How He Wields the Gavel of the Presiding Officer of the Senate.

Washington, April 1, 1880.

It is a day of indescribable excitement in the Senate, vividly recalling the stormy times of secession, Andy Johnson’s impeachment, or the famous Electoral Commission. Standing-room on the floor or in the galleries can nowhere be found. Even the vast lobbies are crowded with a struggling mass of humanity, such as rarely gathers in the national temple which glorifies Capitol Hill. A face new and strange to the Washington public surveys the throng from the Vice-President’s chair and taps with uncertain hand the official gavel. The private secretary of the late Vice-President stands at his left to prompt him as to the names of the Senators he is to recognize, for as yet he has not had time to become familiar with their features or names. At his right may be seen one of the trusty clerks of the Senate to make sure that no official commission or omission shall follow. It is apparent to all that only experience is necessary to make Vice-President Arthur a model presiding officer. Except a little perplexity, there is the ease and grace of a man instead of the noiseless machinery which constitutes a well-preserved fossil. What the yellow, juicy, rosy-checked peach, with the fur rubbed off, jolting to market, is to the vegetable world, Vice-President Arthur sustains the same relation to the fruit of humanity. There is something about his presence suggestive of strawberries and cream, and yet this fact seems to be completely ignored by the Senate, for the turbulence goes on just the same. He sits in an attitude of grace worthy the painter’s brush or the pen of the poet. Fully six feet in height, broad-shouldered, but rounded and smoothed into curved lines which not only rival but excel those of Cupid. A cold, haughty face is often seen, but warm, proud features are rarely found; but here we have the exception. A high forehead towers above the brown velvety eyes; a nose a little too short for classic perfection; but a firm, manly mouth, with plenty of decision stamped on it, with a width of jaw that means business in any work it undertakes. Never since the days of Breckinridge has so handsome a man wielded the Vice-President’s gavel, and whilst this fact may have no significance in a political sense, in a social way there is no estimating the heights to which it may aspire or depths where it may be cast down. It is a great comfort to be able to rest the vision on a diamond that has few, if any, flaws, and these not perceptible except to the finest judges of the gems.

In a direct line, exactly opposite the Vice-President, may be seen Senator Conkling, more winning in personal appearance than of yore. The gorgeous tints or high colors of early manhood have been toned down, softened, and spiritualized. Tranquillity is pictured on the bosom of the river, but we all know the channel is running at the same rate per minute and no time will be lost in its motion toward the sea. Stronger than most men, stronger than women, it is the inexorable law that the larger absorbs the smaller quantity. The kids that would not be eaten must keep out of the way. He glances now and then at Mahone, who sits only three chairs away, as a spoiled child might at “puss in boots,” whilst this little man, apparently all hair and claws, helps carry out the perfect illusion. Let us look at this “balance of power,” as the other Confederate brigadiers politely call him. At the first glance it seems altogether probable that the hair has been snatched off seven-tenths of the Senate to crown this one small man. His beard in length and density might be mistaken for that of the Wandering Jew. He has obtained the clothes of a much larger man, and they constitute a series of wrinkles from shoulders to heels. He does not inspire the beholder that he is a fraction of humanity, but that he is an uncanny contrivance, which, if not opened with the greatest caution, will work irreparable damage to those nearest concerned. There is neither joy nor comfort on the face of the Republicans as they survey this new addition to their ranks, while there is calm submission, if not positive elation, on the Democratic side at the situation.

Don Cameron appears weary, as if tired with it all. A man must have a peculiar organization to thrive in the Senatorial atmosphere. It is a gladiator’s ring, where intellectual combat is the order of the day. Woe to him that is not endowed with weapons of the keenest and most polished kind. Though a Senator can pipe his slogan on a thousand hills at home and carries a bonanza mine in each pocket, it will not add a feather to his Senatorial strength. Men endowed with business talent, even of the highest order, can find neither congenial nor agreeable work in the Senate. Only a natural orator or debater like Blaine or a great lawyer like Edmunds find their native element in the stormy waters of the Senate; and even Blaine was far more at home in the other wing of the Capitol, where his talents at all times shone as a star of the first magnitude. It is no sign of the lack of ability because a Senator does not rank high, but rather a lack of the peculiar and exceedingly rare qualities which make Senatorial success secure.

Of the new Senators Pennsylvania must be awarded the prize in point of beauty, for Senator Mitchell bears away the palm without a dissenting voice. In the grounds of one of the nabobs at Saratoga there may be seen the statue of a Roman gladiator, such as lived in the times of Nero. It is “stalwart” to the last degree. Imagine the old statue Americanized—that is, toned down in its roughest corners, smoothed away—a little less muscle, a little more nerve, daintier, with a dash of Greek symmetry, and you see the handsome Mitchell of Pennsylvania. His hair is abundant, his eyes a twinkling hazel that rise and set with the arrival and departure of the dry goods in the gallery, but with a modesty that is simply indescribable.

Conger, dear old Conger, is here, cooled down to the polite frigidity which constantly pervades the Senate. He wears a white choker of such elevated height that it grinds away at his ears in the same way that a horrid glacier wears away the face of the mountain. A new suit of the finest broadcloth, of satin sheen, conceals limbs of the Adonis kind, though this last statement is more a matter of faith than actual proof. That “horn” which the wicked Stilson Hutchins was so fond of attacking with cruel squibs in the Washington Post appears to have gone where the woodbine creepeth, for it is heard of no more. It is rumored in private circles at the Capitol that Senator Conger is one of the most romantic and sentimental of men, and Governor Foster declares that it is the only case on Congressional record where a man is known to be madly infatuated with his own wife. When Mrs. Conger would enter the gallery of the House it was immediately known that Mr. Conger would soon attract all eyes by his graceful motions and mellow “horn.” Some wretch of a Congressman would call out: “Now, boys, we are in for it,” and there have been seen no such scenes of suffering chivalry since Don Quixote attacked the windmills in behalf of his beloved Dulcinea. But far be it from the head and heart of the writer to mock at this pure and exalted flame. Rather let us stand in the presence of this man with uncovered head who brings to our aching vision a new Garden of Eden, when Adam was good because there was but one Eve, and the serpent did the mischief.

In the gallery assigned the families of the Republican Senators sits Katharine Chase Sprague—cold, stately, and statuesque as a lily, or a bit of marble in human form. The heavily fringed waxen lids fall over the sorrowful eyes—those large, dark almond orbs, such as glorify the Orient. There are faces all around, but she seems as much alone as Cleopatra in her barge floating down the dusky Nile. A blue turban with a single bird’s wing for an ornament sits jauntily on her auburn hair; not out of place, because youth, beauty, and sweetness still linger in form and face. There is not the slightest attempt at display in her simple toilet—a dark dress, severe in its simplicity, a scarf of scarlet silk folded gracefully around her throat. She has given no thought to her personal appearance, but has come evidently to observe the intellectual combat which has drawn together so large a percentage of the citizens of Washington. The writer recalls the impeachment trial of Andy Johnson when “society” appeared in the Senate galleries and when Katharine Chase Sprague was the acknowledged queen. Her toilet is recalled for the readers of The Press, and to-day it may be found recorded in the old files of this paper, for the writer was one of the “staff correspondents” at the time, whose duty it was to make “pen pictures” of the day. A Parisian suit of royal purple velvet, perfect in all its appointments. The detail escapes our memory, but the bonnet never will. It was made in Paris to accompany the suit, and when placed on her head it conveyed the idea of a single Marguerite. Imagine a purple violet large enough to be placed on the head, the leaves bent in bonnet shape. At the time the writer felt that her eyes rested upon the most graceful, distinguished, and queenly woman that she had ever seen in the Capitol or elsewhere on the face of the globe. The writer has no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Sprague, but described her then, as she does to-day, as she would a picture or a poem. When it was published in the newspapers that she was engaged during the Senate session sending notes to a Senator on the floor the writer sat in the gallery, but saw no notes given to a page or delivered on the floor. Year after year the writer has noticed this accomplished woman sitting in the gallery from time to time, apparently deeply interested in the debates, without the slightest levity or the smallest departure from the most rigid decorum. In later years she is rarely seen without one or more of her children. History is full of martyred women who have been used to crush obnoxious men. When Katharine Chase Sprague was the daughter of the Chief Justice and the wife of a United States Senator she appeared in the social heavens with the calmness and precision of a fixed star. Sunshine friends have deserted her, but the star does not waver in its course. It is the same haughty Katharine, despoiled of her throne, as true a woman to-day as when surrounded by her fawning flatterers. It is the flatterers of the Tuileries that have changed, and not the Empress Eugenie.

Outside the Senatorial circle of chairs may be noticed “a sea of upturned faces.” A dash of bronze reflects the last representation of African blood on the floor of the United States Senate. In the Darwinian political aggression the weaker must give way to the survival of the fittest, and the feebler race will be heard no more. Among the dusky faces in the “men’s gallery” may be seen Pinchback of Louisiana, excluded from the floor where Patterson of South Carolina stands. Pinchback tried to obtain a position with other distinguished men on the floor, but was remanded to the gallery among the scores of black men that compose the dark cloud that is always to be seen sou’west just above the Senators’ heads. It angered him beyond conception. Fierce passion flamed on his burning cheek and darted in lightning glances from his keen black eyes. Could he have invoked the power to turn himself into a huge stiletto he would have buried himself to the hilt in the Senate breast. Oh! the blessed relief of responsibility! His Creator made him, endowed him with the elements of fearful wrath, subjected him to scorn, because his white soul is wrapped up in a yellow covering! Peace, be still, sorely tried and beloved brother, in whose veins mingle the blood of the haughty Anglo-Saxon with that of another race. The body perishes, but the soul circles on forever and forever.

Olivia.