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Last Scene of all Pathetically Depicted.

Washington, January 31, 1866.

A close observer in Washington is greatly surprised at the easy transition from a state of war to that of peace. An intelligent person might say there is no true peace. We will leave this discussion to the politicians, and say we are no longer awakened in the small hours of the night by the rumbling of the Government ambulances bringing the wounded and dying from the battlefields to the hospitals. We never shall forget that peculiar sound, unlike that produced by any other vehicle. Perhaps it was the zigzag course the driver often took to avoid any little obstruction in the street, which might jar and aggravate the wounded occupant, that made it seem so long in coming. But the movements were always slower than a funeral march.

But sad as this procession seemed, painful almost beyond expression, there was still a sadder sight. It was the same fashioned ambulance, with “U. S. Hearse” marked in large letters on the side of it. Our ears could never distinguish the movements of this from any grocer’s wagon. Sometimes we have been crossing a street, this solitary equipage would dash past, and if we were quick enough to catch a glance at the open end of it, we might see a stained coffin, perhaps two of them, with nothing to distinguish them but their manly proportions. No carriages, no mourners, no comrades, even, with reversed arms, all alone, save detailed soldiers enough to perform the act of burial; even the “chaplain” often absent.

Happening to meet an old soldier whom we knew just as the Government hearse was passing, said he, “I hope you don’t mind that; you see that is only a part of the play. It don’t make much difference how you drop the seed; the Lord will take care of the harvest.” In an instant religion stood stripped of its vaulted roof and broad aisles—Te Deums, new bonnets, gewgaws and pew rent. Anxious for his salvation, we inquired, “Do you ever go to church?” and thus this bronzed soldier answered, “Got too much faith to go very often. They don’t ask a fellow to sit down. Got to stow away somewhere in the back gallery, or near the door, out of everybody’s way. And besides that, I don’t want to go to their heaven. I ain’t got on the right kind of uniform to serve under their General. But hang it, Heaven is big enough for us all—horses and dead rebs into the bargain.”

Only yesterday, as it were, the cloud, the vapor, the storm of war, the wrath of the conflict, bleeding wounds, breaking hearts. To-day the sun shines upon free, proud America, the most powerful nation on the face of the earth—a nation that stands forth pure and undefiled, her late difficulties overcome, or will be just as soon as old Thad Stevens reports the surgical operation a success. Fifteen able doctors are at work, and have been ever since Congress has been in session, and the country can rest assured that everything is going on as well as can be expected.

It is a pleasant place to visit, this Capitol of ours, on a sunshiny afternoon. ’Tis true that when once seated in the House of Representatives there is that feeling which one might be supposed to have if hermetically sealed up in a huge can; but one is disabused of this feeling as soon as the greatness of the surroundings is comprehended. There is no mistaking the Republican side of the House; there is such a placid, self-satisfied look upon the faces of the members, as much as to say, “We have got it all in our own hands.” The Democratic side is greatly in the minority, so far as numbers are concerned; but they are a plucky set of men, mostly with thin lips, which they are in the habit of bringing tight together, reminding one of a certain little instrument made for torture; and woe to the House when an unfortunate Republican falls into the trap, for then follow long, windy discussions of no mortal use to the country and amounting to only so much waste of time and money.

The gallery known as the “Gentlemen’s” is generally filled with masculines who have little or nothing to do; but as they do not impede the wheels of legislation, and are kept out of the way of mischief in the meantime, the country is obliged for their attendance. And now I come to the ladies who grace and honor with their presence the national Capitol. How shall I describe these beautiful human butterflies in glaring hoops and gig-top bonnets, curls and perfumery? If the eyes of the traveler ache to behold in a solid mass the different strata of American society, let him visit the national Capitol when Ben Wade is going to make a speech. Nobody from the White House! These ladies have a good old-fashioned way of staying at home. (Wonder if they dry their clothes in the East Room as good queen Abigail used to do?) Carriages arrive at the east front of the Capitol—solemn carriages; heavy bays—made more for strength than beauty; driver with a narrow band around his hat, a little badge—just enough to show that he does not belong to “them independent Jehus that lurk around Willard’s and the National.” Driver and footman blended in one piece of ebony; driver descends, opens the carriage door, and madame, the proud wife of a Senator, descends, not with agility, for senatorial dignity brings years, rich, ripe, golden maturity, perfection of dress and manners, dark, rich silk, velvet mantle—none of your plebeian coats! The portals of the great Capitol open and Madame le Senator disappears.

Now come the wives of the wealthy members; not the leading ones, for great men seldom take time to get rich. Showy carriage, driver and footman in gloves, an elegant carriage costume, an occasional flash of early autumnal beauty, oftener positively commonplace. And now comes Jehu, who has left his “stand” before Willard’s or the National just long enough to turn an honest penny. Perhaps he is bringing a member’s wife whose carriage costume outshines her neighbor, the owner of the footman in gloves. She wishes it understood that she is not a resident of Washington; here temporarily, just long enough to keep her husband from butting his brains out against reconstruction.

She disappears, and still the carriages are arriving and we see many heads of bureaus, the Army and the Navy represented, and a sprinkling of upper clerk’s wives. More carriages, and the demi-mondes flutter out, faultless in costume, fair as ruby wine, and much more dangerous. The carriages bring the cream, and the street cars the skim milk. But there is another way of going to the Capitol, which is quite as exclusive as in carriage, and does away with that clumsy vehicle. I am speaking of those who detest the street cars, and yet remember that carriages more properly belong to gouty uncles and invalid aunts. It is to pick one’s way daintily over the pavement. Sniffing the pure air and the fragrance of the dead leaves in the Capitol grounds—good anti-dyspeptic tonic. Try it and speak from experience as we do. The allotted pages filled, au revoir.

Olivia.