After our pleasant breakfast came that necessity for
activity which makes such meals disguised as mere light morning repasts take
their revenge. I had to pack up, and I am bound to say the moral aid afforded
me by the waiter, who stood with a sympathizing expression of face, and looked
on as I wrestled with boots, books, and great coats, was of a most
comprehensive character. At last I conquered, and at six o'clock p. m. I left
the Clarendon, and was conveyed over the roughest and most execrable pavements
through several miles of unsympathetic, gloomy, dirty streets, and crowded
thoroughfares, over jaw-wrenching street-railway tracks, to a large wooden shed
covered with inscriptions respecting routes and destinations on the bank of the
river, which as far as the eye could see, was bordered by similar
establishments, where my baggage was deposited in the mud. There were no
porters, none of the recognized and established aids to locomotion to which we
are accustomed in Europe, but a number of amateurs divided the spoil, and
carried it into the offices, whilst I was directed to struggle for my ticket in
another little wooden box, from which I presently received the necessary
document, full of the dreadful warnings and conditions, which railway companies
inflict on the public in all free countries.
The whole of my luggage, except a large bag, was taken
charge of by a man at the New York side of the ferry, who “checked it through”
to the capital — giving me a slip of brass with a number corresponding with a
brass ticket for each piece. When the boat arrived at the stage at the other
side of the Hudson, in my innocence I called for a porter to take my bag. The
passengers were moving out of the capacious ferry-boat in a steady stream, and
the steam throat and bell of the engine were going whilst I was looking for my
porter; but at last a gentleman passing, said, “I guess y'ill remain here a
considerable time before y'ill get any one to come for that bag of yours;” and
taking the hint, I just got off in time to stumble into a long box on wheels,
with a double row of most uncomfortable seats, and a passage down the middle,
where I found a place beside Mr. Sanford, the newly-appointed United States
Minister to Belgium, who was kind enough to take me under his charge to
Washington.
The night was closing in very fast as the train started, but
such glimpses as I had of the continuous line of pretty-looking villages of
wooden houses, two stories high, painted white, each with its Corinthian portico,
gave a most favorable impression of the comfort and prosperity of the people.
The rail passed through the main street of most of these hamlets and villages,
and the bell of the engine was tolled to warn the inhabitants, who drew up on
the sidewalks, and let us go by. Soon the white houses faded away into faint
blurred marks on the black ground of the landscape, or twinkled with starlike
lights, and there was nothing more to see. The passengers were crowded as close
as they could pack, and as there was an immense iron stove in the centre of the
car, the heat and stuffiness became most trying, although I had been undergoing
the ordeal of the stove-heated New York houses for nearly a week. Once a
minute, at least, the door at either end of the carriage was opened, and then
closed with a sharp, crashing noise, that jarred the nerves, and effectually
prevented sleep. It generally was done by a man whose sole object seemed to be
to walk up the centre of the carriage in order to go out of the opposite door —occasionally
it was the work of a newspaper boy, with a sheaf of journals and trashy
illustrated papers under his arm. Now and then it was the conductor; but the
periodical visitor was a young gentleman with chain and rings, who bore a tray
before him, and solicited orders for “gum drops,” and “lemon drops,” which,
with tobacco, apples, and cakes, were consumed in great quantities by the
passengers
At ten o'clock, P.M., we crossed the river by a ferry-boat
to Philadelphia, and drove through the streets, stopping for supper a few
moments at the La Pierre Hotel. To judge from the vast extent of the streets,
of small, low, yet snug-looking houses, through which we passed, Philadelphia
must contain in comfort the largest number of small householders of any city in
the world. At the other terminus of the rail, to which we drove in a carriage,
we procured for a small sum, a dollar I think, berths in a sleeping-car, an
American institution of considerable merit. Unfortunately a party of
prize-fighters had a mind to make themselves comfortable, and the result was
anything but conducive to sleep. They had plenty of whiskey, and were full of
song and fight, nor was it possible to escape their urgent solicitations “to
take a drink,” by feigning the soundest sleep. One of these, a big man, with a
broken nose, a mellow eye, and a very large display of rings, jewels, chains,
and pins, was in very high spirits, and informed us he was “Going to Washington
to get a foreign mission from Bill Seward. He wouldn't take Paris, as he didn't
care much about French or Frenchmen; but he'd just like to show John Bull how
to do it; or he'd take Japan if they were very pressing.” Another told us he
was “Going to the bosom of Uncle Abe” (meaning the President) — “that he knew
him well in Kentucky years ago, and a high-toned gentleman he was.” Any
attempts to persuade them to retire to rest made by the conductors were treated
with sovereign contempt; but at last whiskey asserted its supremacy, and having
established the point that they “would not sleep unless they pleased,” they
slept and snored.
At six, A. M., we were roused up by the arrival of the train
at Washington, having crossed great rivers and traversed cities without knowing
it during the night. I looked out and saw a vast mass of white marble towering
above us on the left, stretching out in colonnaded porticoes, and long flanks
of windowed masonry, and surmounted by an unfinished cupola, from which
scaffold and cranes raised their black arms. This was the Capitol. To the right
was a cleared space of mud, sand, and fields, studded with wooden sheds and
huts, beyond which, again, could be seen rudimentary streets of small red brick
houses, and some church-spires above them.
Emerging from the station, we found a vociferous crowd of
blacks, who were the hackney-coachmen of the place; but Mr. Sanford had his
carriage in waiting, and drove me straight to Willard's Hotel where he
consigned me to the landlord at the bar. Our route lay through Pennsylvania
Avenue — a street of much breadth and length, lined with Ó•lanthus trees, each in a
white-washed wooden sentry-box, and by most irregularly-built houses in all
kinds of material, from deal plank to marble — of all heights, and every sort
of trade. Few shop-windows were open, and the principal population consisted of
blacks, who were moving about on domestic affairs. At one end of the long vista
there is the Capitol; and at the other, the Treasury buildings — a fine block
in marble, with the usual American classical colonnades.
Close to these rises the great pile of Willard's Hotel, now
occupied by applicants for office, and by the members of the newly-assembled
Congress. It is a quadrangular mass of rooms, six stories high, and some
hundred yards square; and it probably contains at this moment more scheming,
plotting, planning heads, more aching and joyful hearts, than any building of
the same size ever held in the world. I was ushered into a bedroom which had
just been vacated by some candidate — whether he succeeded or not I cannot
tell, but if his testimonials spoke truth, he ought to have been selected at
once for the highest office. The room was littered with printed copies of
letters testifying that J. Smith, of Hartford, Conn., was about the ablest,
honestest, cleverest, and best man the writers ever knew. Up and down the long
passages doors were opening and shutting for men with papers bulging out of their
pockets, who hurried as if for their life in and out, and the building almost
shook with the tread of the candidature, which did not always in its present
aspect justify the correctness of the original appellation.
It was a remarkable sight, and difficult to understand
unless seen. From California, Texas, from the Indian Reserves, and the Mormon
Territory, from Nebraska, as from the remotest borders of Minnesota, from every
portion of the vast territories of the Union, except from the Seceded States, the
triumphant Republicans had winged their way to the prey.
There were crowds in the hall through which one could scarce
make his way — the writing-room was crowded, and the rustle of pens rose to a
little breeze — the smoking-room, the bar, the barber's, the reception-room,
the ladies' drawing-room — all were crowded. At present not less than 2,500
people dine in the public room every day. On the kitchen floor there is a vast
apartment, a hall without carpets or any furniture but plain chairs and tables,
which are ranged in close rows, at which flocks of people are feeding, or
discoursing, or from which they are flying away. The servants never cease
shoving the chairs to and fro with a harsh screeching noise over the floor, so
that one can scarce hear his neighbor speak. If he did, he would probably hear
as I did, at this very hotel, a man order breakfast, “Black tea and toast,
scrambled eggs, fresh spring shad, wild pigeon, pigs' feet, two robins on
toast, oysters,” and a quantity of breads and cakes of various denominations.
The waste consequent on such orders is enormous — and the ability required to
conduct these enormous establishments successfully is expressed by the common
phrase in the States, “Brown is a clever man, but he can't manage an hotel.”
The tumult, the miscellaneous nature of the company — my friends the
prize-fighters are already in possession of the doorway — the heated, muggy
rooms, not to speak of the great abominableness of the passages and halls,
despite a most liberal provision of spittoons, conduce to render these
institutions by no means agreeable to a European. Late in the day I succeeded
in obtaining a sitting-room with a small bedroom attached, which made me
somewhat more independent and comfortable — but you must pay highly for any departure
from the routine life of the natives. Ladies enjoy a handsome drawing-room,
with piano, sofas, and easy chairs, all to themselves.
I dined at Mr. Sanford's, where I was introduced to Mr.
Seward, Secretary of State; Mr. Truman Smith, an ex-senator, much respected
among the Republican party; Mr. Anthony, a senator of the United States, a
journalist, a very intelligent-looking man, with an Israelitish cast of face;
Colonel Foster of the Illinois railway, of reputation in the States as a
geologist; and one or two more gentlemen. Mr. Seward is a slight, middle-sized
man, of feeble build, with the stoop contracted from sedentary habits and
application to the desk, and has a peculiar attitude when seated, which
immediately attracts attention. A well-formed and large head is placed on a
long slender neck, and projects over the chest in an argumentative kind of way,
as if the keen eyes were seeking for an adversary; the mouth is remarkably
flexible, large but well-formed, the nose prominent and aquiline, the eyes
secret, but penetrating, and lively with humor of some kind twinkling about
them; the brow bold and broad, but not remarkably elevated; the white hair
silvery and fine — a subtle, quick man, rejoicing in power, given to perorate
and to oracular utterances, fond of badinage, bursting with the importance of
state mysteries, and with the dignity of directing the foreign policy of the
greatest country — as all Americans think — in the world. After dinner he told
some stories of the pressure on the President for place, which very much
amused the guests who knew the men, and talked freely and pleasantly of many
things — stating, however, few facts positively. In reference to an assertion
in a New York paper, that orders had been given to evacuate Sumter, “That,” he
said, “is a plain lie — no such orders have been given. We will give up nothing
we have — abandon nothing that has been intrusted to us. If people would only
read these statements by the light of the President's inaugural, they would not
be deceived.” He wanted no extra session of Congress. “History tells us that
kings who call extra parliaments lose their heads,” and he informed the company
he had impressed the President with his historical parallels.
All through this conversation his tone was that of a man
very sanguine, and with a supreme contempt for those who thought there was anything
serious in secession. “Why,” said he, “I myself, my brothers, and sisters, have
been all secessionists — we seceded from home when we were young, but we all
went back to it sooner or later. These States will all come back in the same
way.” I doubt if he was ever in the South; but he affirmed that the state of
living and of society there was something like that in the State of New York sixty
or seventy years ago. In the North all was life, enterprise, industry,
mechanical skill. In the South there was dependence on black labor, and an idle
extravagance which was mistaken for elegant luxury — tumble-down old
hackney-coaches, such as had not been seen north of the Potomac for half a
century, harness never cleaned, ungroomed horses, worked at the mill one day
and sent to town the next, badly furnished houses, bad cookery, imperfect
education. No parallel could be drawn between them and the Northern States at
all. “You are all very angry,” he said, “about the Morrill tariff. You must,
however, let us be best judges of our own affairs. If we judge rightly, you
have no right to complain; if we judge wrongly, we shall soon be taught by the
results, and shall correct our error. It is evident that if the Morrill tariff
fulfils expectations, and raises a revenue, British manufacturers suffer
nothing, and we suffer nothing, for the revenue is raised here, and trade is
not injured. If the tariff fails to create a revenue, we shall be driven to
modify or repeal it.”
The company addressed him as “Governor,” which led to Mr.
Seward's mentioning that when he was in England he was induced to put his name
down with that prefix in a hotel book, and caused a discussion among the waiters
as to whether he was the “Governor” of a prison or of a public company. I hope
the great people of England treated Mr. Seward with the attention due to his
position, as he would assuredly feel and resent very much any slight on the
part of those in high places. From what he said, however, I infer that he was
satisfied with the reception he had met in London. Like most Americans who can
afford it, he has been up the Nile. The weird old stream has great fascinations
for the people of the Mississippi — as far at least as the first cataract.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 30-6
