Читать книгу The Olivia Letters - Emily Edson Briggs - Страница 19

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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 brilliancy and logic, the lightning was playing with the beginning of it, and when he had finished the great cities of the Union were as wise as we who sat within the sound of his voice. The struggle to obtain tickets equalled, if it did not exceed, the opening day of the trial, and the same elegant, aristocratic crowd filled the galleries, the women, as usual, outnumbering the men. The only really odious thing connected with the trial is the ticket system. Suppose a crowd does gather in the Capitol, the most perfect order prevails, and there are so many police on duty that it is very easy to protect the Senate and push back the waves of humanity. The grocer’s wife, the humblest citizen, has just as much right to hear the impeachment trial as the wife or the friend of a Congressman; and when the galleries are properly filled, what hinders the police from meeting the late comers and turning their unwilling footsteps away? Anything that smacks of aristocracy or exclusiveness should instantly be put under the feet of every American citizen. It is the masses who are the real aristocracy, because they are the source of all power; and the moment our public servants dare to draw lines that in any way interfere with this great, good-natured maelstrom, the least of this mass can put a stone in a sling which will do as good execution as the pebble of the immortal David.

Senator Wade has left the chair and Chief Justice Chase immediately succeeds him. For an instant let us survey this cold, haughty, handsome face. Not for a moment could one imagine fire coursing along his veins. His lips move, but only inarticulate sound reaches the gallery. The New York Independent must be mistaken when it says “he has become the friend of Andrew Johnson, the idol of the young Democracy.” Ambition may consume him with its unquenchable fire, but with the corpse of William H. Seward before his eyes he will never commit suicide. The Senate chamber is as quiet as a vaulted tomb. The orator of the day arises, and thousands of eyes are brought to a sudden focus. Benjamin F. Butler has the floor. History has associated the name of Burke with Warren Hastings; and inseparably linked must be the names of Butler and Andrew Johnson. Mr. Butler is not an orator. He did not attempt to impress a jury. He simply read a great speech to the whole country, expecting the people to read it after him, and weigh its arguments discriminately; to note the strong points, and feel that Benjamin F. Butler had proved himself equal to the task imposed upon him as a trusted servant of the American people. In making up the gifts for this rare son, it must be said that Old Mother Nature denied him beauty; but he had managed to outwit the fickle old dame and come out even with her at last, for amongst the few beautiful women in the gallery Blanche Butler, the petite daughter, was fairest amongst the fair. “What a strong resemblance between the two!” you say. The crooked eyes are straightened, a little added to their size, and the same fire is flung into them both. In one case you have a pair of Oriental almonds, seen nowhere outside of Correggio’s Madonnas. In the other, you have eyes belonging to Benjamin Butler. The description ends. There is nothing on earth out of which to manufacture comparison.

In the exclusive crowd which filled the galleries, it may be said there were two grand divisions—the aristocracy and the press. The first named were elevated to their seats by their social relations; the latter by the divine right of being anointed sovereigns in the world of mind, born to their inheritance, like the Bourbons and Hapsburgs. Conspicuous amongst the limited but strictly exclusive set might be seen the delicate, spiritual face of Mary Clemmer Ames, of the New York Independent. She writes poetry; the newspapers tell us all that. She also writes stately, solemn prose. Sometimes it is bitter and pungent, as many of our public men know. How easy and smooth the machinery of her mind must work! There are no sudden jars in the cogwheels of her brain, for her face is almost as smooth as a dimpled babe’s. She is pure womanly, from the low, handsome brow to the taper fingers, and when the time comes that woman shall stand upon the true platform of equality and justice Mary Clemmer Ames, with all the rest of the same sisterhood, will be remembered as the noble pioneers whose united efforts alone achieved the great work.

Speaking of women in the world of mind, Anna E. Dickinson addressed a fashionable audience here last night, and as we have taken a solemn oath to say nothing but honest words we must say that we don’t like to hear her talk. That she is brilliant and gifted, that Philadelphia has reason to be proud of this talented child, it were useless to deny. But God help the woman when honey no longer drops from her lips, when nothing but gall issues from the coral crevice! She gives the Republican party no credit for what it has done, but only heaps abuse and scurrility upon it because it has not done more. She hurls arguments at the heads with sledge-hammer blows, but she forgets to use woman’s strongest, surest, most fatal weapon—that jeweled, nameless, enchanted dagger, that, if found in the hand of the weakest among us, never fails of reaching the heart.

Olivia.