An Interview in the Workshop of the Veteran Statesman.

Washington, April 15, 1873.

This article is not written with the attempt to portray that which makes Charles Sumner the central figure of the American Senate. No woman possesses the gift to explore his mind. Yet there may be those who read The Press who feel an interest in the material part of his nature, and who would like to know something about his every-day life—how he looks, how he appears, and the impression he makes upon the womanhood of the day. The so-called gentle sex are convened in secret now, and men are not supposed to hear what we say. We will examine Charles Sumner in the same way that we would a picture, whilst his fine house and exquisite surroundings may be called the frame. Stand a little way off, because light is needed, and remember he is seen to the best advantage in what he terms his “work-room.”

An easy chair high enough to support the head is drawn before the open grate, and its capacious depths reflect the majestic figure of Mirabeau, but the face was designed by his Maker expressly for Charles Sumner. It is one of the best living pictures that foreshadows the exceeding grace of autumn. The sense of harmony in its highest embodiment is fulfilled; but the vision is neutral-tinted with all the scarlet glory left out. Even the long dressing-gown with its heavy tassels is soft, bluish-gray.

In scanning the features you realize that the artist has been trying to follow the classical order of art. You see it in the royal head crowned by its abundant gray hair, in the oval face, and the clear eyes which, if you watch closely, you can catch a glimpse of the soul within. Observe the Greek nose, and finely moulded lips, which are never used except to make the world wiser and better. Now add the manners of an English lord and an improvement on the polish of the Chesterfieldian age, and we have the picture of the simple American gentleman.

The difference between spending a morning with Charles Sumner or learning about him through the newspapers is like quenching our thirst at a fountain at Saratoga or procuring some of the elixir at a drug store. It may be that your apothecary is honest, and that you are imbibing genuine Congress water, and then again perhaps you are the victim of misplaced information. With his permission, let us make a visit to that model “work-room,” because Charles Sumner will take us into the company of the famous people of the world. He will tell us about meeting George Eliot at a dinner party, or about his being on the same ship with George Sand. Then we can say to him with enthusiasm: “Tell us about this wonderful George Eliot. How old is she? Whom does she look like, and don’t you think her the greatest intellect represented by the womanhood of the present day?”

“I think her a great woman, perhaps the greatest, but time must decide all things connected with fame. I have a picture amongst my engravings very much like her, so much so that it would answer very well for her portrait.”

The picture is found. It represents Lorenzo de Medici, and is ugly to the last degree.

“Not like that. No! It cannot be possible that her face is as wide as it is long; that these are her eyes, that her nose, that her mouth—why, this is the face you see looking out of the moon!”

“It may be a plain face,” says Mr. Sumner, “but then it is so strong and noticeable, a face once seen that will never be forgotten.”

“But her hair is cut short like a man’s.”

“That is a matter of taste. You see at a glance that she lacks vanity, which is another sign of a great woman. I also met Mr. Lewes, her husband, at the same time. He is noted for his German studies, but he is not so eminent as his wife.”

“About her age, Mr. Sumner?”

“That is a very hard point to settle, but without flattery I should think her beyond 50.”

“Beyond 50, and still writing the best love stories that the world enjoys?”

“Why not? Genius never grows old.”

“But about George Sand?”

“I met this famous woman many years ago on a steamer. We were going from Marseilles to Genoa. Among the passengers this woman in particular attracted my attention, because she held by the hand a very beautiful child. I have never observed such hair on a child’s head. It was the real gold in color, and fell to his knees, not in curls, but in waves. The lady wore the Spanish costume. I now recall her Spanish mantilla. She was short, we might call her thick-set, not handsome, yet holding her child by the hand. I had a curiosity to find out her name. She was accompanied by a tall, slender gentleman. They kept aloof from the other passengers, and seemed to find society enough in each other. Upon inquiry I found her to be the celebrated George Sand. At that time she was a topic of conversation everywhere. She made a very distinct impression on my mind. She was comparatively a young woman. On board the same ship I was interested in two other passengers. This time it was quite an aged couple. The old gentleman carried his gold-headed cane and bustled around as if it was his mission to entertain everybody. One would almost think that he thought himself in his own house and the people around him his guests. His aged wife was at his side, helping in the good work. I noticed a respect shown them which age alone cannot always command. I soon learned the man to be one of Charles the Tenth’s Ministers, I am not quite certain which, but I think his minister of finance. I shall always remember the extreme courtesy and politeness of these old people and their endeavors to make everybody happy around them.”

“Did they talk to George Sand?”

“No! for the lady and her cavalier kept to themselves, and did not seem to need any exertions in their favor.”

In the conversation about the private lives of writers, a query came up of this kind: “Will a woman of good judgment marry a man fifteen years younger than herself?”

“I shall have to refer you to Mr. Disraeli. I know that to have been a very happy marriage. I met Mr. Disraeli and his wife at Munich, when they were on their wedding tour. At the principal hotel we met at the breakfast table. Mr. Disraeli sat by the side of his newly made wife. He might have been, or at least looked, about 30 years old. His intensely black hair smoothed to perfection. At that time he had become famous as an author. Everything seemed noticeably new about him. Mrs. Disraeli appeared like a kind-hearted, middle-aged English woman, and Disraeli seemed the one to carry the idea that he had drawn the prize. Time has shown how devoted they were to each other. In the last few months we hear of his walking by her side and supporting her tenderly. She must have been nearly, if not quite, 80. In my opinion Disraeli is one of the most remarkable men of this age when we remember the obstacles he had to overcome to reach the position he occupies in England. The prejudice which exists there against his Jewish faith alone is enough to chill the most ambitious.”

A book was drawn from a side table which had been printed in 1460. It was in the German language, and, with one exception, it is as perfect as a book published yesterday. Its binding would shame our best modern work.

“This,” said the man in gray, “reminds me of a conversation I once had with Macaulay, as well as an incident of my school-boy days. The master once said to the scholars, ‘Can any of you tell me in which year printing was invented?’ No answer. ‘Remember, children, it was the year which contains the figure 4 three times.’ The small brains were greatly puzzled. At last one little fellow answers ‘1444’. When I grew older I tried to ascertain the proof of this; but I have never been able to find which year printing was invented. It was somewhere about 1450, and, from all I can learn, I am inclined at times to think the Dutch instead of the Germans made this discovery. I remember a long talk I had with Macaulay on this subject. I was on the side of the Dutch; he was for the Germans. At last he proposed that we should adjourn to the British Museum and search the authorities, and have this weighty matter decided. I did not go, but I have always regretted it. We all remember Macaulay’s Essay on Milton. I think it ranks with the best of his writings; yet he told me that he regretted nothing so much as its publication; and this proves the incompetency of authors to judge their own works.”

We spoke about the changing seasons of human life, and the writer asked the statesman a question which lies very near to every woman’s soul.

“Is beauty confined to one period of our existence? Infancy and childhood are only promises; the summer is something more; but give me the golden reality of October or the bracing chill of a December landscape if the intellectual powers are not on the wane.”

“I have known beauty to go with the years, but this I fear is the exception, not the rule. One of the handsomest women I ever knew was the mother of Lord Brougham. At the time I met her she must have been over 80 years of age. I was then quite a boy, and abroad for the first time, and met with the kindness to be invited to the castle of this nobleman. The manners and figure of Mrs. Brougham betrayed none of the decrepitude of age. I never shall forget her extreme kindness and efforts to entertain a young American. I remember that amongst other things she brought the bag which her son wore at the time he was Lord High Chancellor. This bag is worn around the neck of this exalted officer of the British Government. It is an elaborate affair, made of silk, gold lace, and embroidery. When the Lord Chancellor goes into the official presence of his sovereign this bag rests upon his breast, and it contains the petitions which the loyal subjects desire to be laid before the throne. Every new Chancellor must have a new bag, and these are always retained as the precious heirlooms of the family. The great seal of England is always kept in the bottom of this bag. Lord Brougham’s mother related an incident connected with this small affair of silken embroidery:

“‘When my son Henry was in the presence of the King this bag was crammed full of petitions, and he became very tired taking them out. At last he said, “I hope this bag will soon be emptied.”

“‘“Empty it of everything except the great seal of England,” said his majesty.’”

But the picture which illustrates the man is not completed, and newspaper letters must come to an end.

Olivia.