[SOME SENATORIAL SCENES.]
John Sherman, Zach. S. Chandler and Oliver P. Morton in the Lime Light.
Washington, March 12, 1870.
In order to see the light of the sun eclipsed, or completely thrown in the shade, it is necessary to visit the Senate in night session. In prosy daytime one’s senses are ravished by the bewildering beauty of the decorative art in this “chamber;” but thus seen only a magic hall pictured in the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainment” will compare with the fairy-like beauty of the scene. Whence come the beams that steep everything in a sea of liquid amber? No jetty flame is visible anywhere. The exquisite roof of stained glass gleams with a deeper, richer light than was ever borrowed from old Sol’s rays. In order to be disenchanted one must be told that innumerable little gas jets cover the interior roof of the chamber, but the stained glass hides the ingenious contrivance from view. Who shall describe the sea of splendor that wraps and beautifies everything caught in its embrace? Under its influence grave Senators relax that stern gravity and austerity so becoming in a man upon whom half the dignity of a sovereign State depends. During last evening’s session, Senator Ramsey deliberately placed his hands behind him, apparently without malice aforethought, marched across the floor, and patted Senator Drake on the head. But the most astonishing thing connected with the performance consists in the fact that Senator Drake never quacked or even called the attention of the Senate to this strange proceeding. If in the course of legislation a Senator’s head must be patted, by what authority has a man the right to do so? Considering the irascibility of Senator Drake, his behavior under the hand of Senator Ramsey was becoming in the extreme.
If there is a chestnut burr in the American Senate, it is found in the person of Senator Drake, of Missouri. He bristles with sharp points, like a porcupine. He is ever on the alert for his foes, and when found he hurls shaft after shaft, unmindful where he hits; yet there is something so upright and true in the man that one forgets, as in the case of pricked fingers when a hoard of satin-backed chestnuts are brought into view.
But the shimmering rays of the evening light up a unique picture. In the outer circle of Senatorial chairs may be seen the one occupied by the colored man from Mississippi. As yet it cannot be said that a negro or black man has broken into Congress. Senator Revels has the head of a bronze statue, and his hands are Anglo-Saxon. But the cruel weight of slavery has left its mark upon him. He brings to bear upon the tufted Wilton of the Senate chamber the plantation’s walk. Slave idiom clings to his mellow, flute-like speech. He looks so lonely and forlorn in his seat, the first in the edge of the charmed circle, just as if he had been washed there by some great tidal wave, which had retired, never more to return. Senator Revels is a good man, but not great, after the manner of Frederick Douglass; or keen as a Damascus blade, like Sella Martin, the editor of the colored man’s national organ. And yet, in legislative attainments, he compares favorably with the majority of the new Senators from the reconstructed States.
The Senators are talking about the “funding bill.” In the colloquy the clear-cut face of John Sherman, of Ohio, comes to the surface. He has put his shoulder to the mountain of finance, and how manfully he tugs. Oh, the wear and tear to the understanding in the attempt to comprehend the money situation! A masculine biped whispers to his next door neighbor, “Do you understand why they had a night session?” Of course the little woman didn’t know. “It was to choke off all discussion and come to a vote. In the House they have a way of putting on the brakes, but in the Senate a man can talk and talk until he spins a cocoon out of his brain, through which he must eat in order to come back to common sense and terra firma. You see,” continued the man, “that the Senate is tired. It wants to get home; but a few of the hardy swimmers will not give up the race.”
Senatorial abandon takes possession of the hour. A Western Senator perambulates the floor, smoking a cigar, but there are very few ladies in the gallery, and the cigar is daintily fragrant, considering its obnoxious origin. In the door of an adjoining cloak-room may be seen the broad, open face of Zachariah Chandler, and from its moon-like disc may be noticed small volumes of smoke escaping; but whether this fiery exhibition is the result of the destruction of tobacco, or a mild volcanic eruption in a very delicate region, there is no means of ascertaining.
During the impatient conflict Charles Sumner is seen in his seat, solemnly solemn as the sphinx. A woman whispers: “Did you ever see Charles Sumner smile? I did once, you ought to have seen it.” “Why?” asked her companion. “Because he looked so handsome. The smile transfigured his countenance. I have liked his face ever since.” “May I never see him smile,” said the other woman. “I prefer to contemplate this man in the Senate as I do the mountain in a picture, or as I would an Arctic landscape in a gloomy, sullen sea.”