Messrs. Gould, Huntingdon, and Dillon and their Cohorts.

Washington, February, 1869.

Winding in and out through the long, devious basement passage, crawling through the corridors, trailing its slimy length from gallery to committee room, at last it lies stretched at full length on the floor of Congress—this dazzling reptile, this huge, scaly serpent of the lobby. It is true, Senator Thurman is on hand fully equipped with his judicial arrows; but what is Thurman—dear old Thurman—in the face of such a statesman. Philadelphia’s charming daughter—fair, fat and forty—embraces him with eyes whose seductive powers have only been intensified by the years. A luscious, mellow banana; a juicy, melting peach; a golden pippin, ripened to the very core. From India’s coral strand comes the two thousand dollar cashmere wrap that snuggles close to her fair shoulders. Diamonds, brilliant as the stars in Orion’s jewelled belt, adorn her dainty ears, whilst silk, satin, velvet, feathers, and laces prove what a railroad can do when its funds are applied in the proper direction.

To-day a remarkable set of men are engaged in digging, burrowing, and blowing up senatorial rock—men whose faces seem carved out of the very granite that kissed of the Mayflower many years ago. Is it possible that all the iron endurance and savage aggressiveness so necessary to make indomitable character has been entirely absorbed by the railroad kings?

In the Senate wing, in a room so perfect in its appointments that it might be taken for a jewel casket, may be seen Jay Gould, the Napoleon of the hour. A small picture, but a great deal of time spent on the work. How elaborately and how exquisitely finished. About the height of the Little Corporal, but more delicate and slender. A rare head, well rounded, with ears such as all blooded animals possess. Pallid in complexion, like every other mortal whose blood is pumped up into the brain to keep the huge mental fires blazing. Eyes radiant and piercing and hair tinted like the locks of the Prince of Darkness. If Samson’s strength lay in his curls, Jay Gould’s must be found in his nose, for it is a feature that betrays the whole character of the man. As there is but one Jay Gould on the face of the earth, there is but this solitary nose, which is neither Grecian, Roman, aquiline nor pug, but a nose abundantly able to poke into every earthly matter and manage to come out victorious in the end. His mouth is another extremely attractive feature—the kind, however, that is not given to talk. It is more useful as a dainty receptacle for terrapin and champagne, though it may be considered a chasm of another dangerous kind, from which women are warned for all time to keep modestly away.

For many months Jay Gould has kept one of the most beautiful women in Washington busily employed on the Congressmen, and, astonishing to relate, the Senators seem rather to enjoy it than otherwise. Before Senator Ben Hill made his late exhaustive railroad speech—in fact, just before he arose on the Senate floor—a woman, the most notorious of the lobby, had his ear. A Northern Senator may listen to the “queen,” but it takes the courage of the sunny South, the rare chivalry for which that clime is noted, to permit the contact in the broad, open light of the day, with the eye of the press of the whole country upon him.

Floating in Congressional waters, but unlike his awful prototype which is securely fastened to the bottom of the sea, at all hours of the legislative day may be seen the burly form of Huntington, the great, huge devil-fish of the railroad combination, bearing not the slightest resemblance to his elegant associates, so far as grace of manner or personal appearance is concerned. Cast in the same colossal mould as William M. Tweed, with all the grossness exaggerated and all the majesty left out, he ploughs the Congressional main, a shark in voracity for plunder, a devil-fish in tenacity of grip; for once caught in the toils of the monster for the helpless victim there is no escape. At the beginning of every session this representative of the great Central Pacific comes to Washington as certain as a member of either branch of Congress; secures his parlors at Willard’s, which soon swarm with his recruits, both male and female, until scattered in the proper direction by order of the commander-in-chief. What a motley collection of camp followers. To the naked eye are visible ex-senators and ex-members, discharged Capitol employees who are thoroughly informed as to the “ropes,” whose business it is to warn those who have the privilege of the floor the auspicious moment for a successful raid. Every weakness of a Congressman is noted, whilst the wily Huntington decides whether the attack shall be made with weapon of the male or female kind. Tall and broad, both round and square, a quivering mass of concentrated sensuality, bold enough to appear in public with the scarlet woman on his arm, a heroism which daunts the courage of the vilest of his own sex, not content with his already princely gains he now seeks, like the late Jim Fisk, to lay a whole continent under his avaricious tribute. Said a member of Congress: “He can draw his check for hundreds of thousands of dollars; everything which is in the market he can buy.” During his life the time is too short for the people to learn how to checkmate him. He is to this age what Alexander, Hannibal, and the great Napoleon were to the past. He governs, but not with cold iron or steel; he uses keener and more subtle weapons. Instead of the bullet which cleared the way in a former age, man’s honor is the point which receives the poisoned poniard. What will be the fate of the Republic when all national legislation is permitted to become defiled? Within the memory of middle-aged men foreign ministers were not allowed the privilege of the floor. These sacred aisles have now become headquarters for the kings of lobby, who are as much at home there as the Senators of the widest fame.

This is Sidney Dillon, president of the Union Pacific, and one of the most superb creations to be found within the marble walls of Congress. What a princely presence and distinguished bearing, towering far above the average of his sex in height, with features as classic and clear cut as a cameo gem. In action, the embodiment of an Achilles, and in repose as graceful as the statue of the Greek slave. Can it be possible there is warm, red fluid in his veins, or a fountain of human kindness in his breast? As he stands mentally playing with a Senator, he might easily be mistaken for something more than human, yet neither horns nor tail are visible. What power has he which the Congressmen appear to have not? Step a little closer. No sound is heard issuing from his finely chiseled lips. He is speaking, but there is no expression at play with the classic features. Solemn, icy, apparently immutable, he only needs the Hebrew cast of countenance to become the living personification of the Wandering Jew. Unlike Jay Gould and Huntington, his work is seldom trusted to women. Though one should approach him as fascinating as the serpent of the Nile, as lovely as Venus, or as perfect as Hebe, the Union Pacific would lean back on its everlasting snow-sheds and defy the powers of darkness and Mother Eve combined. Taken separately, or all together, no such trio of men have ever appeared on the Congressional floor at the capital and no such corporation has ever been known to exist in the whole civilized world.

Olivia.