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.

Senator Eaton, of Connecticut, is speaking. He plays the sovereignty of the States like Ole Bull’s whole opera, on one string; but Senator Anthony has tripped him by asking: “How can a State be ‘sovereign’ when she can neither make treaties, coin money, or go out to stay all night without asking her father, who is all the time her Uncle Sam?” Senator Eaton replies that he would answer that question to the satisfaction of the Senator from the little State of Rhode Island, but he is sick and cannot be interrupted in his patriotic argument, and he again declares the sovereignty of the State, because little Rhody, Connecticut, and pretty Delaware are the peers and equals of Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. Why? Because they are independent sovereigns, and command the same respect.

It is now almost midnight. Behold the conquering hero comes. It is Andy Johnson, the veteran warrior of Tennessee. For the first time he arises to address the highest legislative body on the face of the globe. There is an ominous silence. He is asked by a brother Senator if Monday, the next day of the Senatorial calendar, will not do. An affirmative answer is received, and the session of the night adjourns.

Olivia.