Part 3

Looking at society in Washington from a certain point of view, is like gazing upon the shifting scenes of a brilliant panorama. But one of the most delightful and home-like pictures consists of the different persons temporarily sojourning here, and who have always retained the right of citizenship in their respective States, joining together under the name of an “association” for the interchange of friendly sentiments as well as for the cultivation of fraternal love. It is the business of the president of these meetings to keep a list of the names and residence of all who belong to the association, and strangers coming to Washington can by this means find without trouble their acquaintances and friends. These Western associations are particularly flourishing this winter. One week we are told that the Indiana Association has had a pleasant gathering, and the Honorable Schuyler Colfax and John Defrees, the Public Printer, the sun and moon of the little planetary system, have risen and set together, and the united social element clapped its hands with joy.

Again we read that Iowa, God bless her, with her solid Republican delegation, and her war record as unblemished as a maiden’s first blush, has gathered her citizens together in Union League Hall, as a hen gathered her chickens under her wing. It is at these social meetings that the old home-fires are kindled anew in the hearts of the Iowa wanderers; and when the most profitless carpet-bagger arrives he is treated nearly as well as the prodigal son. Sometimes it happens that the more prominent members “entertain” the association, or in other words, “Iowa” is the invited guest. Only last night Iowa, as represented by the Senate and House of Representatives, the Departments, as well as the strangers stopping here through the inaugural ceremonies, were invited to the elegant mansion of Senator Harlan, where all were welcomed alike by the Senator and his accomplished wife. Here in the spacious parlors met the different members of the outgoing with those of the incoming delegation of that State; and here let it be recorded that neither Congressmen whose term of office expires on the 4th of March, could get himself decapitated by his constituents, but was obliged at the last moment to commit political hari-kari.

Standing a little apart from each other were the two bright particular stars of the evening--Mrs. Harlan, the agreeable hostess, and Mrs. Grimes, the wife of the able Senator of historic fame, two representative women on the world’s stage to-day, and both alike respected for their intrinsic worth, aside from the senatorial laurels which they share. One could hardly realize, when contemplating Mrs. Harlan, a brilliant, sparkling brunette, whose feet have just touched the autumn threshold of age, in her faultless evening costume of garnet silk, point lace and pearls--“Wandering,” say you? Yes, yes; one could hardly realize that this was the same Mrs. Harlan who had remained all night in her ambulance on the bloody field of Shiloh, with the shrieks of the wounded and dying sounding in her ears; and yet, out of just such material are many more American women made.

Self-poised and dignified as a marble statue stood Mrs. Grimes, noticeable only for the simplicity of her dress. Yet it was easy to perceive that it was the hand of an artist that had swept back the golden brown hair from the perfect forehead and dainty ears. Quiet in her deportment, she seemed a modest violet in a gay parterre of flowers. A woman of intellectual attainments, she has few equals and no superiors here. This present winter she has mingled much more in general society than usual, and her graceful presence helps to scatter “the late unpleasantness” as the sun drives away the malarial mists of the night.

Among the most prominent Iowans present might have been seen the Hon. William B. Allison, member of Congress from Dubuque, whom Lucien Gilbert Calhoun, of the New York _Tribune_ “dubbed” the handsomest man in Congress. Who would dare to be so audacious as to oppose the light current of small talk that ebbs and flows with an occasional tidal wave through the columns of that solemn newspaper? If the _Tribune_ says he is handsome, an Adonis he shall be; but as space will not allow of a full description, it is only necessary to say that he has large brown eyes, that usually look out in their pleased surprise like Maud Muller’s; but the other day they opened wide with astonishment when they read in a popular newspaper that the same William B. had been accused of receiving more than $100,000 for favoring a certain railroad project. But the hoax was soon unearthed, and Mr. Allison found his reputation once more as clean as new kid gloves.

And now we come to a man in whom the nation may have a pride, Geo. G. M. Dodge, of war memory, one of General Sherman’s efficient aids in his march across the Southern country to the sea; serving honorably in Congress to the satisfaction of his constituents. He has resigned the position that he may devote himself wholly to his profession, as chief engineer of the Pacific Railroad. Young, handsome, daring and aggressive, he is Young America personified. He is the man of the day, as Daniel Boone was the man of the era in which he lived; and his whole soul was embodied in words when he said, “I can’t breathe in Washington.”

We touch the honest, ungloved hand of the host of the evening, Senator Harlan, one of the superb pillars of the Republican party; one who has stood upon principles as firmly as though his feet were planted upon the rock of ages; but once he became Secretary of the Interior, and an angel from Heaven could not go into that sink of pollution and come out with clean, unstained wings. If Senator Harlan lives in a respectable mansion in Washington it is because the interest of the unpaid mortgage upon it is less than the rent would be if owned by a landlord; and let it be remembered that Senator Harlan is the only man in the Iowa delegation who has a whole roof to shelter his head; that his house is the only place where citizens of Iowa can gather together and feel at home. It was the noble idea of hospitality to the State that made the Senator pitch his tent outside the horrors of a Washington boarding-house or a crowded hotel, and not to “shine,” as the envious and malicious would have it. A thrust at Senator Harlan is a stab at every man, woman and child who knows him best, and if it was for the good of this nation that the New York _Tribune_ should be broiled like St. Lawrence on a gridiron, it would only be necessary to make it a Secretary of the Interior, with the Indian Bureau in full blast, as it is to-day, and in less than a single administration there would be nothing left of it but a crumpled hat, an old white coat, and a mass of blackened bones. As honest Western people, let us take care of our honest Western statesmen. Let us have a care for the reputation of the men whom we have trusted in war and in peace, and who have never yet proved recreant to the trust.

Dear Republican: Let us dedicate this letter to our sister State, Iowa, most honest, virtuous, best beloved niece of Uncle Sam. A greeting to the Hawkeyes. May their shadows never grow less, and may her thousands of domestic fires that now dot every hill, slope and valley be never extinguished until the sun and the stars shall pole together and creation be swallowed up in everlasting night.

OLIVIA.

BINGHAM AND BUTLER.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THESE CONGRESSIONAL GIANTS IN DEBATE.

WASHINGTON, _March 27, 1867_.

Scarcely has the day dawned upon the Fortieth Congress before it is our unpleasant task to chronicle its decline. As we say about the month that gave it birth, “it came in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” At the beginning of the session mutterings of impeachment growled and thundered in the political horizon, but for some unaccountable but wise reason it has all subsided, and the passing away is peculiarly quiet and lamb-like. It almost reminds one of a young maiden dying because of the loss of a recreant lover. The Judiciary Committee are expected to sit all summer on the impeachment eggs; but no woman is so unwise as to count the chickens before they are hatched. It is said that Congress has tied the hands of the President so that he is perfectly incapable of doing any more mischief, and the members go home, and leave Washington desolate. Washington is a live city. It has two states of existence, sleeping and waking. When Congress is in session it is wide awake; when Congress adjourns it goes to sleep, and then woe to the unfortunate letter-writer, for her occupation is gone--everything is gone--the great men, the fashionable women; the great dining-room in the principal hotels are all closed, small eating houses disappear; even stores of respectable size draw in their principal show windows, which proves to the world that they were only “branches” thrown out from the original bodies, which can be found either in Philadelphia or New York, and that the branches never were expected to take root in Washington. Only the clerks in office, the real honey bees in the great national hive, work, and work incessantly, and keep Washington from degenerating into an enchanted city, such as we read about in the Arabian tales.

At the moment of writing Congress is expected immediately to adjourn. The members are in their seats, with the exception of the Honorable, Ben Butler, who at this instant has the floor. He is talking about “confiscated property,” and an observer can see that he has taken the cubic measure of the subject. He is interrupted every few moments, but his equilibrium is not in the least disturbed. As his photographs are scattered broadcast over the land, a pen-and-ink portrait is unnecessary. But we will say that he is a disturbing element wherever he “turns up,” or wherever he goes. It seems to be his fate to be all the time cruising about the “waters of hate.” No man in this broad land is so fearfully hated as Benjamin F. Butler. We do not allude to the South, for that is a unit; but to other surroundings and associations. Some men are born to absorb the love of the whole human race, like the ill-fated Andre; others have the mystic power of touching the baser passions, and Honorable Benjamin F. Butler is master of this last terrible art. But it may be possible that he bears the same relation to the human family that a chestnut burr does to the vegetable world, and if we could only open the burr we might forget our bloody fingers and find ample reward for our pains.

These last days of a closing session have been marked by a war of words waged between the Honorable John A. Bingham and General Butler. Now these little hand-to-hand fights are the very spice of politics when they happen between the opposite ranks. But when Republican measures lance with Republican, when the war is of a fratricidal character, and brother gluts his hand in his brother’s blood, then it becomes the nation to take these unruly members tenderly by the hand and to mourn after the most approved fashion. It cannot be said that Honorable James A. Bingham has the manners of a Chesterfield, but we shall widely differ from letter-writers who call him “Mephistopheles.” There is nothing satanic about him. He is only a very able man, terribly in earnest. When he puts his hand to the wheel he never looks back. Whatever he undertakes must be carried out to the bitter end. If he has seemed conservative, it was only that he might not make haste too fast. He has been the useful brakeman in Congress this winter; never in the way when the locomotive was all right and the track was clear. Those wicked side-thrusts from General Butler in regard to Mrs. Surratt have wounded him, and he chafes like a caged tiger; but he can comfort himself with the idea that there is one the less of the so-called gentler sex to perpetrate mischief, and that a few more might be dealt with in the same summary, gentle manner, if the wants of the community or the ends of justice seemed to demand it.

John Morrissey is in his seat, and, to all appearances, he is on the royal road to one kind of success. Everybody feels kindly towards him because he is so unpretending, and he has the magic touch which makes friends. Quiet, gentlemanly, and unassuming, his voice is never heard except when it is called for or when it is proper for his reputation that he should speak. If he would only slough off the old chrysalis life--yea, cut himself adrift from those gambling houses in New York, he might prove to the world that there is scarcely any error of a man’s life can not be retrieved. We trust that John Morrissey will remember that Congress is a fiery furnace; that it separates the dross from the pure metal; and that, in this wonderful alembic, men’s minds and manners are tested with all the nicety of chemical analysis. Also, that the cream comes to the top and the skim milk goes to the bottom and will continue to do so unless a majority of the members can prevail on old Mother Nature to add a new amendment to her “constitution.”

OLIVIA.

A WEST END RECEPTION.

THE MODES AND METHODS OF A TYPICAL SOCIETY FUNCTION.

WASHINGTON, _January 15, 1868_.

A gradual change is coming over the face of events in Washington. The old monarchy’s dying. Andrew Johnson is passing away. If it were summer, grass would be growing between the stones of the pavement that leads to the stately porch of the Executive Mansion, but the motion of the political and social wheel of life is not in the least retarded. In many respects it would seem as if time were taking us backward in its flight and that we were living over again the last luxurious days of Louis XV. If Madame Pompadour is not here in the flesh, she has bequeathed to this brilliant Republican court her unique taste in the shape of paint-pots, rouge, patches, pointed heels, and frilled petticoats; the dress made with an immense train at the back, but so short in front that it discloses a wealth of airy, fantastic, white muslin; the square-necked waist, so becoming to a queenly neck; the open sleeve so bewitching for a lovely arm. This is the “style” which the fair belles of the capital have adopted. Our letters are meant to embody both political and social themes; but, if the truth must be told, the business of the people of the United States is suffering for want of being transacted. Our great men are too busy with the tangled skein of the next administration. Although half the present session has slipped away, scarcely anything has been accomplished. The real hard work is represented by the lobby, which is as ceaselessly and noiselessly at work as the coral builders in the depths of the sea.

General Butler is trying to enlighten the nation upon the knotty subject of finance. He seems to have taken the dilemma by the horns. It is not decided which will get the best of it, but the people can rest assured that General Butler will make a good fight. Like Andrew Johnson, he has only to point to his past record. It will be remembered that the gallant General paid his respects to the step-father of his country on New Year’s day. An eye witness of this historical event pronounced the “scene” extremely “touching” and one long to be remembered by the fortunate beholders. A sensational writer is engaged upon a new drama founded upon this theme. It will soon be brought out upon the boards at the National Theater under the high-sounding title of “Burying the Hatchet.” The writer of the drama is at a loss whether to call this production comedy or tragedy. It would be extremely comic, only the closing scene ends with Andy’s plumping the hatchet into the grave from sheer exhaustion, and the moment afterward he glides away into obscurity like a graceful Ophidian, or Hamlet’s ghost. The wily warrior is left master of the situation; not at all shut up like a fly in a bottle, but still able to be of use not only to his constituents but to the masses of his admiring countrymen.

But why talk politics when the social strata is so much more interesting? It is the social star which is in the ascendent to-day. The new Cabinet is discussed in shy little nods and whispers, between sips of champagne and creamy ices, in magnificent drawing rooms at the fashionable West End. Aye, why not give our dear Chicago friends a description of the most brilliant party of the season, which took place at the handsome residence of a merchant prince and member of Congress, the Honorable D. McCarthy, of Syracuse, N. Y. As the guests were brought together by card invitations, it follows that only the cream of Washington society was represented. To be sure there was a crowd; but then, it is not so very uncomfortable to be pressed to death by the awful enginery of a foreign minister, a major-general and a Vice-President elect, or to find yourself buried alive by drifts of snowy muslin or costly silk or satin, and your own little feet inextricably lost by being entangled in somebody’s train, and yourself sustained in the trying position by being held true to the perpendicular by the close proximity of your next neighbor. This can be borne by the most sensitive, owing to the delicate nature of the martyrdom.

Between the hours of 9 and 10, and many hours afterwards, carriage after carriage rolled up to the stately mansion, lately occupied by our present minister to England. Two savage policemen guarded the gate, and the coming guests slipped through their fingers as easily as if they had been attaches of the whisky ring. Once out of the carriage you found yourself standing upon the dainty new matting, from which your feet never departed until they pressed the Persian carpet of the inner hall. All wrapped and hooded and veiled, you ascended the broad staircase to find at the first landing an American citizen, of bronze complexion and crispy hair, who led you to the ladies’ dressing-room. Handmaidens of the African type instantly seized you and divested you of your outward shell or covering. A dainty French lady’s maid stood ready to give the last finish to your toilet or to coax into place any stubborn, mulish curl, and to repair, if it was necessary, any little damage or flaw to your otherwise faultless complexion. When you were “all right,” you found your attendant cavalier awaiting you at the door to conduct you, as well as himself, to the presence of the sun and moon of the evening, around whom all this growing planetary system revolved. A cryer at the door calls out the name of the cavalier and lady, in a stentorian voice. You shudder. This is the first plunge into fashionable life; but you come to the surface and find that you are face to face with the duke and duchess, in the republican sense of the word. Your hand is first taken by Mr. McCarthy, who is a tall and elegant person, whom you also know to be one of the “solid men” in Congress, as he certainly is without. You next touch the finger tips of “my lady,” a noble matron in purple velvet, old point lace, and flashing diamonds. At her right hand stand her two pretty daughters, with real roses in their cheeks, and real complexions, delicate enough to have been stolen from milky pearls. No jewels but their bright eyes. No color in their faultless white muslin dress, except little flecks of green that underlie the rich Valenciennes. You leave them, and smuggle yourself in the enclosures of a deep, old-fashioned window. The curtain half hides you while you gaze upon a shifting, glittering panorama, more gorgeous than a midsummer night’s dream. The air is laden with the perfume of rare exotics and the fragrance of the countless handkerchiefs of cob-web lace. Just beyond you at the right stands the servant of Her Majesty, Victoria of England. There is nothing to denote his rank or position in his plain citizen’s dress. A modest order, worn on his left breast, tells you that he is the successor of Sir Frederick Bruce; but in personal appearance Sir Edward Thornton bears no resemblance to his illustrious predecessor. He seems to be enjoying an animated conversation with a lady of rank belonging to his own legation. Monsieur the French Minister, exquisite, dandified, polished as a steel rapier, is talking to the host of the evening. Count Raasloff, the Danish minister, is exchanging compliments with Major-General Hunter. Though all the grand entertainments in Washington are graced by many of the diplomats resident here, they seem to get through the evening as if it were a part of their official duty. They cling together like any other colony surrounded by “outside barbarians.” The marble face of a petite French countess never relaxed a line from its icy frigidity until she found herself stranded in the dressing room up stairs, safely in the hands of the foreign waiting-maid. Then such chattering--the artificial singing birds in the supper room were entirely eclipsed. But let us leave at once these cold, haughty dames, who have nothing to boast of but the so-called blue blood in their veins. The world would never know they existed, unless some pen-artist sketched their portraits. We have had no dazzling foreign star in society here since the departure of Lady Napier. Oh! spirit of a fairy godmother, guide our pen while we touch our own American belles, the fairest sisterhood under the sun. “Who is the belle of the ball room to-night?” every one asks. You must not be told her name, reader, but you shall know everything else. Just imagine Madame Pompadour in the palmiest days of her regal beauty, stepping out of the old worm-eaten frame, imbued with life and clad in one of those white brocaded silks upon which has been flung the most exquisite flowers by the hand of the weaver. Hair puffed and frizzled and curled until the lady herself could not tell where the real leaves off and the false begins. The front breadth of dress is not more than half a yard in depth, but the long-pointed train at the back could not be measured by the eye; a yard-stick must be brought into requisition. There is a dainty little patch on her left cheek, and another still less charming on her temple. A necklace of rare old-fashioned mosaic is clasped around her throat, and a member of Congress from Iowa, who is said to be a judge, pronounces her to be the most beautiful woman in Washington. Oh! that newspaper letters did not have to come to an end. Room for one of Chicago’s fair brides, the only beloved daughter of Senator Harlan, Mr. Robert Lincoln’s accomplished wife. She looked every inch the lily in this sisterhood of flowers. She wore heavy, corded white silk, with any quantity of illusion and pearls.

So far hath the story been told without a word about the feast. The land, the sky and the ocean were rifled, and made to pay tribute to the occasion. Artificial singing birds twittered in the flowers that adorned the tables, while a rainbow of light encircled the same. This beautiful effect was accomplished by the gas-fitter’s art, and this exquisite device came very near bringing Chicago to grief, for the Honorable N. B. Judd found himself at the end of the magic bow, but instead of finding the bag of gold he just escaped a good “scorching.”

Again we touched the hand of the lady hostess, and then all was over.

OLIVIA.

IN THE ARENA OF THE SENATE.

MESSRS. NYE AND DOOLITTLE CROSS BLADES IN IDEAS AND ARGUMENTS.

WASHINGTON, _January 26, 1868_.