Part 5

It is well known that in every country the foreign diplomats are among the last to desert the reigning dynasty. There was a new illustration of the fact in the presence of so many ambassadors from abroad at the Executive Mansion last night. Conspicuous among the number was a representative of the French legation, Parisian to the core, Johny Crapaud in all his glory. Instead of a nosegay, Louis Napoleon’s decorations dangled from a stray button-hole; and when we say that his white kids were immaculate, that his necktie eclipsed the proudest triumph of Beau Brummel, and that he was as plain in form and feature as only a Frenchman dare to be, we have a complete picture of foreign diplomacy, one item excepted. This was a little jeweled opera-glass, carried in his left hand, and when our country women with bare, dazzling shoulders came within a certain distance of this august person, instantly the glass was leveled to an exact angle with the parts exposed, and with no more fear or hesitation than the doctor who brings the microscope to bear upon a bit of porcine delicacy when the cry of trichinæ is heard throughout the land. This may be the perfection of French taste and good manners, but it is simply revolting to the American. There is a difference between private life and the public stage; between a Canterbury danseuse and the daughter of a Senator. It is because we have treated foreigners so kindly, so forbearingly, that they have learned to despise us.

Between the hours of 8 and 11 the Executive Mansion was thronged by a crowd, in many senses of the word truly dramatic. There were those who went to see the “show” and those who were there on exhibition. There is no surer sign of deterioration in entertainments than the absence of women, and last night the men outnumbered the gentler sex ten to one. No doubt these masculines were drawn there to show their sympathy or gratify their curiosity; but President Johnson seemed indifferent to all surroundings. His unreadable face was lighted up by smiles, and when Jenkins tells the world that he “received his friends with cordiality, and elegant hospitality,” he will probably be telling as near the truth as Jenkins, by his profession, is allowed to come. The President was flanked by his illustrious Cabinet, with one exception. The head was represented by the so-called Secretary of State, and Secretary Thomas (ad interim) brought this ingenious combination to an ignoble end. As the real Secretary of State was killed at or about the same time as our lamented Lincoln, it would seem that the present incumbent is allowed to tarry in order to prove to the world what a fearful thing it is to outlive a once useful, honorable and perfectly rounded life. Let this great, warm-hearted nation forgive him, and inscribe on his living headstone: “Here lies the man who brought on his death by wanting to be President.”

Secretary McCulloch, sleek, oily, blonde-haired, helped to relieve the background of the Presidential picture; and to look at him one would hardly realize that he is the rock upon which so many officeseekers’ hopes have been split; and yet there is a certain snap about his mouth that would remind one of a tobacco-box shut up and put away for future use. A fine-faced, matronly woman clung to his arm, clad in shimmering sea of green moire antique, with almost any number of milky pearls on her person, and strangers called her Mrs. McCulloch. Father Gideon occupied the same position and appeared in the same attitude that he does in the great historical picture painted by Carpenter. Ever since he has come into possession of the goose that lays the golden egg he has helped every President to a seat on his shoulders, just as Sinbad was aided by the “Old Man of the Sea;” and if our next President becomes saddled, it is only the seal of the great Solomon or more than mortal heroism that can cope with this naval magician, for to all appearance he is to be a national fixture for all time to come. Secretary Browning is a medium sized, sunny-faced man, attractive as a streaked apple. He had a youthful, pretty woman on his arm, and it was apparent to everybody that if any one resigned his Department in order to attend to the President, or other important business, affairs would be looked after as faithfully as the Attorney-General’s, or with the same diligent routine that stamps him an efficient Secretary of the Interior.

General Hancock was there, the handsomest man a woman’s eyes ever rested upon in the military service. No matter about his record in New Orleans; no matter about the dubious reasons that brought him to Washington. Queen Bess, one of the greatest women that ever lived, would have made him prime minister at once, and if Andrew Johnson wishes to emulate this illustrious woman, and add glory to his declining reign, none but a Senate lost to the most exquisite emotions will interfere. Towering a whole head and shoulders above foreign ministers and all others in the room, one’s eyes must be raised to view the stars on his shoulders, just as they are lifted to the flaming star that rests upon the strap of Perseus, proving him to be one of the greatest generals in the heavens.

Heretofore a President’s levee has been a fair sample of different layers of society; this last one has been the exception. There were the President’s few confidential advisers, and those allied to him through interest who remained in the room with him, dividing and sharing the honor which they must feel is slipping away. Secretary Seward received by the side of Mrs. Patterson. General Hancock held his reception a short distance from the President; whilst the policeman on duty and Marshal Gooding, who has to perform the task of introduction, looked as if they wished the farce was over. The East Room seemed an immense bee-hive, swarming with black-coated honeybees, and if the truth must certainly be told, the queens were as scarce as in any other well-behaved, respectable hive. At precisely 11 o’clock the Marine Band tied up their shining horns and scattered in the darkness, the guests vanished, and the Executive Mansion was left to its uneasy dreams.

OLIVIA.

MARY CLEMMER AMES.

TRIBUTE TO THE TALENTED CORRESPONDENT OF THE NEW YORK INDEPENDENT.

WASHINGTON, _March 31, 1868_.

The fourth day of the trial of the great impeachment case is made memorable by the speech of Benjamin F. Butler. Whilst he was completing his tower of brilliancy and logic, the lightning was playing with the beginning of it, and when he had finished the great cities of the Union were as wise as we who sat within the sound of his voice. The struggle to obtain tickets equalled, if it did not exceed, the opening day of the trial, and the same elegant, aristocratic crowd filled the galleries, the women, as usual, outnumbering the men. The only really odious thing connected with the trial is the ticket system. Suppose a crowd does gather in the Capitol, the most perfect order prevails, and there are so many police on duty that it is very easy to protect the Senate and push back the waves of humanity. The grocer’s wife, the humblest citizen, has just as much right to hear the impeachment trial as the wife or the friend of a Congressman; and when the galleries are properly filled, what hinders the police from meeting the late comers and turning their unwilling footsteps away? Anything that smacks of aristocracy or exclusiveness should instantly be put under the feet of every American citizen. It is the masses who are the real aristocracy, because they are the source of all power; and the moment our public servants dare to draw lines that in any way interfere with this great, good-natured maelstrom, the least of this mass can put a stone in a sling which will do as good execution as the pebble of the immortal David.

Senator Wade has left the chair and Chief Justice Chase immediately succeeds him. For an instant let us survey this cold, haughty, handsome face. Not for a moment could one imagine fire coursing along his veins. His lips move, but only inarticulate sound reaches the gallery. The New York _Independent_ must be mistaken when it says “he has become the friend of Andrew Johnson, the idol of the young Democracy.” Ambition may consume him with its unquenchable fire, but with the corpse of William H. Seward before his eyes he will never commit suicide. The Senate chamber is as quiet as a vaulted tomb. The orator of the day arises, and thousands of eyes are brought to a sudden focus. Benjamin F. Butler has the floor. History has associated the name of Burke with Warren Hastings; and inseparably linked must be the names of Butler and Andrew Johnson. Mr. Butler is not an orator. He did not attempt to impress a jury. He simply read a great speech to the whole country, expecting the people to read it after him, and weigh its arguments discriminately; to note the strong points, and feel that Benjamin F. Butler had proved himself equal to the task imposed upon him as a trusted servant of the American people. In making up the gifts for this rare son, it must be said that Old Mother Nature denied him beauty; but he had managed to outwit the fickle old dame and come out even with her at last, for amongst the few beautiful women in the gallery Blanche Butler, the petite daughter, was fairest amongst the fair. “What a strong resemblance between the two!” you say. The crooked eyes are straightened, a little added to their size, and the same fire is flung into them both. In one case you have a pair of Oriental almonds, seen nowhere outside of Correggio’s Madonnas. In the other, you have eyes belonging to Benjamin Butler. The description ends. There is nothing on earth out of which to manufacture comparison.

In the exclusive crowd which filled the galleries, it may be said there were two grand divisions--the aristocracy and the press. The first named were elevated to their seats by their social relations; the latter by the divine right of being anointed sovereigns in the world of mind, born to their inheritance, like the Bourbons and Hapsburgs. Conspicuous amongst the limited but strictly exclusive set might be seen the delicate, _spiritual_ face of Mary Clemmer Ames, of the New York _Independent_. She writes poetry; the newspapers tell us all that. She also writes stately, solemn prose. Sometimes it is bitter and pungent, as many of our public men know. How easy and smooth the machinery of her mind must work! There are no sudden jars in the cogwheels of her brain, for her face is almost as smooth as a dimpled babe’s. She is pure womanly, from the low, handsome brow to the taper fingers, and when the time comes that woman shall stand upon the true platform of equality and justice Mary Clemmer Ames, with all the rest of the same sisterhood, will be remembered as the noble pioneers whose united efforts alone achieved the great work.

Speaking of women in the world of mind, Anna E. Dickinson addressed a fashionable audience here last night, and as we have taken a solemn oath to say nothing but honest words we must say that we don’t like to hear her talk. That she is brilliant and gifted, that Philadelphia has reason to be proud of this talented child, it were useless to deny. But God help the woman when honey no longer drops from her lips, when nothing but gall issues from the coral crevice! She gives the Republican party no credit for what it has done, but only heaps abuse and scurrility upon it because it has not done more. She hurls arguments at the heads with sledge-hammer blows, but she forgets to use woman’s strongest, surest, most fatal weapon--that jeweled, nameless, enchanted dagger, that, if found in the hand of the weakest among us, never fails of reaching the heart.

OLIVIA.

AT THE IMPEACHMENT TRIAL.

“AD INTERIM” THOMAS FLAYED BY GENERAL BUTLER--KINDNESS OF THE WIFE OF SENATOR WILSON.

WASHINGTON, _April 14, 1868_.

The interest surrounding the impeachment trial deepens. The blows of the aggressive Butler are met and sometimes parried by the sharp rapier of Evarts or the stout claymore of Stanbery. The President has wisely chosen some of the subtlest minds in the country to defend him, and it is almost worth the fruit of a lifetime to sit in the presence of such a court, the jury composed of the choicest men of each sister State, the lawyers upon both sides the picked men of the country, whilst some of the witnesses have a world-wide reputation, and the spectators, with but few exceptions, are rare exotics, gathered from the best hothouses in the land.

The sparring on both sides during Friday and Saturday was a perfect feast to those who like to see mind meet mind--who enjoy the din and crash of ideas; but what is the use of stirring up the cesspool into which Andrew Johnson has plunged, and for whom there is no earthly resurrection? Is not the country sick unto death of these poisonous exhalations? Andrew Johnson has broken the laws of the land. In the name of the humblest citizen, what can be offered in his defence?

The Sage of the _Tribune_ says, “Stick to the point, gentlemen; stick to the point,” and a placard to this effect should be paraded before their eyes in every loyal paper of the country. The President’s conversations with General Sherman and other officers are of no more importance to the people of the United States than his delicate semi-official talk with Mrs. Cobb. If we are to have one, why not the other? Why not let the land shake its rocky sides, and one broad grin stretch its awful mouth from Plymouth Rock to the silver sands of the Pacific slope? “Stick to the point, gentlemen; stick to the point.”

For all future time General Lorenzo Thomas will be known only as “Ad Interim” Thomas. Even the newsboys cry, “Here’s your evening paper. Testimony of ‘Ad Interim.’” If the poet had only lived long enough to have seen this man he would never have written, “Frailty, thy name is woman!” unless he had put in a clause intimating that sometimes Dame Nature in her haste makes mistakes; for Nature intended Lorenzo Thomas to be feminine. She gave him a slender waist and sloping shoulders, arched instep and taper fingers, and in place of a beard planted a few seed on his chin; and long years of cultivation have only proved that some productions of nature will not flourish on a foreign soil. If any more proof were necessary it is his testimony before the Senate on Friday, when he says: “Mr. Stanton put his arm around my neck, as he used to do, in a familiar manner, and says--” No matter about that. As the heroic and honorable Secretary of War thus far has made no mistake, is it not to be inferred that he knew what was so deftly hidden from mortal view? The spiritual intercourse between the two must have been complete.

If anything more was wanting to touch a sympathetic chord in every woman’s soul in the vast galleries, to bring her nearer in sympathy with Lorenzo Thomas, it was the cruel, merciless way in which General Butler laid bare the heart of this interesting witness. He brought his little amiable foibles and weaknesses to light of day, just as the surgeon brings out the queer things with the dissecting knife. The galleries breathed easy when the tortures were over.

It was refreshing, at last, to see the soldierly form of General Sherman advancing to the witness stand. There are some handsomer men in the Senate chamber at this moment, but none of finer or more exquisite workmanship. The high forehead and eagle eyes; the thin, quivering nostril, and square manly shoulders; the muscles of wire-drawn steel. Like an exquisite stringed instrument, he must be kept up to concert pitch, and then follows such ravishing melody; but out of tune, or with a string broken, horrible discord would be sure to follow. He may be the best of husbands and fathers, but it is very plain that Nature was intent upon fashioning a good soldier, a leader amongst men, and in this particular instance she had made no mistake.

Reader, let your mind’s eye wander to the galleries. At the right of the diplomatic seats sits a woman reminding us of an English duchess. She is not delicate or sylph-like; on the contrary, nothing shall be said about avoirdupois. She is elegant and distinguished looking. Her black, flowing drapery is moire antique; a costly camel’s-hair shawl is thrown carelessly back from her shoulders, and lilac plumes dance and flutter with every turn of her head; amethysts and diamonds hang suspended from her ears, and her left hand sparkles with the weight of a moderate fortune. Would you know her title? It is the same whose name flew all over the country in connection with the Prince of Wales at the time the Gothamites feasted the Prince and provided him with a partner also. It will be remembered that on that most important evening the floor fell into the cellar, and there are people of to-day who are no wiser than to say, “No wonder! No wonder!” In the sky of wealth and fashion in Washington, this queenly woman is a flaming star of the first magnitude; or, more properly speaking, she is the Pleiades, Hyades, and possibly the “big dipper” also.

And now, reader, you are to know about the wife of a Senator who is not in her coveted seat to-day, for the reason that she has given to one of her husband’s constituents her ticket, and, therefore, like the humblest amongst us, has to remain at home. Would you know this pure type of womanhood, who says with her own lips, “We owe more to our constituents than to ourselves”? Would you know the woman whose sincere pity goes unchallenged amidst all this frivolity and wickedness, and whose unostentatious charity would be as refreshing and as broadcast as the evening dew if the source of supply was as unfailing as her own generous heart? Scarcely a public institution of charity exists in Washington without her name on the roll call and she alone gathered the first thousand dollars that made the “Newsboys’ Home” a success.

There are holy places in the mosque of the Moslems where only the “faithful” can tread with unsandaled feet, and there are some human lives so purified and exalted that only the pen of the Recording Angel is worthy to transfix their fleeting lights and shadows, their struggles in their upward flight. Ah! reader, would you know why Senator Wilson lies so close to the heart of cold, haughty Massachusetts; why he has the least of this world’s goods of any man in Congress; why he fights so manfully for the poor and down-trodden; why he is one of the most popular and best-beloved men in the land? It is because he is strengthened and solaced and the armor for life’s battle is girded on at home.

OLIVIA.

HON. BENJAMIN F. WADE.

CONSIDERED THE PROPER SIZE FOR PRESIDENTIAL TIMBER.

WASHINGTON, _April 21, 1868_.

The dying throes of the rebellion end with the impeachment trial. Whilst Grant crushed the head of the reptile in Virginia, and Sherman’s swarming legions cut the monster in twain, it is left for a loyal Congress to deal with that part of the serpent which it is said “never dies till the sun goes down.” The death-dealing rattle of the Ku Klux Klan is borne to us on the breath of the soft south wind; the lonely cane-brake still echoes the hunted fugitive’s cry; the hand of palsy grasps our Southern sister States; and the nation is heart-sick, well nigh unto death. But the warm glow of another sunrise is upon us. A new day already dawns in the East, and the coming man stands before the people, whom destiny has called to be the leader, and to guide the ship of state into a peaceful sea. All hail! Benjamin F. Wade, of Ohio.

Massachusetts spared him room to be born, but the great West nourished him upon her broad bosom, and there his mind drank in the grand landscape of dimpled lake and sunny, dew-kissed prairie, and there he learned, irrespective of color or sex, devotion to his race.

A self-made man like our own lamented Lincoln, looking out upon the world with the same kind, brown eyes; but there the comparison ends. Mr. Wade is not tall, ungainly, or awkward. Rather above the medium height, broad shouldered, he was apparently built for use instead of ornament, like a printing-press or a steam engine. Handsome, for the reason that not a weak place in form or feature shows itself; comely, because every point is purely masculine, with no trace of the other sex, unless his mother’s soul looks out of his brown eyes--for it is well known that Mr. Wade is one of the kindest men in Congress, also woman’s best and truest friend. It is for this alone that we stand in his presence with uncovered head. It was Senator Wade who brought the bill before Congress giving to woman in the District of Columbia the right to hold her own property and earnings in direct opposition to the rights of a dissolute husband. It was his personal efforts in the beginning that changed the laws of Ohio in woman’s favor; and, to use his own language: “I did not do it because they are women but because it is right. The strong have no business to oppress the weak.”

Sitting in his presence the other day, we ventured to remark, “How did it happen, Mr. Wade, that you signed the petition of Mrs. Frances Lord Bond, recommending her for a consulate? Would you really advise the country to give a woman such a position?”

The spirit of mirth danced over his face as he replied, “I would sign any petition that reads as that did. It said, ‘if she could perform the services better than any one else?’ I had a doubt in my mind about that; but if she could do the work better than any one else I would not prevent her because she is a woman.”

There has been a time within the memory of us all when a shuddering chill has crept up to the vitals of the nation. Then a plain, straightforward honest man was lifted above all others, far up to the highest pinnacle of power. As God gave him light to see the right, he led us through the smoke of battle, over the burning desert of war, and when the green oasis of peace was in view, he fell by the bullet of the assassin. Is it Fate, is it God, who reaches forth his hand and again lifts another straight-forward, unpretending man to the highest place in the gift of the American people? As a Senator, who had a purer record? In every crisis, on every national question, who for a moment doubted where Ben Wade would be found? Who ever caught him balancing on the top of the fence, if the seeds of life or death were to be sown broadcast over the land? Admitting that he has none of the polish of Chesterfield; that he sometimes nails his sentences with words noted for strength rather than for elegance and beauty (or that might be left out altogether); that he may not possess all the classical culture that some of his brother Senators may boast; yet, as a people sore and heavy laden, let us thank our Maker for Benjamin F. Wade--kind, noble, honest citizen, great, not in himself, for men themselves are paltry, but great, just like a mathematical figure which stands to represent the distance of the sun. He may be rubbed out, like the digit on the big blackboard, but the principles embodied in him are as enduring as the mountains of granite of his own native State.

OLIVIA.

TWO NOTABLE WOMEN.

MRS. KATE CHASE SPRAGUE AND MRS. OAKES AMES.

WASHINGTON, _April 23, 1868_.