Part 8

At the east front of the Capitol a different scene was enacting. At a proper distance from the platform stood the rank and file of the people, white, black, and intervening all shades, promiscuously mixed, a fair representation of the genuine glory of the Republic. For long, long hours the multitude had stood upon the cold, wet earth, waiting for a passing glimpse of the last closing scene; but their weary eyes were not to be feasted with dainty gold-laced foreign ministers and the great dignitaries of the land. It is true the Senate chamber could not hold the masses, but the national square contains room enough for all, and is it not time these old relics of another age were packed in the dust, like so many small clothes outgrown by the country? It is the royal people who are the sovereigns, and who has the right at any time to push them from their own marble temples with glittering bayonets? Soldiers are machinery to be used in time of war, and not engines of power in days of peace to thrust the cold steel into the breasts of loyal citizens.

No accident marred the festivities of the day. The long procession in its picturesqueness more than surpassed the public expectation. The soldiers were there, clean and trusty as their own polished weapons, and among them might have been seen the “black boys in blue.” The gallant firemen were out in gala dress, their engines gaudily decked in holiday attire, and all the different organizations in and out of the city seemed to vie with each other which should lend the most glory to the passing hour.

Just as the choicest viands are served for dessert, it was meant that the inaugural reception should eclipse all its predecessors as well as shine by itself after the manner of the mighty Kohinoor in the crown jewels of England. The place selected for this festival seemed most appropriate.

In the structure known as the Treasury building were gathered thousands of both sexes and the brilliant scene carried the spectator back to the middle ages. It was like some haughty chief in his feudal castle, summoning together the proud nobility of the land. Nowhere could be seen the simplicity of a republic. Only the crowns were wanting; everything else was there.

Mrs. Grant stood by the side of the new President in faultless dress of white satin and point lace, with pearl and diamond ornaments, and just beyond her stood the Vice-President and Mrs. Colfax, unassuming as a violet, in pink satin and illusion. Her ornaments were also pearls.

The various committees had endeavored to make preparations for every emergency except the most important one; they had made no calculation for numbers. When it was too late to remedy the error, the members of the committee discovered they had sold too many tickets; but this must have leaked out beforehand, for very few leading men were accompanied by their wives. In many cases they were seen with daughters or other young people clinging to their arms, whose youth would seem a shield against the fearful annoyance of the crowd. Toward midnight the jam culminated. The interesting spectacle might have been seen of two thousand people trying to get through a single door at the same instant into the supper room. It was the camel attempting once more to go through the needle’s eye. A short time after this, there was a grand division of the guests, composed of two parties--those who had fared sumptuously and those who had been used like Mother Hubbard’s darling:

“And when she got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog got none.”

Three to one could sing the old faithful nursery song. A supper had been set aside in another part of the building for the President, Vice-President and their friends, and rumor said that it was a most superb affair; but this only aggravated the famished ones who had paid their money for the substance and when about to grasp it had caught only an empty bubble with “Inaugural Ball” stamped on the rainbow-tinted, soapy, globular nothing.

The breaking up of the inaugural reception baffles description. The tearing up of the icebergs in the Arctic seas of a spring morning might seem more solemn, but alas! alas! not half so enthusiastic and interesting. The hats and coats of the gentlemen had been numbered, and then all thrown pell-mell together. As a matter of course when a check was presented, the hunt commenced. For hours men waited, and then were obliged to go home without hats or coats. In the meantime, the ladies, weary of waiting, sunk down in graceful attitudes on the carpeted floor, or else called their carriages and took their departure alone, leaving their escorts to follow as soon as the hat-and-coat trouble found solution.

When the sun arose on the 5th of March, his rays gilded eight hundred frantic men, who still stood doggedly at their posts, calling in vain for their hats and coats; but as this letter has nothing to do with anything but the 4th of March, the kaleidoscope is finished with the dawn of a new day.

OLIVIA.

PRESIDENT JOHNSON’S FAMILY.

TRAITS OF THE FEMALE AND YOUNGER MEMBERS THEREOF.

WASHINGTON, _March 9, 1869_.

The family of Mr. Andrew Johnson was the least ostentatious of any that has yet inhabited the White House, and its members preserved at the capital the simple manners of their former State. The retirement and quiet of their life was so great that many are curious to know of them, and a few words of description may be interesting to your readers.

During her occupancy of the Executive Mansion Mrs. Johnson has lived almost as secluded as a nun. This has been in part owing to a bronchial difficulty and a consumptive tendency, with which she was first afflicted at the beginning of the rebellion. This physical trouble was subsequently aggravated by the loss of her eldest and favorite son, who was thrown from his horse and instantly killed, at the beginning of the war, whilst on his round of duty as surgeon of the First Regiment Tennessee Infantry. Very few American women have suffered more than Mrs. Johnson in behalf of the Union. She has known what it was to fill with her own hands the basket of bread and meat that was to be stealthily conveyed to a hiding place in the mountains, to keep from starvation her daughter’s husband. It was a chastened spirit she brought to the White House, and though her presence was seldom denied to personal friends, with the glitter and pomp of state she had nothing to do.

Mrs. Andrew Johnson, whose maiden name was Eliza McCardel, was born in 1811, and will be fifty-eight years of age her next birthday. She is two years younger than her husband, and not older, as the newspapers are in the habit of telling the story. She was married in Greeneville, Tenn., when she was in the 18th year of her age. Her young husband at the time was not 20. The honeymoon was spent in teaching the future President the rudiments of education. Mrs. Johnson says she “taught him the letters, but he was an apt scholar, and acquired all the rest himself.” With the exception of a few months in the early part of Mrs. Johnson’s married life, her home has always been in Greeneville, Tenn. It was here her five children were born, three sons and two daughters, of whom Mrs. Patterson is the eldest. This daughter’s name is Martha, and she was married to Judge Patterson in December, 1855. Soon after their marriage, Mr. Patterson--who was practicing law at the time--was appointed judge of the first judicial district of East Tennessee. During most of the time of President Johnson’s administration he has occupied a seat in the Senate.

Mrs. Johnson’s second daughter (Mary) married Mr. Stover, in April, 1852. Colonel Stover was one of the most gallant of those officers who laid down their lives in the defence of the Union. Though he had not the soldier’s honor to perish on the battlefield, his slow, painful death was in his country’s cause. Colonel Stover was one of the leaders who headed the Union men of East Tennessee. He was one of the first to enroll himself among the number who as an organization were known as the “Bridge-burners.” His patriotic course attracted the attention of the rebels at once, and without a moment’s preparation he was driven to the mountains of East Tennessee. During the inclement months of November and December, 1861, and January, 1862, he was a hunted fugitive, hiding in the holes and caverns of the rocks. It was during this awful winter that Mrs. Johnson filled the basket with meat and bread, when her daughter, the sorrowful wife, was so smitten with anguish that she had not the strength to perform the task. Every man who tapped at the door of the lonely farmhouse was supposed to be coming to bring the news that the son and husband was hanging to a forest tree. Some of their neighbors had been afflicted in this way, and this dread was the penalty paid for Unionism in East Tennessee. During this fearful period, in which Colonel Stover suffered from cold and starvation, the seeds of consumption were planted in his constitution. At last, through the efforts of some old personal friends who were strong rebels, he was allowed to go home; but he brought with him a sharp, rasping cough. Soon after he was allowed to pass through the rebel lines, in company with his family and Mrs. Johnson. He proceeded at once to Kentucky, where he raised a regiment which was afterwards known as the Fourth Tennessee Infantry. No braver regiment served during the war, and but very few did the country more effective service; but before this gallant band had time to distinguish itself in any great battle its brave, energetic colonel had passed away at the early age of 35.

At the beginning of the rebellion Colonel Stover was living the independent life of a farmer in affluent circumstances. His large farm was well stocked with cattle, and his barns were filled. His house soon became known as a kind of resting and breathing place for the fleeing Union fugitives. After the departure of the family the buildings were destroyed. At his death his widow was left with three small children and a scanty subsistence. Mrs. Stover has never asked Congress to indemnify her for any losses.

Visitors at the White House during the past two or three years may retain the memory of a dignified, statuesque blonde, with a few very fine points which a fashionable butterfly once said would make any woman a belle if she only knew how to make the most of them. Mrs. Stover never became a star in fashionable circles, and now that she has left the gay capital, perhaps for a lifetime, she is remembered by those who knew her best as the charming companion of the domestic fireside, a true daughter and a judicious mother.

The eldest son of Mrs. Johnson was killed. Not long after his receiving his diploma as physician, he was appointed a surgeon in the First Tennessee Infantry. One bright spring morning, starting on his rounds of professional duty in the exuberance of youth, health, and spirits, he sprang upon the horse of a brother officer. He had gone but a short distance when the high-mettled creature reared upon its hind feet suddenly; the young man was thrown backward suddenly, and falling upon the frozen earth, was instantly killed. The concussion fractured his skull. Mrs. Johnson has grieved for this son as did Jacob for his beloved Joseph, and not only the mother but the whole family have mourned with unusual poignancy his untimely death.

Robert Johnson, the eldest living son, entered the army as a volunteer while still a young boy; and was given a position among the older men, on account of his father. It was at this time that he formed the fearful habit of intemperance. As soon as Mrs. Johnson was settled at the White House, she sent for this son, hoping that his responsible position as private secretary to the President and the personal influence of his sisters and herself could reclaim him; but alas! she found his new position, in its surroundings, a still heavier death weight to her hopes. Clever, genial “Bob,” the young man who had the ear of the President at any time, was everybody’s friend. A crowd followed him wherever he went. The choicest viands of Willard’s and Welcker’s were set before him, and miniature rivers were made to float with wine. Robert Johnson is now in an asylum, hoping and trying to overcome this vice. During the few months of his sojourn in Washington he provoked no enmity and left many true personal friends.

Andrew Johnson, jr., the youngest child, who makes the fourth and last of Mrs. Johnson’s children, is a boy of 15, attending the college for young boys in Georgetown, D. C. He is a slender, finely formed youth, characterized by the same modest deportment usual to the family. His face bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. Patterson’s, but at present he is only noticeable on account of his family relations, and because he is the last child of his mother.

Mrs. Johnson is unusually feeble at this time; but, weather permitting, she will soon leave with Mrs. Patterson for her distant home in Tennessee.

OLIVIA.

SENATORIAL PEN PICTURES.

FERRY AS A HEART-BREAKER--CONKLING AS A NOVEL READER--EATON AND ANTHONY IN REPARTEE.

WASHINGTON, _March 20, 1869_.

Like the great flaming carbuncle on the mountain’s brow, the dome of the Capitol dispels the darkness in Washington. It is night. The moon peeps out between scudding clouds, the elements howl like a spirited child, but the Senate is in open session. The original resolution endorsing the President’s course has been torn in shreds by the politicians, and such bitter partisans as Cameron of Pennsylvania, and Dawes of Massachusetts, have paired off and ran home, rather than remain on the battlefield to bury the dead or carry off the mortally wounded. Within the Senate chamber the faithful are gathered; Morton, Anthony, and Conkling to lead the rank and file. The Democracy are in martial line, defending the independent sovereignty of the States, with Andy Johnson at the head, ready to die for the Constitution. The magnificent decorations which make the Senate chamber a marvel of beauty in the day seemed touched with the fairy hand of enchantment at night. The incomparable rays of the sun are rivalled by the mellow beams of artificial light, which sift through the stained glass above. It falls on the golden stars of the tufted carpet. It makes an areola around the head of Senator Ferry, the young President pro tempore of the Senate, who sits in one of those graceful attitudes so becoming to the bachelor of the period. Major Ben: Perley Poore says he was born in Mackinaw, Mich., June 1, 1827, consequently he will soon reach his forty-eighth birthday, and not long after will score off a half a century. The newspapers call him “young,” and it can be seen that time has dealt very gently with him. His beard is as yellow as the golden fleece and his chestnut locks have defied the frost. Content with himself, content with the world, is written all over his manly person. Has he a heart? This is a question which none are able to answer, but nevertheless he has been proved to be the most adept “lady-killer” of his day, and a bill is soon to be introduced by Senator Spencer, a rival bachelor, to arrest, if possible, this wholesale destruction. Senator Ferry never fails to gather a harvest of hearts during their proper season. When each generation of girls attains that point on life’s journey when the affections are like the mellow flush of a juicy peach he walks in the garden, when lo! presto! change! something is gone! The young statesman is not harmed. His eye has a brighter light, his cheek a warmer flush, and the renovation lasts until the season approaches for another seed time and harvest. One-half the mischief lies in the fact of his being a member of the Young Men’s Christian Association, and the other to the exquisite bouquets which are furnished free to Congressmen from the National greenhouse. When the bouquets arrive regardless of time and number, it is a sign of a funeral where the corpse is invisible and the mourners dare not show their heads. This kind of man is always in love, deep love with himself, and, though a woman were as wise as a Juno and lovely as Hebe, she could never upset his vanity.

The doorkeepers are curled up asleep on the cushions in the corners of the galleries. Many of the Republicans have left their seats, and are to be found chatting and smoking in the adjoining cloak-rooms. The fragrance of dying Havanas ascend to the galleries, reminding one of the days of the Randolphs and Jays, when men sat in their seats in the Senate with their hats on, and smoking their clay pipes in full view. The habit is not cured, but it is concealed, and this must be one of the facts which marks the progress of civilization. A tall man arises to address the Senate. It is Kernan, the new Senator from New York. He has reached the mid-autumn of human life. It is his first speech, and a bouquet of Senators cluster around him. The back of his head has a heavy covering of dark iron-gray hair, but his fine, scholarly face is rimmed with a fringe of pure white, which at once stamps his individuality on the memory. His Creator never designed him for an orator, but he gives us good, sound sense, dressed neatly in pure English. He does not speak to convince his opponents. He seems to realize that what he says will be heard by the millions of people in the State of New York. His colleague, Conkling, sniffs him from afar, as one mastiff does another, if it be a stranger of the same tribe. Roscoe has been reading a pamphlet with a yellow cover, which he holds daintily between his finger and thumb. If it were any other but our Roscoe, the “yellow cover” would be a serious suspicion of “Braddon” or “Ouida,” but the fact is self-evident that the book was obtained because the binding is a complete match for his hair. Senator Conkling is the Apollo of the Senate. His beauty is the aqua-marine type. It resembles a very fine diamond considerably off color, unless one is fond of flame; then the delusion is perfect. If Senator Conkling was a planet, he would be called Mars, not because of his rapid revolution around the great central power, but owing to that precious high-colored ingredient which was used so lavishly in his physical construction, and which serves to keep his pride burning like the lamp of the vestal virgins, that neither time nor circumstances can put out.

Come back to the Senators that cluster around the Speaker! All new men except Allison, of Iowa, one of the most polite and genial men to be found. Out of courtesy, alone, if nothing else, he listens to the maiden speech of his peer irrespective of the fact of his politics. The first man that heads the list is Wallace, of Pennsylvania, whom the gods have blessed with a fine face but a finer form, and yet it is evident that the Creator took no special pains with his construction; for he has thickly sprinkled just such men in every town of the State, cities of course excepted. Senator Wallace has reached the Senate chamber in the noon of life. The sun is stationary over his head. His face is not the kind that tells its own story. The tempest of passion has swept over it, but left no signs of the tornado in its track. If he has had deep thoughts they have ploughed no furrows. In his battle with time so far he has won. As he has never tried his wings, it is too soon to pronounce him a senatorial eagle, but as he hails from Pennsylvania he may turn out an honest bird of prey.

To the right of Senator Wallace may be seen B. K. Bruce, of Mississippi, a handsome man, whom the Creator cast in bronze. Darker by far than Douglass or Pinchback, but superior to either so far as beauty is concerned. Below the colossal, but above the average size, with a pure type of the Anglo-Saxon features, thin quivering nostrils, and a mouth such as the colored women are known to admire. His mahogany person is every day swathed in the finest linen and broadcloth, ornaments, diamond shirt-studs. The day he was elected the members of the legislature of Mississippi owned great quantities of scrip, worth less than sixty cents on the dollar. But on that auspicious day some speculator bought the scrip and paid for it at par; but Senator Bruce had nothing to do with it, because he is a very rich man, and only white men have been known to bribe legislatures. Senator Bruce says he intends to stand by the civil rights bill, and proves it by employing white men to wait on him, and furthermore declares that he has no objection to Mrs. Bruce associating with the wives of white Senators so long as their moral characters are above reproach, and they have committed no more serious crimes than Rev. Henry Ward Beecher.

And now we come to General Burnside, whose fine person bears the brand of the military aristocracy, just as the blue-blooded Englishman is sometimes stamped duke; just the right size for a general, and with plenty of intellect to represent so small a State as Rhode Island. His graceful whiskers are festooned on his dainty cheeks and curl like the tendrils of the grape on the wall. As a man among men he is the same as a banana among fruits. The frost of time has sweetened and brought him to the highest state of perfection.

Among the most remarkable of the new men is the one who is just rising from his seat. When sitting he does not attract particular attention; but when he attempts the perpendicular one mentally asks: “When is he going to stop?” Hail! Cameron of the illustrious family of that name--the successor of the festive and woman-loving Carpenter, of Wisconsin. “Ye banks and braes of bonnie doon” is written all over this grizzly Scotsman, who is composed entirely of bone and muscle, and destitute of meat as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. What a superb specimen of the Highlander! If he could only be induced to wear his Tartan, bring his bagpipe and show the Senate what is meant by bringing together the two wings of the Cameron clan. Oh, Carpenter! Carpenter! will the time ever come when Wisconsin will weep tears of blood because she so bitterly scourged thee?

The man who occupies a seat this side of Cameron is Jones, of Florida. Another red man, but not of the Saxon type of Conkling. The clay from which he is made must have been formed of iron pyrites. A smooth face, thickly strewn underneath with arteries and veins, in which the scarlet fluid comes and goes at the slightest behest of the passionate will. Tall and broad above the average of men, and, so far as physical appearance is concerned, a fitting representative of the lovely State of magnolia and orange groves, the Mecca of the invalids, and the luscious retreat of the happy alligator.

And this is dainty, delicious Pinckney Whyte, of Maryland, whose pedigree is as clean and well defined as Victoria of England, and who, by the way, in some remote manner, claims kinship to him. How good it must feel to have such blood in one’s veins, and yet Pinckney has made no complaint to the Senate. If he has scrofula like old George the Third, there is no visible sign of it, and the only evidence of insanity he has shown was when he consented to come to the American Senate. In violation of the maxim that precious things are never done up in large parcels, he is fully up to the average size, with a handsome face, and features as finely cut as those of an exquisite cameo. What thin ears and slender fingers! It is true he has not tried his strength in the senatorial race, and it is not known whether he will succeed in writing his name high on the scroll of fame, but he has a mission, a noble mission, in which he must succeed, for his presence helps neutralize the effect of the carpetbaggers; and even this small bit of the purest respectability, like the yeast in dough, in time may come to leaven the whole lump.