BEN HILL AND ROSCOE CONKLING.

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Mannerisms of These Famous Senators and a Number of Their Colleagues.

Washington, May 14, 1881.

Over the great public squares is spread a royal carpet of greenest verdure. Miles and miles of trees occupying the city “parking” are flaunting their tender leaves in the dazzling sunshine; the fruit trees are a mass of powdery blossom, whilst violets and lilacs fill the market space with delicious perfume. The cold North blast has ceased to blow, and from the sunny South comes the dallying wind, laden with the breath of magnolia and orange blossom; but a cloud which has no silver lining envelopes the National Capitol—lo! as an iron shroud. No precedent in history arises to permit us to judge the future by the past. Within the memory of the writer armed legions with glittering bayonets slept upon the cushioned seats of the Senate chamber, whilst the gallant Colonel Ellsworth, of Zouave fame, spread his soldier’s blanket on the floor. A war as bitter and unrelenting is being fought, but the cold sharp steel is invisible. It is the same old fight which shook the Middle Ages from center to circumference when the sovereign of millions threw down the gauntlet to his feudal chiefs. Senator Conkling could not have sustained his opposition to the President for a single day if the battle of New York did not include every State in the Union. It was the charge of little Rhody on the “big N.” It was to decide whether the two stalwart Senators, like Anthony and Burnside, weighing more than one hundred and eighty pounds each, were not able to look after the political welfare of a State so small that it almost requires a microscope to find it on the map. Conkling was the great general, stationed in the rear, planning the campaign. Men of the Dawes calibre conduct active operations in the field. To amuse the public firing is kept up between the Democrats and Republicans, but the real war, which means death to one or the other of the combatants, is between the Senate and the White House.

To get a thorough understanding of the machine politician he must be judged entirely by his acts, as a personal acquaintance warps the judgment and destroys what might be a first-class opinion, because the feelings are called into play. Beginning with the pages, who skip and flit like butterflies on the Senate floor, all unite in the worship of Senator Conkling. He never has to clap his hands to bring a page, for the moment he begins work that would require the service two or three of these lynx-eyed dots are at his elbow, all anxious for the honor to serve him. The writer asked a bright little page why the boys were so willing to do his bidding. He replied: “He never said a cross word to a page in his life. He says: ‘My little man, will you do this kindness for me?’ Then we all run!” Just what the sunshine is to the physical world this something which goes from every man and woman in a greater or less degree is what acts upon humanity. It is not love, because it is devoid of passion. It is a force that cannot be estimated or measured and it is given to only a very few in any age. The great Napoleon possessed it in the largest degree of any man in modern times.

A tall Texan comes from the “Lone Star” State and is seen in all the prominent places in Washington. Once observed, he cannot be forgotten, for he is of giant proportions. Colossal is the word, for every limb and feature has been adjusted to the proper scale, as if designed by Randolph Rogers or Vinnie Ream-Hoxie. Handsome is a word not strong enough for justice, but is used because Richard Grant White or the Chicago Tribune has invented nothing better. The tall Texan was prowling about the Capitol, and whether by accident or design, the writer knows not, the Texan and Senator came together in the dark shadows of the lobby which leads to the Marble Room. An intense, anxious expression lighted up the features of the Texan as he neared the New York Senator. As they came in close contact Senator Conkling raised his arm, placed his hand around the man’s waist and lifted it to the lofty shoulder, and whilst he drew the colossal figure towards him looked up into his face and said, “You would not ask me to do that.” No quiver of disappointment was visible. The two politicians had met. Size had nothing to do with it. Matter went down before mind and the Darwinian theory was vindicated.

Notable among the men who were prominent in the House are those who migrated to the Senate wing and find themselves frozen stiff in their seats and motionless as so many dead flies. If by accident their bloodless lips are unsealed one day they only live to regret it the next. Conger, whose “horn” is in danger of being forgotten, sits glued to one spot and helps make an admirable picture for the galleries. Daintiest of snowy linen covers a breast which is known to conceal the most ecstatic emotions, whilst the costliest broadcloth serves the purpose of drapery. All that he requires is the addition of spices to make him a mummy that would far eclipse those of Egyptian magic.

Don Cameron sits in his seat, and if he were a woman he would be called “interesting.” In other words, he may be summed up as pale, sad, and extremely nervous. The iron crown which he inherited from his tough old Highland father is too heavy for tender temples and weaker brain. The people of Pennsylvania can afford to bide their time, for when the Winnebago Chief is gathered to his fathers Cameronism is wiped off the face of the State as clean as though it were a wheatfield in the path of the tornado; but if the old Keystone is not represented by brains in the National Senate she has beauty, and the poet sings, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It is not necessary for Senator Mitchell to make himself felt—he should be seen, and then no fault can be found.

The Senate is like an immense cave and unless a man has an intellect like a calcium light there is no chance for him; the tallow dips sputter for a moment, make themselves ridiculous, then go out in the icy gloom. Except for the warriors, both Union and Confederate, the live element would be entirely wanting. The “Tall Sycamore of the Wabash” will never let himself be forgotten, and he reminds one of an oasis in the Senate desert—land of the delicious date and towering palm.

Most winning, dearest to the heart of woman, are the Senate knights of the “lost cause.” There is a deference and courtly grace which they bestow on the so-called weaker sex which the cold Northman may counterfeit, but never succeed as an original. Whilst the men of colder latitude approach woman as though she were made out of the same kind of stuff as themselves, the Southerner makes her feel that she stands on a higher mark in the ascending scale and that if she is not quite “winged” she is almost an angel. Even Hon. Ben Hill can so deftly manage a woman that she cannot tell whether she is being pummeled or caressed, as our one solitary interview with this illustrious statesman will prove. In an article which was published some months ago in The Times, when a pen picture was being painted of the lobby, a paragraph was inserted which said, “The queen paused in her triumphal march to speak with Senator Hill.” In vain the writer pleaded that a Senator was not to blame because the “queen” had seized him. He declared that he had been “maligned” for the reason that he avoided all women the day he made speeches, therefore it could not be true. Again the writer pleaded that he was no more to blame for his seizure by the queen of the lobby than a big sunflower when a bumblebee pitches into its heart. His head could not be reached by argument nor his heart by petition. He said the article had been copied in a Georgia paper and used against him in the campaign; at the same time he artlessly confessed his love for his wife and his loathing for the “queen of the lobby.” If that Georgia editor has a soul will he publish our heartfelt desire to cleanse any spot which we have unintentionally cast on the Senator’s record? These Southern men are singularly clean-handed where so many fall. They put the pure woman on a pedestal and worship her, and if there are any bad ones they are carried off to their lairs and devoured and nobody hears of them any more.

Olivia.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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