University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Never had there been a gayer season at Washington.
The session of Congress was one of the
most interesting since that which had issued the
Declaration of Independence. Of course, the crowd
was immense. The city, as everybody knows, or
ought to know, although the plan of a leviathan
town, of unequalled splendour, is as yet but a mere
sprinkling of houses over a large plain and two or
three abrupt hills, in location not unlike Rome.
There is but one street, Pennsylvania Avenue, worthy
of the name; which, from its length and
breadth, and the fact that it is the grand thoroughfare,
assumes an air of importance, without presenting
any particular claims to attention. The
private residences of the great are away off in this
direction and in that, at such inordinate distances
from each other as to render boot-making and hackney-coach
driving more than usually profitable
trades. The citizens themselves live comfortably
and snugly together, with no marked difference to

distinguish them from the inhabitants of other large
villages, except a somewhat arrogant demeanour on
account of the Capitol, and peradventure a contemptuous
smile in the face of a New-Yorker or
Philadelphian, who should praise the City Hall or
the United States Bank of their respective cities.
There is a small theatre, some pretty churches, and
several large hotels. The President's house would
pass for a palace in Europe; and the Capitol, a
structure of white marble, situated on a high and
lofty eminence, is at once magnificent and stupendous.
You can scarcely tire of perusing its imposing
and gigantic proportions. You may ride round
it again and again, view it from every position, at
every period of the day, it continues to grow upon
the imagination. Its ponderous dome reminds you
of St. Peter's. Both the interior and exterior views
are full of grandeur. The Rotunda is lofty and
superb. Then, how alive it is with echoes! Every
accidental sound is repeated and magnified; reverberating
strange noises, that mingle into moans and
wailings like the grieving of spirits in the air. Men
and women, too, look so little on the broad floor
and beneath that soaring vault.

The finest prospect is from the terrace. It is
really remarkable and beautiful. The hill is abrupt,
and sufficiently high to command a panoramic view
of the city and surrounding country, the residence
of the chief of the republic showing finely from a
distant hill; and the Potomac sweeping on with its
broad current, to which the Seine and the Thames
are but rivulets.

It was a mild and pleasant afternoon towards the
end of March, and a few evenings after the singular
attempt upon young Leslie's life. The sun had
gone down radiantly, leaving all the west a wall of
golden light, and the earth lay beneath steeped in

purple softness and tranquil beauty. Congress had
adjourned for the day, and hundreds were pouring,
all in the same direction (and all busily engaged in
commenting upon the occurrences of the debate
just concluded), from the steep Capitol-hill and into
the broad Pennsylvania Avenue. Many members
were dashing down on horseback, and a train of carriages
conducted others to their hotels or houses.

We have said that the crisis was an interesting
one. At this period it had reached its acme. The
next day was that fixed for the long expected and
much talked of speech of Mr. Leslie. The news
of the catastrophe which at this unfortunate moment
had happened to his son had reached Washington,
with many various modifications and exaggerations.
His strong attachment to his family
was well known. It was doubted whether young
Mr. Leslie was not dying—nay, was not dead.
Flying reports glanced from lip to lip. The question
of the great statesman's arrival became one of
general conversation and interest; and, perhaps,
of the throngs who now issued from that immense
and most beautiful edifice, nearly all were either
speaking or thinking of the accomplished and soul-stirring
orator, who had already flung down his
gauntlet fiercely to the most eloquent leader of the
opposite party; and whose absence now, while it
deprived the concourse of a conflict, perhaps as
interesting as that of the two last gladiators on a
Roman amphitheatre, left also a strong disappointment
upon his excited and expecting party.

It is scarcely necessary to remind the European
reader that, in a republic like the United States,
eloquence is an art peculiarly important, and consequently
peculiarly cultivated. Questions of the
deepest weight have agitated her councils, fully betraying
the fiery energies and outbreaks of a youthful

people; and her legislative floor has already
trembled beneath bursts of passionate and lofty
eloquence, such as shook the Roman Forum when
Rome was free. These periods, however, thus far,
have only illustrated the strength of the political
fabric, and fully confirmed the confidence of her
people. Like every other human bark, she floats
upon an ocean, and beneath a sky, where danger
sometimes yawns in her path and thunders above
her head; but she has ridden securely and majestically
the elemental war. The fury of political
zeal, and the clash and fluctuations of commercial
interests, have sometimes shrouded her in alarm
and darkness; but the clouds soon broke away, and
instead of discovering but the scattered fragments
of a wreck, we find her swollen canvass still lofty
in the sun, and her star-spangled banner streaming
on the wind. Her only object is the freedom and
happiness of the human race; and the experience
of past ages furnishes her a chart by which she
may hope to avoid the quicksands of treachery and
the rocks of foreign and domestic ambition. Other
nations boast of their country; why should not the
American be proud of his? Conceit is a charge
most commonly and sneeringly urged against us.
What other nation does not equally merit it? Who
so arrogant, so overbearing, so uncompromisingly
exacting in his claims to national superiority, as the
Englishman? Who so ludicrously tenacious, so
likely to run you through the body in the defence
of the grand glory of his country, as a Frenchman?
It is a very honourable, happy, and useful feeling.
Why shall not we also regard the future with hope?
Who can so justly point to the past and the present
with exultation?

The crowd passed away. The sun went down.
Soft as the eyes of a widowed wife, full and melancholy

rose the moon. It was the night of the
President's levee—and all the world were to be
there. This is the American court. Here gathers
into a focus the flower of American talent, although
necessarily blended with dashes of more homely
material.

At nine, Howard and his father drove to the large
and palace-like building of the President; and making
their way with some difficulty through the
throng of equipages, they passed in beneath the
arch, and soon found themselves in the brilliantly
lighted and crowded apartments. The coup d'œil,
indeed, was dazzling: so many rooms were thrown
open—so much gay company had already assembled—nymphs
and sylphs floating all over in groups
—officers in glittering uniforms—and a heterogeneous
mixture of the great and the lovely—tributes
from town and country—exquisites from Philadelphia,
New-York, and Boston—dashing élegants
from Charleston and Baltimore. The sturdy planter
from the South—plain grave men from the
western settlements—the culled for talent from the
sparse population—belles from the meridian of city
fashion, with the true Parisian air and elegance.
Indeed, the classes meeting here are strikingly
opposite and picturesque—the gleanings of a country
comprising an area of two millions of square
miles.

“Come, my son,” said the judge, “our first
duty is to the President.”

“I do not see him, sir,” said Howard, looking
around.

“Yonder, Hal, at the lower end of the room;
that plain old gentleman standing to receive the
presentations. Look, Governor L— is taking
up Mrs. and Miss Temple. See how kindly and
simply familiar he is with all alike. He chats as

gracefully and easily now as a young beau. It is
a fine sight, Hal.”

“It is interesting from its perfect simplicity and
absence of ostentation,” replied Howard.

They made their way up to the first man of the
republic, and the judge introduced his son. The
President was surrounded by a circle of ladies and
gentlemen, and a light and agreeable conversation
was going on; in which, for a few moments, young
Howard bore his part with ready address. There
was perceptible in the whole circle nothing more
than an intelligent and hospitable host welcoming
his guests. But the number of introductions prevented,
of course, any prolonged conversation.

“Look around you, my son,” said the judge,
who, in the exercise of his duties, a cold, firm,
astute, and devoted labourer, yet nurtured, as such
men, even when least suspected, very often do, a
green spot in his heart, where affection and poetic
feeling were as fresh and verdant as in the bosom
of a boy, and who watched over the education of
his son with the fondest and tenderest care—“look
around you, Hal; you are in a spot which should
put your meditations in motion. Few on the globe
are more worthy your observation. Here is the
palace, court, and throne of your country—the
highest ornament, its moral glory. Here learn to
love simplicity and national freedom. Here you
breathe the pure atmosphere of liberty and reason.
You are the equal of him whom you have chosen
your chief. Guard your actions, improve your
mind, and you may one day stand in his place.”

“There is one person here,” said Howard, who
was accustomed to reason with his father familiarly
on all subjects—“there is one person here to-night
who jars somewhat on the pleasure which the
scene affords.”

“Who, my son?”

“Look,” rejoined Howard

His father, following the direction of his eyes,
beheld the tall, startling, and majestic figure of an
Indian chief. He was in full costume, with his
guide, and stepped about the rooms—cold, stern,
and erect, with his dark piercing eyes, straight hair,
and copper complexion. A pipe and fan, however,
he held in his hand instead of a weapon, as an evidence
that he considered his nation no longer at
war with the United States. While he stood, a
painter, who had just obtained from him a promise
to sit for a portrait, observed to him,—

“But, instead of your pipe and fan, you must
hold your spear.”

“No,” said the dark warrior; “no spear for me;
I have done with spears for ever.”

“Did you hear that proud and melancholy reply?”
continued Howard. “I could wish the Indian
out of the picture.”

“You are yet unstudied in these matters, Hal.
Your feeling is noble, romantic, and natural. But
the ardent and susceptible do not understand how
these things, being entailed on us by others over
whom we had no control, now remain, and must
remain, till gradually cleared from our political system
by time and wisdom. You are right in supposing
them evils; but wrong in the belief that
they are to be ascribed to us, or that we even have
the ready power of disentangling ourselves from
them. But come, I see you are anxious to get to
the ladies; and yonder is Miss Temple, looking as
sad, and casting her eyes as often to you as if—”

“I promised to let her know the intelligence in
my letter from the Leslies,” said Howard.

“Well, well; let me present you to one or two
of my intimates, and then you shall be at liberty to
seek out your own.”

So saying, after selecting a dozen of the first
men in the rooms, and formally presenting his son,
he entered himself into their circle; where he was
hailed as one of the most enlightened and profound
members of their party.

Thus at leisure, Howard made his way through
scores of acquaintances, and endeavoured to gain
the arm of Miss Temple; but he was assailed by
Miss Romain. Half giddy with the flatteries of
gentlemen who, struck by her conspicuous charms,
had pressed successfully for an introduction to the
beautiful belle from New-York, she now sprang
upon him with that half-hoyden familiarity with
which she often covered her coquettish designs.
The young man found it impossible to escape.

“Oh, Mr. Howard, so glad to see you! I am
quite tired of governors, generals, and commodores,
and a plain mister is quite a relief. Ha!
Count Clairmont!—good evening, sir. Why, you
are quite a stranger: do you remember me? or
shall we be introduced again? I am `Miss Romain,
from New-York;' ” and she playfully (and very
well, too) mimicked the phrase which had been
that evening so often repeated.

“Beautiful being,” whispered the count; “shall
I ever forget—”

“Nonsense, disagreeable creature!” said she,
bending her mouth towards Howard. “Don't you
hate that Count Clairmont?”

“Yes,” said Howard, “with all my heart.”

Miss Romain looked surprised a moment.

“O Lord!” she continued, “here is that horrid
Indian; I shall be tomahawked, I am sure. What
can bring such people here? And there is Mr.
D—, the great editor; and here, see this tall
gentleman, Colonel E—, who this very morning
had his vest-button shot off by Mr. K—; and—

O dear! my charming Mrs. Hamilton, how do
you do? Are you not delighted here? And why
were you not at the Secretary D—'s last night?”

It was with some difficulty that Howard disengaged
himself from Miss Romain; who, knowing
that he was affianced to Miss Leslie, thought it a
pretty triumph for herself, could that young lady
be told by some officious friend that the lover had
flirted all the evening with her. At length, however,
a young Englishman carried her off to eat an
ice; and Howard found himself with Flora and
her mother.

“Come, Mrs. Temple,” said Clairmont, “let us
make the tour.”

“And shall I be so bold,” asked Howard, “as
to offer my arm to one of the ladies—Miss Temple?”

Flora knew well Miss Leslie's engagement to
Howard, and availed herself of his invitation with
secret joy.

“And pray, Mr. Howard,” asked she, as they
glided away in a direction opposite to that taken
by her mother and Clairmont—“pray, how is Miss
Leslie? I have suffered to learn how she bears her
terrible misfortune.”

Howard related all he knew, which was in truth
little, and much conversation ensued between them.
They had wandered into a distant room, and came,
without perceiving it, near the spot where stood
Mrs. Temple and Clairmont, with their backs towards
them, so as to be quite unaware of their
proximity.

A distinguished southerner had just asked a
question—the last words were audible to Flora—
respecting Norman's accident, and the probability
of Mr. Mordaunt Leslie's reaching Washington in
time for the next day's debate

“It would be a glorious thing,” said Mrs. Temple,
“were he to be away; though, in good truth,
I pity him for his domestic calamity.”

“For his son,” said the cold voice of Clairmont,
“he is not worthy of pity; he was hurt in some
drunken brawl; he is a mere dissipated roué. I
know him to be a—” The count's voice sank to a
lower tone; but Flora could not help detecting the
words, “at cards.”

“Good God!” said the gentleman.

“True, true,” said Mrs. Temple; “perfectly
true, I am sorry to say.”

Howard had not heeded this extraordinary conversation.
He had been, for the moment, absorbed
in contemplating the intelligent countenance of a
young politician, already reported to be a Catiline.

“Did you hear that?” asked Flora, paler than
she had yet been.

“No, I beg your pardon,” replied Howard;
“what was it?”

“Nothing,” said Flora, faintly, and in a short
time rejoined her mother.

“Bless me, my dear love!” said the latter, “why,
you look ill! how unlucky!”

Howard remained till late; but he was abstracted,
and in no mood to enjoy society. Around
him gathered groups of interesting and most distinguished
men, both foreigners and natives,—orators,
members, senators, secretaries, office-holders,
and office-seekers; but his thoughts were occupied
with his friend Norman's perilous situation, and the
distress of Julia. At length he retired, with a resolution
to attend the debates one day more, and if
then Mr. Leslie did not arrive, to set off himself
for New-York