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For many years Mrs. Wade’s name has been prominently identified with the public charitable institutions at Washington as well as elsewhere. Says the secretary of the “News-Boys’ Home:” “It is her private benevolence that will longest be remembered, for it is yet to be known when a worthy object was sent from her presence unrelieved.”
When we remember her scholarly culture, her extensive reading, and her acquaintance with the best minds of the age, would it not almost seem that this second tragedy, this suicide instead of assassination at the White House, was the providential means taken to purify the halls of legislation at the very fountain head? For if Senator Wade drifts into the Executive chair, through no fault or effort of his own, bound by no promise to friend or foe, what hinders him from seizing the helm of the ship of state, and, with the aid of Congress, guiding her out of the breakers into the calm, still waters of Republican prosperity and peace? As only a Hercules can perform this labor, this may account for the succession, as well as for Senator Wade’s clear head, broad shoulders, and stout heart; and when it happens that there will accompany him to the Executive Mansion the same social atmosphere that characterized the days of Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Madison, will it not seem like a return of the honest simplicity of our forefathers, or like the long-delayed perfecting of the Republic’s youthful days?
Olivia.
AT THE PRESIDENT’S LEVEE.
Disgusting Manners of a Member of the French Legation—Handsome General Hancock.
Washington, March 24, 1868.
It is well known that in every country the foreign diplomats are among the last to desert the reigning dynasty. There was a new illustration of the fact in the presence of so many ambassadors from abroad at the Executive Mansion last night. Conspicuous among the number was a representative of the French legation, Parisian to the core, Johny Crapaud in all his glory. Instead of a nosegay, Louis Napoleon’s decorations dangled from a stray button-hole; and when we say that his white kids were immaculate, that his necktie eclipsed the proudest triumph of Beau Brummel, and that he was as plain in form and feature as only a Frenchman dare to be, we have a complete picture of foreign diplomacy, one item excepted. This was a little jeweled opera-glass, carried in his left hand, and when our country women with bare, dazzling shoulders came within a certain distance of this august person, instantly the glass was leveled to an exact angle with the parts exposed, and with no more fear or hesitation than the doctor who brings the microscope to bear upon a bit of porcine delicacy when the cry of trichinæ is heard throughout the land. This may be the perfection of French taste and good manners, but it is simply revolting to the American. There is a difference between private life and the public stage; between a Canterbury danseuse and the daughter of a Senator. It is because we have treated foreigners so kindly, so forbearingly, that they have learned to despise us.
Between the hours of 8 and 11 the Executive Mansion was thronged by a crowd, in many senses of the word truly dramatic. There were those who went to see the “show” and those who were there on exhibition. There is no surer sign of deterioration in entertainments than the absence of women, and last night the men outnumbered the gentler sex ten to one. No doubt these masculines were drawn there to show their sympathy or gratify their curiosity; but President Johnson seemed indifferent to all surroundings. His unreadable face was lighted up by smiles, and when Jenkins tells the world that he “received his friends with cordiality, and elegant hospitality,” he will probably be telling as near the truth as Jenkins, by his profession, is allowed to come. The President was flanked by his illustrious Cabinet, with one exception. The head was represented by the so-called Secretary of State, and Secretary Thomas (ad interim) brought this ingenious combination to an ignoble end. As the real Secretary of State was killed at or about the same time as our lamented Lincoln, it would seem that the present incumbent is allowed to tarry in order to prove to the world what a fearful thing it is to outlive a once useful, honorable and perfectly rounded life. Let this great, warm-hearted nation forgive him, and inscribe on his living headstone: “Here lies the man who brought on his death by wanting to be President.”
Secretary McCulloch, sleek, oily, blonde-haired, helped to relieve the background of the Presidential picture; and to look at him one would hardly realize that he is the rock upon which so many officeseekers’ hopes have been split; and yet there is a certain snap about his mouth that would remind one of a tobacco-box shut up and put away for future use. A fine-faced, matronly woman clung to his arm, clad in shimmering sea of green moire antique, with almost any number of milky pearls on her person, and strangers called her Mrs. McCulloch. Father Gideon occupied the same position and appeared in the same attitude that he does in the great historical picture painted by Carpenter. Ever since he has come into possession of the goose that lays the golden egg he has helped every President to a seat on his shoulders, just as Sinbad was aided by the “Old Man of the Sea;” and if our next President becomes saddled, it is only the seal of the great Solomon or more than mortal heroism that can cope with this naval magician, for to all appearance he is to be a national fixture for all time to come. Secretary Browning is a medium sized, sunny-faced man, attractive as a streaked apple. He had a youthful, pretty woman on his arm, and it was apparent to everybody that if any one resigned his Department in order to attend to the President, or other important business, affairs would be looked after as faithfully as the Attorney-General’s, or with the same diligent routine that stamps him an efficient Secretary of the Interior.
General Hancock was there, the handsomest man a woman’s eyes ever rested upon in the military service. No matter about his record in New Orleans; no matter about the dubious reasons that brought him to Washington. Queen Bess, one of the greatest women that ever lived, would have made him prime minister at once, and if Andrew Johnson wishes to emulate this illustrious woman, and add glory to his declining reign, none but a Senate lost to the most exquisite emotions will interfere. Towering a whole head and shoulders above foreign ministers and all others in the room, one’s eyes must be raised to view the stars on his shoulders, just as they are lifted to the flaming star that rests upon the strap of Perseus, proving him to be one of the greatest generals in the heavens.
Heretofore a President’s levee has been a fair sample of different layers of society; this last one has been the exception. There were the President’s few confidential advisers, and those allied to him through interest who remained in the room with him, dividing and sharing the honor which they must feel is slipping away. Secretary Seward received by the side of Mrs. Patterson. General Hancock held his reception a short distance from the President; whilst the policeman on duty and Marshal Gooding, who has to perform the task of introduction, looked as if they wished the farce was over. The East Room seemed an immense bee-hive, swarming with black-coated honeybees, and if the truth must certainly be told, the queens were as scarce as in any other well-behaved, respectable hive. At precisely 11 o’clock the Marine Band tied up their shining horns and scattered in the darkness, the guests vanished, and the Executive Mansion was left to its uneasy dreams.
Olivia.
MARY CLEMMER AMES.
Tribute to the Talented Correspondent of the New York Independent.
Washington, March 31, 1868.
The fourth day of the trial of the great impeachment case is made memorable by the speech of Benjamin F. Butler. Whilst he was completing his tower of