The Olivia Letters - Emily Edson Briggs

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society in Washington from a certain point of view, is like gazing upon the shifting scenes of a brilliant panorama. But one of the most delightful and home-like pictures consists of the different persons temporarily sojourning here, and who have always retained the right of citizenship in their respective States, joining together under the name of an “association” for the interchange of friendly sentiments as well as for the cultivation of fraternal love. It is the business of the president of these meetings to keep a list of the names and residence of all who belong to the association, and strangers coming to Washington can by this means find without trouble their acquaintances and friends. These Western associations are particularly flourishing this winter. One week we are told that the Indiana Association has had a pleasant gathering, and the Honorable Schuyler Colfax and John Defrees, the Public Printer, the sun and moon of the little planetary system, have risen and set together, and the united social element clapped its hands with joy.

      Again we read that Iowa, God bless her, with her solid Republican delegation, and her war record as unblemished as a maiden’s first blush, has gathered her citizens together in Union League Hall, as a hen gathered her chickens under her wing. It is at these social meetings that the old home-fires are kindled anew in the hearts of the Iowa wanderers; and when the most profitless carpet-bagger arrives he is treated nearly as well as the prodigal son. Sometimes it happens that the more prominent members “entertain” the association, or in other words, “Iowa” is the invited guest. Only last night Iowa, as represented by the Senate and House of Representatives, the Departments, as well as the strangers stopping here through the inaugural ceremonies, were invited to the elegant mansion of Senator Harlan, where all were welcomed alike by the Senator and his accomplished wife. Here in the spacious parlors met the different members of the outgoing with those of the incoming delegation of that State; and here let it be recorded that neither Congressmen whose term of office expires on the 4th of March, could get himself decapitated by his constituents, but was obliged at the last moment to commit political hari-kari.

      Standing a little apart from each other were the two bright particular stars of the evening—Mrs. Harlan, the agreeable hostess, and Mrs. Grimes, the wife of the able Senator of historic fame, two representative women on the world’s stage to-day, and both alike respected for their intrinsic worth, aside from the senatorial laurels which they share. One could hardly realize, when contemplating Mrs. Harlan, a brilliant, sparkling brunette, whose feet have just touched the autumn threshold of age, in her faultless evening costume of garnet silk, point lace and pearls—“Wandering,” say you? Yes, yes; one could hardly realize that this was the same Mrs. Harlan who had remained all night in her ambulance on the bloody field of Shiloh, with the shrieks of the wounded and dying sounding in her ears; and yet, out of just such material are many more American women made.

      Self-poised and dignified as a marble statue stood Mrs. Grimes, noticeable only for the simplicity of her dress. Yet it was easy to perceive that it was the hand of an artist that had swept back the golden brown hair from the perfect forehead and dainty ears. Quiet in her deportment, she seemed a modest violet in a gay parterre of flowers. A woman of intellectual attainments, she has few equals and no superiors here. This present winter she has mingled much more in general society than usual, and her graceful presence helps to scatter “the late unpleasantness” as the sun drives away the malarial mists of the night.

      Among the most prominent Iowans present might have been seen the Hon. William B. Allison, member of Congress from Dubuque, whom Lucien Gilbert Calhoun, of the New York Tribune “dubbed” the handsomest man in Congress. Who would dare to be so audacious as to oppose the light current of small talk that ebbs and flows with an occasional tidal wave through the columns of that solemn newspaper? If the Tribune says he is handsome, an Adonis he shall be; but as space will not allow of a full description, it is only necessary to say that he has large brown eyes, that usually look out in their pleased surprise like Maud Muller’s; but the other day they opened wide with astonishment when they read in a popular newspaper that the same William B. had been accused of receiving more than $100,000 for favoring a certain railroad project. But the hoax was soon unearthed, and Mr. Allison found his reputation once more as clean as new kid gloves.

      And now we come to a man in whom the nation may have a pride, Geo. G. M. Dodge, of war memory, one of General Sherman’s efficient aids in his march across the Southern country to the sea; serving honorably in Congress to the satisfaction of his constituents. He has resigned the position that he may devote himself wholly to his profession, as chief engineer of the Pacific Railroad. Young, handsome, daring and aggressive, he is Young America personified. He is the man of the day, as Daniel Boone was the man of the era in which he lived; and his whole soul was embodied in words when he said, “I can’t breathe in Washington.”

      We touch the honest, ungloved hand of the host of the evening, Senator Harlan, one of the superb pillars of the Republican party; one who has stood upon principles as firmly as though his feet were planted upon the rock of ages; but once he became Secretary of the Interior, and an angel from Heaven could not go into that sink of pollution and come out with clean, unstained wings. If Senator Harlan lives in a respectable mansion in Washington it is because the interest of the unpaid mortgage upon it is less than the rent would be if owned by a landlord; and let it be remembered that Senator Harlan is the only man in the Iowa delegation who has a whole roof to shelter his head; that his house is the only place where citizens of Iowa can gather together and feel at home. It was the noble idea of hospitality to the State that made the Senator pitch his tent outside the horrors of a Washington boarding-house or a crowded hotel, and not to “shine,” as the envious and malicious would have it. A thrust at Senator Harlan is a stab at every man, woman and child who knows him best, and if it was for the good of this nation that the New York Tribune should be broiled like St. Lawrence on a gridiron, it would only be necessary to make it a Secretary of the Interior, with the Indian Bureau in full blast, as it is to-day, and in less than a single administration there would be nothing left of it but a crumpled hat, an old white coat, and a mass of blackened bones. As honest Western people, let us take care of our honest Western statesmen. Let us have a care for the reputation of the men whom we have trusted in war and in peace, and who have never yet proved recreant to the trust.

      Dear Republican: Let us dedicate this letter to our sister State, Iowa, most honest, virtuous, best beloved niece of Uncle Sam. A greeting to the Hawkeyes. May their shadows never grow less, and may her thousands of domestic fires that now dot every hill, slope and valley be never extinguished until the sun and the stars shall pole together and creation be swallowed up in everlasting night.

      Olivia.

       Table of Contents

      Characteristics of These Congressional Giants In Debate.

      Washington, March 27, 1867.

      Scarcely has the day dawned upon the Fortieth Congress before it is our unpleasant task to chronicle its decline. As we say about the month that gave it birth, “it came in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” At the beginning of the session mutterings of impeachment growled and thundered in the political horizon, but for some unaccountable but wise reason it has all subsided, and the passing away is peculiarly quiet and lamb-like. It almost reminds one of a young maiden dying because of the loss of a recreant lover. The Judiciary Committee are expected to sit all summer on the impeachment eggs; but no woman is so unwise as to count the chickens before they are hatched. It is said that Congress has tied the hands of the President so that he is perfectly incapable of doing any more mischief, and the members go home, and leave Washington desolate. Washington is a live city. It has two states of existence, sleeping and waking. When Congress is in session it is wide awake; when Congress adjourns it goes to sleep, and then woe to the unfortunate letter-writer, for her occupation is gone—everything is gone—the great men, the fashionable women; the great dining-room in the principal hotels are all closed, small eating houses disappear; even stores of respectable size draw in their principal show windows, which proves to the world that they were only “branches” thrown out from the

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