[Subsection]

I LAST wrote to you, my sweet Agatha, from the National Hotel, a kind of hot oven full of senators and representatives, of traveling gentlemen and ladies, where one was baked soul and body by heat and this high-pressure life, and where I lingered so long merely to remain in company with Miss Lynch, but where we, with our different natures, got on very differently; she in the vortex of social life, of which she is the ornament, I seeking for solitude--the hardest thing to find in such an hotel-world, but of which I, nevertheless, enjoyed a few moments, partly in my own room, partly walking in the gallery of the court, where I listened to the plashing of the water as it fell into the fountain-basin in the middle of the court, and reposing my soul upon a few words or tones which always return in my moments of solitude, always the same, always sufficient to fill soul and sense, so that, like the water of the fountain, they leap up in clear streams, saluting heaven, fructifying early! I can not tell, but you can understand that which I experience at such moments, and that which then lives in my soul; but such moments were not many in the National Hotel, where I lived in daily association with from three to four hundred persons.

To-day I wrote from a tranquil home, where the alanthus and sycamore whisper outside my window, and the lady of the house and I spring around each other as we take a cold bath three or four times a day.

But a truce now to myself, for great and nationally important events have occurred since I last wrote, events which have caused a strong vibration through the whole social and political system of every state of the Union, and have produced an overturning in many things; and it is of these events that I must first speak.

For some few days (5th and 6th of July) it has been mentioned here and there in Washington that the president (General Taylor) was indisposed. He was perfectly well on the 4th (it was on the 3d when I last saw him), but having eaten something which had disagreed with him-- oyster-patty, I should imagine--he had an attack of illness; on the 7th he was said again to be better, and would soon be quite restored.

As I sat, however, yesterday (the 9th) in the Senate House, listening patiently, or more correctly, impatiently, to a long and tedious pro-slavery speech by the senator of South Carolina, Judge Butler, an estimable man and a good friend of mine (always excepting as regards this question), I perceived a thrill, as if from a noiseless electric shock, had passed through the assembly; a number of fresh persons entered by the principal doors, and at once Daniel Webster was seen to stand beside the speaking senator, indicating with a deprecatory gesture that he must interrupt him on account of some important business. The orator bowed and was silent; a stillness as of death reigned in the house, and all eyes were fixed upon Webster, who himself stood silent for a few seconds, as if to prepare the assembly for tidings of serious import. He then spoke slowly, and with that deep and impressive voice which is peculiar to him.

"I have a sorrowful message to deliver to the Senate. A great misfortune threatens the nation. The President of the United States, General Taylor, is dying, and probably may not survive the day."

Again was that silent electrical shock perceptible. I saw many persons turn pale, and I felt myself grow pale also from the unexpected announcement, and from seeing the effect which it had produced. One senator bowed his head upon his hands, as if he heard the thunder of judgment. This movement of astonishment was, however, transient. Mind soon regained its usual tension: the Senate   [p. 449]   adjourned immediately, and to a man they all poured forth into the city to tell this news or to hear any thing fresh. At the present moment of party strife, and during the contention which is now going forward in Congress, and upon the adjustment of which it is said that the personal character of General Taylor exercised an important influence, the news of his condition has made an immense impression.

At half past ten in the evening the president died, after having taken a beautiful and affecting leave of his family.

"Weep not, my dear wife," he is related to have said to her, who loved him with infinite affection, "I have endeavored to do my duty, and I trust in the mercy of God!"

The day following (the 10th of July), the new president, Vice-president Fillmore, entered upon his office, according to the law of the country, which decrees that in case of the decease of the president the vice-president shall hold his office during the time which yet remains of the full term of government, when a new president shall be elected. The term of presidentship is for four years; and Taylor, I believe, had occupied the seat of president about two years; two, therefore, remained for Fillmore.

It is believed that this hasty elevation is not welcome to him. It is said that, when he was told of Taylor's death, he bowed his head and said, "This is my first misfortune!" and it is said, also, that when, conducted by two of the members of Congress, the one from Massachusetts, the other from Louisiana, he entered the House of Representatives, in order to take the oath, his appearance did not belie this impression. He was very pale, and looked unhappy. That fine, manly figure, which hitherto had borne itself so nobly, now supported, or, rather, dragged in by two unequal figures, who held each one an arm, did not look either well or at his ease. After this trial, the members of the Senate, two and two, or one and one, entered the House of Representatives. Nothing can be simpler than the form by which the new president was inducted   [p. 450]   into his office. Placing his hand upon the Bible, he promised to defend the Constitution of the United States, called upon God to witness his promise, kissed the book, and--that was all.

The president and senators went out as they had entered. Most of the senators went out in pairs, some arm-in-arm; Clay went alone--indifferent, weary, very much alone, seemed to me both his expression and bearing; Corwin, the senator from Ohio, of whom I shall presently have more to say, a stout little man, resolute and good-tempered, he also walked alone.

The sitting of Congress is now prorogued for three days, until after the interment of President Taylor. But the contending parties, who now prepare themselves for a new turn in affairs, have not prorogued their operations. They labor incessantly, and have no other feeling or thought than their own interests.

Yesterday, as I returned from the Capitol, I heard one young man say to another, "If he dies, then our party will triumph, and, by God, I know that he will die."

And now, while these mighty affairs both rest and are agitated, I will tell you a little about my own concerns.

I spent the 4th of July--that great day in the United States--at Mount Vernon, the estate of Washington, with Miss Lynch, Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Corwin, the senator from Ohio. Mr. Corwin is one of this country's "self-made men." His father was a poor farmer, and the son enjoyed merely a common school education, but has, through his own means, educated and trained himself till he is one of the most celebrated popular orators; and what is still more, a universally esteemed politician, against whom nobody has any thing to say, excepting that sometimes he is too good.

He was a charming and inestimable companion for us; and his conversation, in particular his vivacious and lifelike descriptions--though sometimes a little caricatured--   [p. 451]   of his brethren in the Senate, and his imitations of their manner and their tone; his happy humor, which, like a living fountain, forever swelling forth from fresh springs, converted the tedious drive along a wretched road in a shaking carriage, and in the oppressive heat of the day, into a journey of pleasure.

We were received at Mount Vernon by a handsome young couple, the nephew of the great president and his wife. They invited us to cool and rest ourselves, and entertained us with milk and fruit, which were delicious. Henry Clay had given us a letter of introduction to them. The situation of the house, on the banks of the Potomac, is unspeakably beautiful; the park, laid out in the English style, appeared to me extensive, but, like the buildings, to be somewhat out of order. A beautiful mausoleum, containing the bodies of Washington and his wife, stands in the park; and through the grated iron door of the mausoleum the coffins may be seen. I threw in between the iron bars my green branch.

Washington has always appeared to me in life and character to have a resemblance to Gustavus Wasa; although his life was less romantic, and his character more phlegmatic, less impulsive, than the Swedish liberator. Wasa is a more dramatic, Washington a more epic figure; Wasa more of the hero, Washington more of the statesman; Wasa king, Washington president. Large, powerful, kingly souls were they, both worthy to be the governors of free people. Washington, perhaps, stands higher than Wasa, in his pure unselfishness, as the supreme head of the people. In self-government he was almost without an equal; and it is said that only on one single occasion, in a momentary outbreak, did he allow the volcanic workings of his soul to be observed.

The American ideal of a man, "a well-balanced mind," must have its type in the great president. Noble he was, and, when he had done an injustice, would candidly acknowledge   [p. 452]   it. That which I most admire in his character and life, is his perseverance. He was not without pride in his manner and temper toward others. He had a glance which could strike the insolent dumb; and I have heard it said that his very presence, even if he were silent, always could be felt like a dominant power; but this is the case with all strong characters.

The mother of Washington was a quiet, noble lady, whose "well-balanced mind" seemed to exceed that of her son, and who thought too highly of duty and fatherland to be proud of his achievements, however tenderly she loved him.

"I hope that George will fulfill his duty to his country!" said she, modestly, on one occasion, when his merits were exalted in her presence. The understanding between Washington and his mother seems to have been perfect. Of the understanding between him and his wife I have merely heard this anecdote:

A guest at Mount Vernon happened to sleep in a room adjoining that occupied by the president and his lady. Late in the evening, when people had retired to their various chambers, he heard the lady delivering a very animated lecture to her lord and master upon something which he had done, that she thought should have been done differently; to all this he listened in the profoundest silence, and when she too was silent, he opened his lips and spoke, "Now good sleep to you, my dear."

Portraits and descriptions of her show her to have been a pretty, agreeable, kind, little woman, from whom it really could not have been so disagreeable to have a curtain-lecture.

Washington was the native of a slave state, Virginia, and was himself a slaveholder until just before his death, when he gave his slaves their freedom. It is really remarkable to see in his will, which I have lately read, how nothing appeared to have weighed so much upon his heart   [p. 453]   as solicitude for the well-being of his slaves. Several pages are occupied by directions for the treatment of those who were to receive their freedom, as well as of those who were old, or infirm, and who, therefore, were to be well cared for until their death. This precision with regard to the kind treatment of the old slaves after his death, places the republican hero of the New World much higher than those of old Rome! The pure humanity of Washington in this respect shines forth with the purest splendor; and it is this pure humanity, still more than his talent as a governor; still more than his glowing patriotism, which makes Washington the great man of the New World--I will not say the greatest, because I am still looking for him. It is also this which calls forth that fervent and unanimous homage which is befitting to him from the people of the New World, and which he obtains also from the people of Europe, and which to this day calls forth encomiums on his memory from the States of America and the Czar of Russia. Washington endeavored in every thing, and above every thing, to be just and true, therefore he stood so firmly, and therefore he stood so purely, during a stormy and unsettled period, a Memnon's statue in the midst of the whirling sands of the desert, unmoved by them, influenced only by the light, and ever giving forth the same pure harmonious tone.

Mount Vernon was the home of Washington's youth; hither he brought his bride, here he lived happily through the whole of his life, whenever he had an interval of rest from the charge of public affairs. Mount Vernon was his favorite residence. Here, in old age, he died in peace, after a well completed and honorable career, able to say, "I am not afraid to die!"

We were alone at Washington's grave on this day, which we spent amid quiet conversation in the park, walking about or sitting on the grass under the shadowy trees; and Mr. Corwin, who during the drive thither had   [p. 454]   shot right and left, like a master, the arrows of satire and jest, now showed during a serious conversation that profoundly religious mind, that desire to rest in spiritual and eternal truth, which distinguishes the man of the New World, whether he be descended from Cavalier or Puritan; and which is shown in his outward life, however much he may be occupied by the business and the battle of the day. Corwin is a determined anti-slavery man, and will not hear of any compromise with slavery, and is therefore opposed to Clay and his scheme of adjustment. From his description of Clay and his manner of treating persons of different talents and different political views, although the description was somewhat caricatured, I yet obtained a definite idea of Clay's ability as a political leader during a war of opinions.

We returned toward evening, and part of the journey which we made on the Potomac was beautiful; the banks of the river are not here of a great character, but they are nevertheless romantic, and present extensive views over a richly-wooded country, broken into hills and valleys. At Alexandria, a small town on our way, we took a little supper with a kind lady, who seemed to consider her Alexandria as remarkable as we should have considered the old classical city of the same name.

I have visited every day the Senate and the Assembly of Representatives, though generally the former, because I hear well there, and because as a parliamentary assembly it seems, in every case, to stand above the other.

In the House of Representatives no speaker may occupy more than an hour of time. As soon as the hour is at an end, and a little bell rings, another speaker has a right to interrupt him, even should it be in the very midst of his most profound argument, or in the highest flight of his genius, and demand general attention for his speech, which may occupy another hour, after which he again must give place to some one else. And as the speakers in a general   [p. 455]   way speak with great ease, and have a deal to say, they are anxious to make good use of their power, and that, I suppose, is the reason for the headlong speed with which the speech is hurled forth, like an avalanche, into the House, at least it has been so every time I have been there. A certain kind of hurry-skurry seems to prevail in this house, which contrasts strongly with the decorum of the Senate. There each senator may speak as long as he will, nay even through the whole of the session, if he chose, without any one having a right to interrupt him, except to make an observation or with his consent.

During this talking, however, whether in the Senate or in the House of Representatives, I am often enough reminded of Mr. Poinsett's words, when I praised the American talent for talking, "It is a great misfortune!" But is it better, as regards this misfortune, in other countries in assemblies where people make speeches? And if I do sigh now and then as I listen to a speech, yet I am interested by many on account of their straightforwardness, on account of the subjects upon which they touch, or on account of the speakers themselves. I like both to see and to hear parliamentary assemblies. Human nature seems to me great, when it stands forth and does battle for some high purpose or principle, and if it be possessed of power or of genius, it wins great victories; and I love to see human nature great and important, to see it from its private little world, its isolated point, labor for--the whole world. And even without genius, human nature here presents, as a moral power, an interesting sight merely by its "yes" or "no." Such an assembly is in its operation a grand dramatic scene, and there sometimes occur in it scenes and episodes of much more vital effect than many a one which we witness on the stage.

Some such, at which I have been present here, I will mention to you. But first a word about the scene itself, that is to say, the Senate, because it has an especial interest   [p. 456]   for me, inasmuch as all the senators represent states, and the characteristic and poetic features of these present themselves to my imagination, in picturesque groups, in the men who represent them. Each state in the Union sends two senators to Congress. These stand up in the Senate, and are addressed not as Mr. this or that, but as the senator of Kentucky, or Massachusetts, or Mississippi, or Louisiana, and so on; and I then immediately see before me an image of Kentucky, or Massachusetts, or Mississippi, or Louisiana, according to what I know of the life and temperament of the states, as well in spirit as in natural scenery, even though the human representative may not answer to it; and the whole fashion and form of this hemisphere stands before me like a great drama, in which Massachusetts and Louisiana, Carolina and Pennsylvania, Ohio and Alabama, and many others, are acting powers with definite individuality. Individuality is again supplied by the surname which chance or the humor of the people have given to some of the states, and according to which it would be easy to christen all. Thus I behold here the Empire State (New York); the Granite State (New Hampshire); the Keystone State (Pennsylvania); the Wolverines (Michigan); and many other tilt and combat with the Giant State (Kentucky); with the Palmetto State (Carolina); the French State (Louisiana); and so on. And the warfare that goes on about the Gold State, called also the Pacific State (California), calls forth all those marked features and circumstances which distinguish and separate the Northern and the Southern States, and which set them in opposition one to the other.

I will now tell you what the great apple of contention looks like, which has been here fought for during the last seven months. Behold!

THE COMPROMISE BILL.

The admission of California as a State into the Union, the arrangement of Territorial Administration for Utah (the Mormon State) and New Mexico, as well the project for determining the Western and Northwestern boundary of Texas.

And now a word in explanation: in order that a state can have a right to be admitted as such into the Union, it is necessary for it to have a population of at least fifty-five thousand souls. Until then, every separate portion of the United States land is called territory, and is governed, during the period of its development and minority, more immediately by the Federal administration, which appoints a governor and other officials, and furnishes troops to defend the inhabitants against the Indians or other enemies, whatever they may be, of whom the population of the territory may complain. Every state in the Union has a right to form its own laws, on condition that they do not encroach upon the enactments of the other Federal states, as well as that the form of government be republican. The territory, again, has not the privileges of the state, and people are not yet agreed as to how far its privileges of self-government ought to extend. Well now, California, the population of which became suddenly augmented to above one hundred and fifty thousand souls, principally by emigration from the free Northeastern States, desires to be admitted into the Union as a free state. New Mexico, which in consequence of the Mexican law, is free from slavery, and Utah, which calls its young population "Latter-Day Saints," desire also as territory resolutely to oppose the introduction of slavery.

But as these three states--that which has attained its majority, as well as those which yet remain in their minority--are situated below a geographical line, called the Missouri line, which, accordingly to ancient agreement, is   [p. 458]   to constitute the line of separation between the Free States and the Slave States, so that all the states north of this line shall have a right to be free from slaves, and all states lying to the south of it have a right to slaves and slave labor; and as three new states would disturb the balance of political power between the North and the South, and give the preponderance to the North and the Free States, therefore do all the men of the South--yet not all--cry, "No! No!" to this; and the ultras among them add, "Rather will we break with the North, and form ourselves into a separate Union--the Southern States Union! We will declare war against the North!"

The Southerners insist upon it that both California and New Mexico shall be open to receive their slave institutions, and beyond this they insist that Congress shall pass a law forbidding the Free States to give harborage and protection to fugitive slaves, and that it shall give to them, the Southerners, the right to demand and obtain the aid of the legislative power in the Free States for the recovery of their human property.

To this the men of the North shout "No! No!" with all their might. And the ultras of their party add, "Rather bloody war! We will never consent to slavery! Away with slavery! We will remain a free people! Congress shall pass a law to forbid slavery in every new state."

Many of the Southerners admit, in the mean time, the right of California to enter the Union as a free state, but deny to the territories any right to legislate for themselves on the question of slavery. The Southerners, in general, maintain that they do not contend for the cause of slavery, but for states'-right and the cause of the Constitution. Many are right in this assertion, but with many others it is easy to see that the interests of slavery color their opposition.

Other questions of contention belong to the same category, as, for instance, whether Columbia, the district in   [p. 459]   which Washington stands, shall continue to hold slaves or not. There is at the present time, within sight of the Capitol, a gloomy, gray building, half buried in trees, as if ashamed of itself, that is a slave-pen, where slaves are brought up or kept for sale. Washington is situated in the Slave State of Maryland. One portion of the Southerners are anxious to maintain, even here, their beloved domestic institutions, as the phrase is. Another point of contention is the question about the boundaries between Texas and Mexico, and about a strip of land between the Slave State and the yet free territory, or which shall have and which shall give up this piece; and Freedom and Slavery get to fighting anew on this ground about this piece of land.

Such is the aspect which this great apple of discord presents, an actual Gordian knot which seems to demand the sword of an Alexander to sever.

Henry Clay's scheme of compromise says, California shall be introduced into the Union as a free state, according to her wishes; because her population of nearly 200,000 have a right to determine their measures. New Mexico shall wait for the determination of the law, until she is possessed of a population large enough to constitute a state. She shall, in the mean time, continue to be a territory without slaves. And the same with regard to Utah.

On the contrary, the Slave States shall possess the right to demand the restoration of their fugitive slaves, and, if it be necessary, to regain them by the aid of law, as the Constitution has decreed.

Columbia shall be a free district, from which slavery shall be banished.

These, I believe, are the principal points of Clay's scheme to bring about peace between the North and South. Both North and South, however, demand greater concession, each on his own side, and exclaim "No! No!" to the Compromise Bill.

  [p. 460]  

This bill, which has many clauses introduced under the same head, all of which Clay wishes to have carried at the same time, has thence obtained the name of "the Omnibus Bill," and is contested under this appellation. Many senators, who go with Clay on certain points, have separated from him on others; and it seems as if the Omnibus Bill, as such, had nearly the whole Senate against it, although some special questions seem likely to be decided according to Clay's views, among which is the principal one of California's admission into the Union as a free state: but even they who are agreed on important points may fall out with each other about trifles; and the other day I heard Mississippi sharply taken to task by Mississippi for his "disunion tendency," on which the other half of Mississippi cried "Shame on disunionists!"

But now for a little about the dramatis personæ, or such of them as appear to me most remarkable.

Henry Clay has his seat against the wall, to the right of the entrance, is always there, attentive, lively, following the discussion, throwing in now and then a word, and not unfrequently taking himself the lead in it. His cheek and eye have a feverish glow, his voice and words are always energetic, urged on by the impulsiveness of the soul, and compel attention; his arguments are to the purpose, striking, and, seeming to me to bear the stamp of strong conviction, ought to produce conviction in others; and when his strong resounding voice thunders the battle-cry "California" (the last syllable of which he sounds in a peculiar manner) through the Senate, amid the fight for the freedom of California, then they feel that the old warrior leads them forth to victory. Although born in a Slave State, Kentucky, and its representative, and though a slaveholder himself, Clay's sympathies are evidently wholly and entirely in favor of the system of freedom; and at the opening of this session he frankly declared that he never would allow the introduction of slavery into any   [p. 461]   new state. And herein I recognize the great statesman and the free son of the New World. On a former occasion, also, he proposed a plan by which to free his native land from slavery, and which does not seem to be an impracticable one. It is this: that all children born of slaves, after a certain year--I believe that it was this present year of 1850--should be declared free, and should be brought up in a humane manner in schools, and should be taught mechanical arts and handcraft trades. This project, so noble in its intention, so practical, and which in so rational a manner opens the way for a twofold emancipation, has nevertheless been rejected. The ultras on both sides, in the anti-slavery and pro-slavery camps, will not hear of it. I believe that the concession which Clay, while he is combating for the freedom of California and the neutrality of Mexico, makes to the Southern States, in yielding to their demands with regard to the restoration of their fugitive slaves, is a measure rendered imperative by the necessity of the moment. Since I have been in the Slave States, and seen and heard the bitterness which exists there, in particular in South Carolina, against the conduct and interference of the Northerners in the question of slavery--since I have often heard the wish expressed for separation from the North, which ferments there, and which even makes itself seen in the Senate, I consider this concession to be necessary for the prevention of civil war at the present moment; while the feelings of the South are afresh irritated by the probable accession to the North, of California, and even of New Mexico, and Utah into its group of states. The concession has its legal ground, inasmuch as, conformably with the Constitution of the United States, the states are bound to respect each others' laws, and according to the laws of the Slave States, the slaves constitute a portion of the slaveholder's lawful property.

I perfectly understand the bitterness which the supporters of anti-slavery principles must feel at the thought   [p. 462]   that their free soil may not be an asylum for the unfortunate slave, and that the slave-catcher may there have a free career, and demand the assistance of the officials of the Free States. I know that I myself would rather suffer death than give up an unfortunate slave who had taken refuge with me; but is there at this moment an alternative between this concession and civil war? Clay seems to consider that there is not, and Daniel Webster seems to coincide with him, though he has not as yet expressed himself openly on Clay's Compromise Bill.

I believe that Clay makes this concession reluctantly, and that he would not have proposed it if he had regarded it as any thing more than temporary, if his own large heart and his statesman's eye had not convinced him that the time is not far distant when the noble heart's impulse of the South will impel them voluntarily to a nobler, humaner legislation as regards the slave question; and that urged on necessarily by the liberal movement of humanity, as well in Europe as in America, the New World will rid itself of this its greatest lie.

And this I also believe, thanks to the noble minds with which I became acquainted in the South--thanks to the free South, which grows and extends itself in the bosom of the Slave States; and who can feel the movement of the spirit over the whole of this vast world's formation without feeling that the Spirit of God floats over the deep, and will divide light from darkness by his almighty--"Be thou light!" The crimson of dawn is already on the hills, and tinging the tops of the forest trees. He who will see it may! I do not dread the darkness conquering here.

Near Clay, and before him in the row of seats, you see the representative of the Granite State, Mr. Hale, from New Hampshire, with a head not unlike that of Napoleon, and a body and bearing like a great fat boy; a healthy, strong, Highland character, immovable in his principles as the Granite Mountains, and with a mind as fresh as   [p. 463]   the wind which blows around them. A strong anti-slavery supporter, and inflexible toward any concession on this question, he frequently puts the whole House into the best of tempers by his humor, and his witty and sarcastic sallies. I like the man very much. Near to him I see the senator from Texas (the first president of that republican Texas), General Houston, who required a month to travel from his state to Washington. People listen willingly to the magnificent old general, for the sake of the picturesque and fresh descriptions which he introduces in his speeches. His expression is good-tempered and manly, with a touch of military chivalry. He has the peculiarity of cutting little bits of wood with his penknife during all the discussions in the Senate. I also see the senator from Pennsylvania, a man of Quaker-like simplicity, and with a pine and handsome countenance, among the anti-slavery leaders. The two senators from Ohio, Corwin and Chase, are here; the former you are already acquainted with. I see him in the Senate, sitting silent and tranquil; he has already delivered his sentiments on the important subject, and now merely makes occasionally a short observation on some speech of a Southerner. Chase has a remarkably noble and handsome exterior; I have seldom seen a more noble or prouder figure. Such a man in private life must be a dominant spirit, and awaken love or hate. In public he expresses himself firmly, but in few words, for the principle of freedom.

The senator from New York, Mr. Seward, is a little man, not at all handsome, and with that nasal twang which not unfrequently belongs to the sons of Boston. Seward is from that city. Yet, nevertheless, that voice has uttered, during the present session, some of the greatest and noblest thoughts. He is a stout anti-slavery man, and is against any compromise.

"I will labor," said he, lately, at the close of a speech, "for the support of the Union, not by concessions to slavery,   [p. 464]   but by the advancement of those laws and institutions which make her a benefactor to the whole human race." Good and great!

If I now advance from the point where I began, and on the side of the principal entrance, I find, not far from Clay, a Southerner and a champion of slavery, the senator from Georgia, Judge Berrian, a man of talent and wit, and also a kind and God-fearing man, a man of refinement and high breeding, whom it grieved me to see advocating the dark side of the South, on the plea that he must maintain its rights. He stands now in opposition to Clay on the question of California's right to freedom, and the personal hostility between them has gone so far, that Clay gave up his place at our table d'hôte. (Clay has resumed his seat and Berrian sits at the table.)

In the middle of this camp sits the colossus, Daniel Webster, in his arm-chair, with his sallow cheek and brow, and seems to be oppressed with thought, or with the heat, perhaps with both. I call him a colossus, not because I see in him an overpowering intellectual greatness, but on account of his magnificent head and massive appearance, although he is not a large figure, and because his influence is felt as something colossal. He has been extremely handsome, possessed of a natural, kingly dignity, and is described as having, by his mere presence, exercised an almost magical power over human masses. He is now above sixty, and is still a handsome, powerful man, although years and thought seem to weigh upon him. Clay, though more than seventy, is in appearance a youth in comparison with Webster. Clay is always ready to fire off; Webster seems to deliberate carefully as to the charging of his piece before he applies the match.

The senators of Illinois, General Shields and Judge Douglas, are both small men, but men of talent, and even of genius. In the deep, beautiful eyes of Douglas glows a dark fire which it is said burns with ambitious desires   [p. 465]   for the office of president; but the same desires influence Clay, Webster, Seward, and many others. He speaks but little, at least in company, but his presence is felt. He looks like an ardent, clever, and determined little man. General Shields, fair, blue-eyed, and with an honest glance, is of a more frank character. He distinguished himself, and was severely wounded, in the war with Mexico. I love to talk with him and to hear him talk. He is an active-minded and warm American, and seems to me to understand the peculiar aspect and vocation of his country.

Let us now cast a glance into the other camp. The hawk from Missouri, Colonel Benton, sits there in the midst of his own people, as well as the lion from Kentucky in the other camp, and just opposite to him. He is one of the oldest senators in Congress, and highly esteemed for his learning, his firmness, and his courage. He has fought a duel, and in cold blood slowly taken aim, and in cold blood shot his man, and he looks as if he could shoot his man in cold blood still. This duel, or, more correctly speaking, his behavior in it, has east a shadow upon his character in the eyes of many. He belongs to the population of "the Borderers" in America, to that class which springs up on the outskirts of the wilderness, and among a half-savage people; he has evidently accustomed himself to club-law; has accustomed himself to go with pistol and bowie-knife (a kind of crooked knife universal as a weapon in the Slave States, and called after its inventor), and which is carried, as our gentlemen carry a penknife and pencil, in the breast pocket. And Colonel Benton is a suitable representative of a slave state, where the wild Missouri pours its turbid waters along its perilous course, forming the western boundaries of the savage mountain land of the Indian tribes, and extending eastward to the gigantic Mississippi, where heathenism still contends for dominion with Christian law--of that yet only half-civilized Missouri may a cold-blooded duellist like Colonel Benton very well be regarded   [p. 466]   as a worthy representative, where he can, by his resolute will and his determined behavior, make himself both esteemed and feared as a political character. In exterior he is a strong-built, powerful, broad-shouldered, broad-chested man; the forehead is lofty, and the somewhat gray hair rises thin and slightly curled above it; below gleam out a pair of lively, but cold, gray eyes, and between them shoots forth an aquiline nose; the lower part of the countenance is strong, and shows a strong will and strong animal propensities. The figure and expression are powerful, but somewhat heavy, and are deficient in nobility. He has advocated in the Senate the freedom of California, but has opposed Mr. Clay's "Omnibus Bill." In society I have found him candid, extremely polite, and kind; nevertheless, there was a something within me which felt a repulsion to that cool, blood-stained hand. If it were not for this, I should like to see more of the man. His unreserved acknowledgment in the Senate that, although the representative of a slave state, a native of a slave state, and himself a slaveholder, he yet regarded slavery as an evil, and should regard it as a crime to aid in the extension of the curse to territory which had hitherto been free. This manly, candid declaration from a man in his position deserves all esteem, and his vivid description of nature and the circumstances of life in the Western lands, shows both knowledge and talent.

Near to the senator from Missouri, and most striking in the camp of the Southerners, stands forth Soulé, the senator of Louisiana, and forming a strong contrast to the former. The hawk of Missouri is a proper representative of the state, with the wild river and the richly metallic mountains, the boundary of the Indians. The land where the orange glows, where the sugar-cane flourishes, and where French civilization and French manners have been naturalized, ever since they fled thither from France, at the period of its extremest refinement; that flowery, beautiful   [p. 467]   Louisiana could not have sent to Congress a more worthy representative than the French consul, Soulé. Possessed of that beauty peculiar to the South, with its delicate features, eyes and hair of that rich, dark color which distinguish the Spaniards, and also the handsomest portion of the French population, Soulé has that grace of manner and expression which is forced among the men of these nations, and which is not met with among the Anglo-Saxons and Northmen, however good and handsome they may be. Soulé has come forward in the Senate on the Californian question, to advocate "the rights of the South," but always as a man of genius and tact; and on the occasion of a resolution which was opposed to the interests of Louisiana as a slave state, he also declared himself for the preservation of the Union. His great speech produced a great effect, and I have heard it praised by many. I have read it, and find nothing in it to admire as of a superior character. The rights of the South are the highest object for which he contends, and his highest impulse is a chivalric sense of honor as regards his own honor. "The South must not yield, because the South is the weaker combatant. If the South shall be conquered, no blush of shame must tinge her cheek."

Soulé is a French knight, but not of the highest order, not a Bayard nor a Turenne.

Mr. Dickinson, a cold-blooded senator from Alabama, a man of an acute and stern aspect, highly esteemed for integrity of character in the camp of the Southerners, sits near the inflammable Mississippi, that is to say, the younger of the senators from that state, a young man of handsome person and inflammable temperament, who talks violently for "Southern rights." The other, and elder senator of Mississippi, Mr. Foote, is a little, thin, and also fiery man, whom I believe to be a really warm patriot. He stands for the Union, and his most brilliant moments are when he hurls himself into a violent dithyrambic   [p. 468]   against all and each who threaten it. The explosions of his indignant feelings almost lift him up from the earth, as the whole of his slender but sinewy frame responds in vehement agitation to the apostrophes of the spirit. These are sometimes so keen and full of rebuke, that I wonder at the coolness with which the Senate, and certain senators in particular, listen to them; but it seems to me as if they listened with that sort of feeling with which a connoisseur regards the clever work of an artist. For the rest, Mr. Foote is always on the alert, quick to interrupt, to make observations, and sometimes calls forth, by his mercurial temperament, a universal smile, but of a good-natured kind, as at the bottom is Mr. Foote himself.

Near the combustible Mississippi I see a young man also handsome, and with features bearing a remarkable resemblance to those of the Indian. That is the senator from Virginia --his name has escaped my memory--and he is said to be a descendant of Pocahontas, the Indian heroine of Virginia. For my part, this is the most remarkable thing about him.

But now, my child, you must have had enough for to-day of politics and political gentlemen. I shall write more when I have seen more.

Two deputies from the Mormonites may also be seen in the Senate (yet not within the Senate, but in the outer court), who present to Congress the request from the Mormon people --now rapidly increased to the number of 12,000 souls--to be admitted into the Union, and the protection of its troops against the Indians. This remarkable sect has, since it was expelled from its first settlement on the Mississippi by the people of Illinois, wandered far out into the West, beyond the Indian wilderness, Nebraska; and have founded a flourishing community, in a fertile valley bordering on a vast Indian lake, called the Great Salt Lake, in Upper California. I have not yet heard any thing very creditable about the government or   [p. 469]   the customs of the people. Their Bible, however--the Mormon Bible--I have been able to borrow here. It contains, first, the whole Christian Bible, after that an addition of some later pretended prophets, of whom Meroni and Mormon are the last. In the prophecies of these men is given a closer and more definite prophecy of Christ; nay, indeed, almost the whole of his history, and many of his words, but nothing new in religious doctrine, as far as I can discover. The peculiarity of the sect seems to be based upon the assertion that their prophet, Joe Smith, is descended directly from these later Christian prophets, and has obtained, by miraculous communication, portions of their books, as well also as of their spiritual gifts and power to communicate these gifts to others, by which means they are all brought into a closer communication with Christ than any other Christians.

How a man, who evidently, in many cases, was a deceiver, could obtain so great an influence over thousands of people in the present Christian state of society, and was able to form them into a vast organized body, according to his law, seems scarcely comprehensible, unless it be by supposing that this man was really possessed of some extraordinary powers, partly of a prophetic kind (and we hear of many such, similar to the oldest prophetic skill, even in the present day, as, for instance, the second-sight of the Scotch Highlanders), and partly of worldly prudence. He was shot during the war with Illinois, and he is said to have distinctly foretold the time and the manner of his death; but the Mormon people continue to be led by men who adhere to his laws, and who pretend to be guided by his spirit. The habits and organization of the community is said to be according to the Christian moral code, and extremely severe.

I must now tell you something about my new home. It is at the house of Mr. Johnson, the Professor of Geology. He is now from home on a scientific journey, but   [p. 470]   is shortly expected back. His wife, her sister, and two adopted children, a handsome girl of fifteen, and a boy of thirteen, compose the whole family. Mrs. Johnson zealously denounces slavery, and as zealously advocates hydropathy. She sees the root of all evil in the former, and a cure for all evil in the latter; hers is a thoroughly good, sincere, open-hearted, excellent character, with a great deal of fresh originality. Her sister, who is several years younger, is a Quakeress, and has one of those pure, lovely countenances so general among the women of this sect, with a quiet, intelligent manner. She always wears white, and every morning the breakfast-table is ornamented with fresh roses, which she gathers in her morning walk in the park of the Capitol; one or two roses are laid for each person, just as we used to have them at Aersta. Miss D. is the ideal of a poetical Quakeress, and now and then she introduces a line or two of beautiful poetry into her conversation, but always appropriately and agreeably. I feel refreshment and repose from her very presence. Mrs. J. makes me experience the same with her cold baths, the fresh originality of her character, and those disputes which, to my great amusement, I almost always hear between her and Dr. Hebbe; and, above all, by the delicious peace and freedom which she affords me in her excellent home.