals and with none to dispute her sway. Over the stormy Atlantic came the winged schooners, bringing rich brocades for this dusky queen. Her costumes were half enlightened, half barbaric, like many of the styles of to-day. The descendants of these ancient Georgetown aristocrats have been slowly undergoing the bleaching process, and the past hundred years had almost obliterated the last trace of Indian lineage, and yet within the memory of the present generation “white trash” have been noticed in this vicinity bearing the name of Bell, and carrying in their lithe forms and eagle eyes the last superb touch of the grace of Indian origin. But, true to the savage instinct, these were the first men to seize the deadly musket in the Southern cause, and the late battlefields of the South are made richer by the bones of the last of the first aristocracy of Georgetown.

After the Bells came the Peters, a haughty Virginia family, whose slave call was answered by hundreds of inky men. Georgetown Heights in those early days was called the Tudor estate, in memory of the royal line of England. Tudor Place stretched itself between the Heights and the Washington Navy Yard, but in the course of time this vast estate was broken up. This was prior to the Revolution. The Peters family were related to the Washingtons and Lees. Washington Peters is the most prominent descendant of this aristocratic family, but the last fragment of the estate has passed away from him, and he lives at Ellicott’s Mills, on a farm, a man almost eighty years of age, the last to retain the haughty bearing of the proud old family, the last of his race whose hand has rested on the yoke of a slave.