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Iterative Error Correction Turbo Low Density Parity
Check and Repeat Accumulate Codes 1st Edition Sarah J.
Johnson Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Sarah J. Johnson
ISBN(s): 9780521871488, 0521871484
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 2.73 MB
Year: 2009
Language: english
This page intentionally left blank
 Iterative Error Correction
Turbo, Low-Density Parity-Check and Repeat–Accumulate Codes

Iterative error correction codes have found widespread application in cellular

communications, digital broadcasting, deep space communications, and wireless
LANs. This self-contained treatment of iterative error correction presents all the
key ideas needed to understand, design, implement, and analyze these powerful
codes.
Turbo, low-density parity-check, and repeat–accumulate codes are given
equal, detailed coverage, with precise presentations of encoding and decod-
ing procedures. Worked examples are integrated into the text to illuminate each
new idea and pseudo-code is included for important algorithms to facilitate the
reader’s development of the techniques described. For each subject, the treat-
ment begins with the simplest case before generalizing. There is also coverage
of advanced topics such as density-evolution and EXIT charts for those readers
interested in gaining a deeper understanding of the field. This text is ideal for
graduate students in electrical engineering and computer science departments,
as well as practitioners in the communications industry.

Sarah J. Johnson is a Research Fellow in the School of Electrical Engineering and

Computer Science at the University of Newcastle, Australia. She is a member
of the IEEE Information Theory and Communications Societies.
Iterative Error Correction
Turbo, Low-Density Parity-Check and
Repeat–Accumulate Codes

SARAH J. JOHNSON
University of Newcastle, New South Wales
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore,
São Paulo, Delhi, Dubai, Tokyo

Cambridge University Press

The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK

Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521871488
© Cambridge University Press 2010

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the

provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part
may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published in print format 2009

ISBN-13 978-0-511-69129-4 eBook (NetLibrary)

ISBN-13 978-0-521-87148-8 Hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy

of urls for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication,
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
To Ro and Clara
 Contents

Preface page xi
Notation xv
Commonly used abbreviations xix

1 Channels, codes and capacity 1

1.1 Binary input memoryless channels 2
1.2 Entropy, mutual information and capacity 8
1.2.1 A measure of information 8
1.2.2 Entropy 10
1.2.3 Capacity 13
1.3 Codes and decoding 16
1.3.1 Decoding 18
1.3.2 Performance measures 24
1.4 Bibliographic notes 29
1.5 Exercises 30

2 Low-density parity-check codes 34

2.1 Introduction 34
2.2 Error correction using parity checks 34
2.2.1 Low-density parity-check codes 37
2.3 Encoding 40
2.3.1 (Almost) linear-time encoding for LDPC codes 44
2.3.2 Repeat–accumulate codes 48
2.4 Decoding 48
2.4.1 Message passing on the binary erasure channel 50
2.4.2 Bit-flipping decoding 54
2.4.3 Sum–product decoding 61
2.5 Bibliographic notes 71
2.6 Exercises 72
viii Contents

3 Low-density parity-check codes: properties and constructions 75

3.1 Introduction 75
3.2 LDPC properties 75
3.2.1 Choosing the degree distribution 76
3.2.2 Girth and expansion 82
3.2.3 Codeword and pseudo-codeword weights 84
3.2.4 Cyclic and quasi-cyclic codes 89
3.2.5 Implementation and complexity 95
3.3 LDPC constructions 97
3.3.1 Pseudo-random constructions 97
3.3.2 Structured LDPC codes 105
3.4 LDPC design rules 114
3.5 Bibliographic notes 117
3.6 Exercises 118

4 Convolutional codes 121

4.1 Introduction 121
4.2 Convolutional encoders 121
4.2.1 Memory order and impulse response 125
4.2.2 Recursive convolutional encoders 127
4.2.3 Puncturing 131
4.2.4 Convolutional code trellises 132
4.2.5 Minimum free distance 135
4.3 Decoding convolutional codes 136
4.3.1 Maximum a posteriori (BCJR) decoding 136
4.3.2 Log MAP decoding 148
4.3.3 Maximum likelihood (Viterbi) decoding 156
4.4 Bibliographic notes 160
4.5 Exercises 161

5 Turbo codes 165

5.1 Introduction 165
5.2 Turbo encoders 165
5.3 Iterative turbo decoding 169
5.4 Turbo code design 176
5.4.1 Interleaving gain 176
5.4.2 Choosing the component codes 178
5.4.3 Interleaver design 182
5.4.4 Design rules 188
5.5 Factor graphs and implementation 190
5.5.1 Implementation and complexity 191
5.5.2 Stopping criteria 194
 Contents ix

5.6 Bibliographic notes 196

5.7 Exercises 198

6 Serial concatenation and RA codes 201

6.1 Serial concatenation 201
6.1.1 Serially concatenated turbo codes 203
6.1.2 Turbo decoding of SC codes 203
6.1.3 Code design 207
6.2 Repeat–accumulate codes 209
6.2.1 Encoding RA codes 211
6.2.2 Turbo decoding of RA codes 212
6.2.3 Sum–product decoding of RA codes 217
6.2.4 Irregular RA codes 220
6.2.5 Weight-3 IRA codes 224
6.2.6 Accumulate–repeat–accumulate codes 226
6.2.7 Code design 227
6.3 Bibliographic notes 232
6.4 Exercises 234

7 Density evolution and EXIT charts 237

7.1 Introduction 237
7.2 Density evolution 238
7.2.1 Density evolution on the BEC 239
7.2.2 Ensemble thresholds 243
7.2.3 Density evolution and repeat–accumulate codes 247
7.2.4 Density evolution on general binary input memoryless channels 249
7.2.5 Density evolution and turbo codes 254
7.2.6 Designing ensembles with good thresholds 256
7.2.7 Approximations to density evolution 260
7.3 EXIT charts 261
7.3.1 Mutual information 262
7.3.2 EXIT charts for turbo codes 264
7.3.3 EXIT charts for RA codes 273
7.3.4 EXIT charts for LDPC codes 276
7.3.5 Code design and analysis using EXIT charts 279
7.4 Bibliographic notes 279
7.5 Exercises 281

8 Error floor analysis 283

8.1 Introduction 283
8.2 Maximum likelihood analysis 283
x Contents

8.2.1 Input–output weight enumerating functions for

convolutional codes 285
8.2.2 Parallel concatenated code ensembles 290
8.2.3 Serially concatenated code ensembles 296
8.2.4 The error floor of irregular block codes 301
8.2.5 Designing iterative codes to improve the interleaving gain and
error floor 305
8.2.6 Asymptotic (in the code length) performance of iterative
ensembles 306
8.3 Finite-length analysis 309
8.4 Bibliographic notes 318
8.5 Exercises 320

References 322
Index 331
 Preface

The field of error correction coding was launched with Shannon’s revolutionary
1948 work showing – quite counter to intuition – that it is possible to trans-
mit digital data with arbitrarily high reliability over noise-corrupted channels,
provided that the rate of transmission is below the capacity of the channel. The
mechanism for achieving this reliable communication is to encode a digital mes-
sage with an error correction code prior to transmission and apply a decoding
algorithm at the receiver.
Classical block and convolutional error correction codes were described soon
afterwards and the first iterative codes were published by Gallager in his 1962
thesis; however they received little attention until the late 1990s. In the meantime,
the highly structured algebraic codes introduced by Hamming, Elias, Reed,
Muller, Solomon and Golay among others dominated the field. Despite the
enormous practical success of these classical codes, their performance fell well
short of the theoretically achievable performances set down by Shannon in his
seminal 1948 paper. By the late 1980s, despite decades of attempts, researchers
were largely resigned to this seemingly insurmountable theory–practice gap.
The relative quiescence of the coding field was utterly transformed by the
introduction of “turbo codes”, proposed by Berrou, Glavieux and Thitimajshima
in 1993, wherein all the key ingredients of successful error correction codes were
replaced: turbo codes involve very little algebra, employ iterative, distributed,
algorithms and focus on average (rather than worst-case) performance. This was
a ground-shifting paper, forcing coding theorists to revise strongly held beliefs.
Overnight, the gap to the Shannon capacity limit was all but eliminated, using
decoders with manageable complexity.
As researchers worked through the 1990s to understand just why turbo codes
worked as well as they did, two researchers, McKay and Neal, introduced a new
class of block codes designed to possess many features of the new turbo codes.
It was soon recognized that these block codes were in fact a rediscovery of the
low-density parity-check (LDPC) codes developed years earlier by Gallager.
Generalizations of Gallager’s LDPC codes by a number of researchers, includ-
ing Luby, Mitzenmacher, Shokrollahi, Spielman, Richardson and Urbanke, to
irregular LDPC codes actually achieve Shannon’s capacity limits on some
xii Preface

channels and approach Shannon’s capacity to within hundredths of a decibel on

others.
A new class of iterative codes introduced by Divsalar, Jin and McEliece, called
repeat–accumulate (RA) codes, combine aspects of both turbo and LDPC codes,
arguably containing the best features of each. The combination of simplicity with
excellent decoding performance has made RA codes a hot topic for the coding
community. Indeed, modified RA codes have been shown to be the first capacity-
achieving codes with bounded complexity per message bit for both encoding
and decoding.
So rapid has progress been in this area that coding theory today is in many
ways unrecognizable from its state less than two decades ago. In addition to
the strong theoretical interest in iterative codes, such codes have already been
adopted in deep space applications, satellite-based digital video broadcasting,
long-haul optical communication standards, wireless local area networking and
mobile telephony.
This book presents an introductory treatment of these extremely powerful
error-correcting codes and their associated decoding algorithms. The focus of
the book is almost exclusively on iterative error correction. Indeed, classical
coding topics are only covered where they are necessary for the development of
iterative codes, as in Chapters 1 and 4. The umbrella term iterative decoding,
sometimes referred to as message-passing decoding, probabilistic decoding,
decoding of codes on graphs, or simply the turbo principle, here encompasses
the decoding algorithms associated with turbo codes, low-density parity-check
codes and repeat–accumulate codes.
The aim of this book is to provide a gentle introduction to turbo, low-density
parity-check and repeat–accumulate codes, with equal coverage given to all
three. No prior knowledge of coding theory is required. An emphasis on exam-
ples is employed to illuminate each new idea and pseudo-code is presented to
facilitate the reader’s development of the techniques described. The focus of this
book is on ideas and examples rather than theorems and proofs. Where results
are mentioned but not proved, references are provided for the reader wishing to
delve deeper. Readers interested in a thorough exposition of the theory, however,
need go no further than the excellent text by Richardson and Urbanke [1].
None of the material in this text is new; all of it is available in the iterative
decoding literature. However, we have decided not to attempt to attribute every
idea to the location of its first publication, not least of all because many ideas
in the field have been developed independently by a number of authors in
different ways. Most importantly, though, we want to keep the focus of the
text on explanations of ideas rather than as a historical record. We do use
references, however, to point out a few main turning points in the field and
to provide direction for the reader wishing to pursue topics we have not fully
covered.
 Preface xiii

Chapters 2 and 3 together can be read as a stand-alone introduction to LDPC

codes and Chapters 4 and 5 together provide a stand-alone introduction to turbo
codes. Subsequently, however, the distinction is less sharp. The material on RA
codes in Chapter 6 draws heavily on the previous material and Chapters 7 and 8
apply to all three code types.

Book outline

Chapter 1 provides a general overview of point-to-point communications systems

and the role played by error correction. Firstly we define three channel models,
each of which will play an important role in the remainder of the book: the
binary symmetric channel (BSC), the binary erasure channel (BEC) and the
binary input additive white Gaussian noise channel (BI-AWGNC). From these
channel models we introduce the concept of the capacity of a communications
channel, a number that precisely captures the minimum redundancy needed in
a coded system to permit (essentially) zero errors following decoding. We then
turn to error correction and briefly introduce classical error correction techniques
and analysis.
Chapters 2 and 3 serve as a self-contained introduction to low-density parity-
check codes and their iterative decoding. To begin, block error correction codes
are described as a linear combination of parity-check equations and thus defined
by their parity-check matrix representation. Iterative decoding algorithms are
introduced using a hard decision (bit-flipping) algorithm so that the topic is
first developed without reference to probability theory. Subsequently, the sum–
product decoding algorithm is presented. Taken alone, Chapter 2 provides a
working understanding of the encoding and decoding of LDPC codes without
any material on their design and analysis. In Chapter 3 we then discuss the
properties of an LDPC code which affect its iterative decoding performance and
we present some common construction methods used to produce codes with
desired properties.
In Chapters 4 and 5 we turn to turbo codes and their soft, iterative, decoding,
which has sparked an intense level of interest in such codes over the past decade.
Our starting point is convolutional codes and their trellis representation. This
opens the way to the optimal decoding of trellis-based codes using the BCJR
algorithm for the computation of maximum a posteriori (MAP) (symbol) prob-
abilities. Having presented the principles of convolutional component codes in
Chapter 4, we develop the turbo encoder and decoder in Chapter 5, using the
convolutional encoder and MAP decoder as the primary building blocks, and
discuss design principles for turbo codes.
In Chapter 6 we consider iterative codes created using serial concatenation.
Having so far treated separately the two main classes of iteratively decodable
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
stockings of their wives’ knitting are the ones who stand firmest
when the shock of battle comes.
Spring is upon us. The winter has departed so gently that we
almost forgot that he has been our guest for the last three months.
And young Spring, with his balmy breezes, is here, for he brings
none of his boisterous, blowy gambols with which he regales our
kinfolk in more northern latitudes. The season has come suggestive
of new-laid eggs and frisky calves gamboling in the pastures, all
unmindful of the cruel knife. Oh, for a quiet week in the
neighborhood of the Quaker City.
“Man made the town, but God made the country.”
Olivia.
 A PL EA FOR THE NEGRO.

The Pitiable Condition of the Colored Race Deplored.

Washington, March 9, 1866.

National affairs are becoming a little more settled in Washington;
at least it is hoped that the iron cloud has a silver lining. Mr. Johnson
has assured a well-known politician that he shall make his fight
entirely within the lines of the Union party; also that he has no office
to bestow on “Copperheads.” This is the last manifesto that has been
issued from the White House to my personal knowledge. It is true
that politicians declare that they will not believe any more of his
assurances, because he is sure to contradict himself next day. But
isn’t it a historical fact that all great rulers have always been fond of
changes? Didn’t good Queen Bess have a new dress for every day in
the year? One day Mr. Johnson assumes a political garb that brings
great joy to the rebels, alias “Copperheads.” The next day he dons a
suit particularly soothing to the ruffled feelings of the Unionists. To-
day he chooses to lay aside the Presidential garb, which, by the way,
is as heavy and irksome as a coat of mail, and assumes the garb of
a humble citizen, and indulges in a few personal insinuations; and
shouldn’t we be thankful that the citizen isn’t lost sight of in the
mighty ruler? Isn’t this a proof of the soundness of American
institutions? From the North, East, and West, from Tennessee, come
scathing denunciations from the men who placed him in power,
aided and assisted by one Booth; but he bears it with the dignity
becoming his high position.
I have not heard of any dismissals from office on account of
differing with him in opinion, but some have been dismissed for
expressing them.
Among the number I notice Mrs. Jane Swisshelm, a woman not
entirely unknown to fame. She has held an office in the War
Department ever since the Indian atrocities in her late home in
Minnesota; but her out-spoken sentiments in the paper which she is
editing here sealed her fate, and the Secretary of War caused a
letter-envelope to be laid upon her desk as potent in its designs as
any other of the many warlike and immortal plans which have issued
from time to time from his fertile brain, to his credit and honor, and
the world’s benefit. And how fortunate for the country that we have
a Tycoon who has the undaunted courage to resist the blighting
influence of the so-called gentler sex, and is not above reaching
forth his hand, thereby making woman feel that he is not to be
trifled with. Mrs. Swisshelm’s paper, The Reconstructionist, still
survives, upheld by its unflinching editress, and if it fails to throw
light upon reconstruction, it is because the President is blind and will
not see, for her dismissal from office proves that she has not hid her
light under a bushel. But it is rumored in political circles that she has
been relieved from office in order to go into the Cabinet, as there
are Cabinet changes hinted at, more or less, every day.
The beautiful spring weather in Washington is totally marred by
the clouds of dust that sweep the length and breadth of our grand
avenues. I can compare it to nothing but those moving pillars of
sand which bury travelers in the bosom of the great Sahara. ’Tis true
one can escape with life, but new bonnets and dresses are nearly if
not quite ruined, and the sacrifice is about the same thing; for in the
latter case we realize the loss, whilst in the former our friends are
the only sufferers.
But the clouds of dust do not prevent our sooty neighbors from
spading the gardens, and just now they are engaged in turning up
the soil with their blades in that gentle, easy manner which none but
a negro knows how to practice. Washington is a Southern city in
every sense of the word. It may have been partially redeemed by
Yankee thrift during the war, but it is now fast sinking back to its
original condition as it was in the days of the “old regime.” Slavery is
dead, it is true, but the black man is not a citizen. He is the
humblest laborer in the vineyard. But hard as their lot appears, it is
far preferable to hopeless slavery; and though thousands of lives of
the present generation may be sacrificed upon the altar of freedom,
a new future awaits them; and if their Moses has changed his mind,
or concluded that he has other work to do, they must bide their
time, and raise up a leader of their own race and color, for the Lord
has ordained that every people shall work out their own salvation.
This is not a political view of the subject, only a feeble woman’s,
who can do nothing for the freedman but utter shriek after shriek for
him, which has proved just as efficient as anything that has been
done in various quarters. Congress has done all it could do; the
President has promised to be their “Moses,” and the negro persists in
suffering. Who is to blame for it? Do they not bring their sufferings
upon their own heads? What business have they to be born? Isn’t it
a crime of the darkest dye? I leave this painful subject for wiser
heads to explain, but should anything new transpire in regard to it, I
shall make haste to inform my readers at the earliest moment.
Since the grand speech from the White House one is astonished at
the sudden development of a spirit which was supposed to have
collapsed with the rebellion. Great flaunting pictures of General Lee
appear at conspicuous places to attract the attention of passers-by.
He has taken Washington at last. One prominent bookstore balances
his picture by that of General Grant; but a certain other bookstore
betrays its ideas very ridiculously by a set of pictures—General
Washington being in the center, Jeff Davis on one side and Jesus
Christ on the other! Had the shopkeeper displayed the picture of our
lamented Lincoln side by side with the assassin Booth my
astonishment would have been no greater. Does the community
think treason a crime when such things are allowed in our midst? We
hear of no more balls, levees or receptions.
It seems as if the early days of the revolution were upon us again,
as if we must prepare ourselves for events which possibly might
become calamities in the end. New gypsy bonnets are displayed by
milliners, but we have not seen a face peeping out from one, either
handsome or ugly. And isn’t this a symptom of the earnestness of
the times, just as straws show which way the wind blows? I did not
mean to write a political letter; but there are times when we are
caught in a storm, our eyes blinded with lightning, our ears filled
with thunder; rain pouring, and no umbrella; mud deep, and no
overshoes. When the storm subsides may we greet our readers
under pleasanter auspices.
Olivia.
 AT DRY TORTUGAS.

Seeking Pardon for Those Imprisoned on That Island.

Washington, February 16, 1867.

The reticence of General Grant covers the future with a haze of
obscurity. Different Cabinet combinations appear before the public
vision, like so many dissolving views of a midsummer night’s dream.
The President-elect appears at a dinner party and escorts one of the
gentlemen home, and the latter fortunate individual is decided to be
an embryo Cabinet minister, and the lobby cries, “Hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!”
It is very quiet in Washington, but it is the sultry calm which
precedes the storm. All are waiting for the secret which is locked in
General Grant’s mind as securely as the genie was fastened in the
copper box under the seal of the great Solomon. In the meantime
President Johnson is busy providing for his friends, as well as other
unfortunates, who are not clamoring at the door of the Executive
chamber in vain. Day after day, for months, a few fearfully bereaved
women have haunted the White House. Among the number might
have been found the wife of Sanford Conover, alias Charles A.
Dunham, who perjured himself on the trial of John Surratt, and since
his sentence has been serving out his term in State’s prison. Day
after day this pale-faced, indefatigable woman has been haunting
Mr. Johnson; haunting every man whom she supposed could have
any influence in her behalf. At last her unwearying efforts have been
crowned with success. Judge Advocate Holt and Honorable A. C.
Riddle (one of the counsel on the trial) have said that Conover
“without solicitation gave valuable information to the Government,
which was used to assist the prosecution, and that he is entitled to
the clemency of the Executive on the principle that requires from the
Government recognition of such service, and that he has already
served two years of his term.”
Another smitten woman’s feet have pressed the costly Wiltons of
the Executive Mansion as sorrowfully as Hagar’s did the parched
sward of the wilderness. It is the wife of Dr. Mudd, the man who was
tried with the other conspirators, and is now serving out his life term
at the desolate “Dry Tortugas.” During the last dreadful yellow fever
epidemic, our officers on the island testify to the almost superhuman
efforts of Dr. Mudd in behalf of the prisoners and soldiers. He
seemed to have a charmed life among the dead and dying. There
was no duty so loathsome that he shrank from it, and when he could
do no more for the sufferers in life he helped to cover their remains
with the salted sands. Armed with this testimony of the officers, for
months Mrs. Mudd has attended Andrew Johnson like a shadow.
One day last summer a personal friend of the President’s was
admitted to the Executive presence. As he took the lady’s hand, he
smilingly remarked: “I am sorry that I kept you waiting.”
She replied, “There is another lady who has been waiting longer
than I have.”
“Do you know her?” asked the President.
“I never saw her before,” said the lady.
The President called a messenger, saying, “See who is in the ante-
room waiting.”
A smile crept over the messenger’s face as he answered, “It’s only
Mrs. Mudd.”
“Only Mrs. Mudd,” echoed the President, while a spasm of pain
chased over his countenance. “That woman here again, after all I
have said?” At the same time the President put both hands to his
face.
 “Why do you allow yourself to be so annoyed?” said the friend,
using the license which belongs to a woman’s friendship.
“The President of the United States ought not be annoyed at
anything; besides, I have no right to put any one out of this house
who comes to see me on business and behaves with propriety. Don’t
let us talk about that; let us think of something else.”
Of all forsaken places on this planet, there is none that will
compare in terror to the Dry Tortugas. By the side of it St. Helena is
a kind of terrestrial paradise. Neither friendly rock, shrub, tree nor
blade of grass is to be seen on its surface. It is a small, burning
Sahara, planted in the bosom of the desolate sea, without a single
oasis to relieve its savage face. The garrison and prisoners have to
depend on cisterns for their supply of water, and out of the thirty-
seven carpenters who, in the beginning of the rebellion, went there
with the corps of engineers to look after repairs, only four returned
alive, and two of these have been confirmed invalids ever since.
When one of the carpenters was questioned to explain the great
mortality, he said it was owing, at this particular time, to the
miserable quarters prepared for the workmen, and to the bad water
that was dealt out to them, of which, bad as it was, they could not
get enough to supply their pressing wants. The island swarms with
insects that bite and sting; and if the soldiers on duty there were not
frequently relieved and sent to the mainland, mutiny and its
attendant horrors would be sure to follow. When a criminal deserves
to expiate ten thousand deaths in one, it is only necessary to send
him to the Dry Tortugas.
For several months people have been at work here upon certain
nominations which have been sent to the Senate. Mrs. Anna S.
Stephens has not been only at work on the life of Andrew Johnson,
which she has foretold will end with the one immortal triumph (his
escape from his impeachment foes), but she also succeeded in
getting her son nominated as consul to Manchester, England. While
the venerable mother has labored at the White House, the would-be
consul’s wife, in charming silks and costly gems, has sought
introductions to leading men who might have some influence with
the stony Senate, if they only chose to exercise it. It has become
well known in Washington that whenever a man feels ambition
swelling in his bosom the best remedy is to send some interesting
feminine diplomat to court, and if she does not succeed he will then
know it was because the case was hopeless from the beginning. In
the good old days of Queen Bess, diplomacy was almost altogether
in the hands of the woman; then that was certainly one of the most
remarkable eras in the world’s history.
James Parton, the distinguished magazine writer, has been here
for several days. He has been seen on the floor of the House, and
also in close consultation with many leading members of Congress,
as well as doorkeepers, messengers, pages, and all others who are
supposed to be wise and serious when talked to in regard to a
certain very delicate subject. It is said that Mr. Parton is preparing an
article upon the Washington lobby. It is said he is going to hold up
the monster in the broad light of day—this creeping, crawling thing,
which, in more respects than one, bears a strong resemblance to
Victor Hugo’s devil fish; for while it is strong enough to strangle the
most powerful man, if once fairly drawn under the surface in its
awful embrace, yet if you attempt to pluck it to pieces, piecemeal,
you are rewarded with only so much loathsome quivering jelly.
This nation will never realize the debt of gratitude it owes the men
who are standing as sentinels at the doors of the Treasury. The
Committee on Claims are besieged by an army more terrible in its
invincibility than ever stormed the earthworks of fort or doomed city.
It is true, the arms used by the enemy are of a kind as old as
creation, whilst the flash of an eye answers to the old flintlock or
modern percussion cap. As yet these noble men have defended
every inch of ground, and many of these fair Southern braves have
withdrawn their claims for the present, waiting for another set of
sentinels who will replace those on duty now. But more of this anon.
Olivia.
 STATE ASSOCIATIO NS.

Iowans Assemble at the Residence of Senator Harlan.

Washington, February 25, 1867.

Looking at society in Washington from a certain point of view, is
like gazing upon the shifting scenes of a brilliant panorama. But one
of the most delightful and home-like pictures consists of the different
persons temporarily sojourning here, and who have always retained
the right of citizenship in their respective States, joining together
under the name of an “association” for the interchange of friendly
sentiments as well as for the cultivation of fraternal love. It is the
business of the president of these meetings to keep a list of the
names and residence of all who belong to the association, and
strangers coming to Washington can by this means find without
trouble their acquaintances and friends. These Western associations
are particularly flourishing this winter. One week we are told that the
Indiana Association has had a pleasant gathering, and the Honorable
Schuyler Colfax and John Defrees, the Public Printer, the sun and
moon of the little planetary system, have risen and set together, and
the united social element clapped its hands with joy.
Again we read that Iowa, God bless her, with her solid Republican
delegation, and her war record as unblemished as a maiden’s first
blush, has gathered her citizens together in Union League Hall, as a
hen gathered her chickens under her wing. It is at these social
meetings that the old home-fires are kindled anew in the hearts of
the Iowa wanderers; and when the most profitless carpet-bagger
arrives he is treated nearly as well as the prodigal son. Sometimes it
happens that the more prominent members “entertain” the
association, or in other words, “Iowa” is the invited guest. Only last
night Iowa, as represented by the Senate and House of
Representatives, the Departments, as well as the strangers stopping
here through the inaugural ceremonies, were invited to the elegant
mansion of Senator Harlan, where all were welcomed alike by the
Senator and his accomplished wife. Here in the spacious parlors met
the different members of the outgoing with those of the incoming
delegation of that State; and here let it be recorded that neither
Congressmen whose term of office expires on the 4th of March,
could get himself decapitated by his constituents, but was obliged at
the last moment to commit political hari-kari.
Standing a little apart from each other were the two bright
particular stars of the evening—Mrs. Harlan, the agreeable hostess,
and Mrs. Grimes, the wife of the able Senator of historic fame, two
representative women on the world’s stage to-day, and both alike
respected for their intrinsic worth, aside from the senatorial laurels
which they share. One could hardly realize, when contemplating Mrs.
Harlan, a brilliant, sparkling brunette, whose feet have just touched
the autumn threshold of age, in her faultless evening costume of
garnet silk, point lace and pearls—“Wandering,” say you? Yes, yes;
one could hardly realize that this was the same Mrs. Harlan who had
remained all night in her ambulance on the bloody field of Shiloh,
with the shrieks of the wounded and dying sounding in her ears; and
yet, out of just such material are many more American women
made.
Self-poised and dignified as a marble statue stood Mrs. Grimes,
noticeable only for the simplicity of her dress. Yet it was easy to
perceive that it was the hand of an artist that had swept back the
golden brown hair from the perfect forehead and dainty ears. Quiet
in her deportment, she seemed a modest violet in a gay parterre of
flowers. A woman of intellectual attainments, she has few equals
and no superiors here. This present winter she has mingled much
more in general society than usual, and her graceful presence helps
to scatter “the late unpleasantness” as the sun drives away the
malarial mists of the night.
 Among the most prominent Iowans present might have been seen
the Hon. William B. Allison, member of Congress from Dubuque,
whom Lucien Gilbert Calhoun, of the New York Tribune “dubbed” the
handsomest man in Congress. Who would dare to be so audacious
as to oppose the light current of small talk that ebbs and flows with
an occasional tidal wave through the columns of that solemn
newspaper? If the Tribune says he is handsome, an Adonis he shall
be; but as space will not allow of a full description, it is only
necessary to say that he has large brown eyes, that usually look out
in their pleased surprise like Maud Muller’s; but the other day they
opened wide with astonishment when they read in a popular
newspaper that the same William B. had been accused of receiving
more than $100,000 for favoring a certain railroad project. But the
hoax was soon unearthed, and Mr. Allison found his reputation once
more as clean as new kid gloves.
And now we come to a man in whom the nation may have a pride,
Geo. G. M. Dodge, of war memory, one of General Sherman’s
efficient aids in his march across the Southern country to the sea;
serving honorably in Congress to the satisfaction of his constituents.
He has resigned the position that he may devote himself wholly to
his profession, as chief engineer of the Pacific Railroad. Young,
handsome, daring and aggressive, he is Young America personified.
He is the man of the day, as Daniel Boone was the man of the era in
which he lived; and his whole soul was embodied in words when he
said, “I can’t breathe in Washington.”
We touch the honest, ungloved hand of the host of the evening,
Senator Harlan, one of the superb pillars of the Republican party;
one who has stood upon principles as firmly as though his feet were
planted upon the rock of ages; but once he became Secretary of the
Interior, and an angel from Heaven could not go into that sink of
pollution and come out with clean, unstained wings. If Senator
Harlan lives in a respectable mansion in Washington it is because the
interest of the unpaid mortgage upon it is less than the rent would
be if owned by a landlord; and let it be remembered that Senator
Harlan is the only man in the Iowa delegation who has a whole roof
to shelter his head; that his house is the only place where citizens of
Iowa can gather together and feel at home. It was the noble idea of
hospitality to the State that made the Senator pitch his tent outside
the horrors of a Washington boarding-house or a crowded hotel, and
not to “shine,” as the envious and malicious would have it. A thrust
at Senator Harlan is a stab at every man, woman and child who
knows him best, and if it was for the good of this nation that the
New York Tribune should be broiled like St. Lawrence on a gridiron,
it would only be necessary to make it a Secretary of the Interior,
with the Indian Bureau in full blast, as it is to-day, and in less than a
single administration there would be nothing left of it but a crumpled
hat, an old white coat, and a mass of blackened bones. As honest
Western people, let us take care of our honest Western statesmen.
Let us have a care for the reputation of the men whom we have
trusted in war and in peace, and who have never yet proved
recreant to the trust.
Dear Republican: Let us dedicate this letter to our sister State,
Iowa, most honest, virtuous, best beloved niece of Uncle Sam. A
greeting to the Hawkeyes. May their shadows never grow less, and
may her thousands of domestic fires that now dot every hill, slope
and valley be never extinguished until the sun and the stars shall
pole together and creation be swallowed up in everlasting night.
Olivia.
 B IN G HAM AND BUTL ER .

Characteristics of These Congressional Giants In Debate.

Washington, March 27, 1867.

Scarcely has the day dawned upon the Fortieth Congress before it
is our unpleasant task to chronicle its decline. As we say about the
month that gave it birth, “it came in like a lion and goes out like a
lamb.” At the beginning of the session mutterings of impeachment
growled and thundered in the political horizon, but for some
unaccountable but wise reason it has all subsided, and the passing
away is peculiarly quiet and lamb-like. It almost reminds one of a
young maiden dying because of the loss of a recreant lover. The
Judiciary Committee are expected to sit all summer on the
impeachment eggs; but no woman is so unwise as to count the
chickens before they are hatched. It is said that Congress has tied
the hands of the President so that he is perfectly incapable of doing
any more mischief, and the members go home, and leave
Washington desolate. Washington is a live city. It has two states of
existence, sleeping and waking. When Congress is in session it is
wide awake; when Congress adjourns it goes to sleep, and then woe
to the unfortunate letter-writer, for her occupation is gone—
everything is gone—the great men, the fashionable women; the
great dining-room in the principal hotels are all closed, small eating
houses disappear; even stores of respectable size draw in their
principal show windows, which proves to the world that they were
only “branches” thrown out from the original bodies, which can be
found either in Philadelphia or New York, and that the branches
never were expected to take root in Washington. Only the clerks in
office, the real honey bees in the great national hive, work, and
work incessantly, and keep Washington from degenerating into an
enchanted city, such as we read about in the Arabian tales.
At the moment of writing Congress is expected immediately to
adjourn. The members are in their seats, with the exception of the
Honorable, Ben Butler, who at this instant has the floor. He is talking
about “confiscated property,” and an observer can see that he has
taken the cubic measure of the subject. He is interrupted every few
moments, but his equilibrium is not in the least disturbed. As his
photographs are scattered broadcast over the land, a pen-and-ink
portrait is unnecessary. But we will say that he is a disturbing
element wherever he “turns up,” or wherever he goes. It seems to
be his fate to be all the time cruising about the “waters of hate.” No
man in this broad land is so fearfully hated as Benjamin F. Butler. We
do not allude to the South, for that is a unit; but to other
surroundings and associations. Some men are born to absorb the
love of the whole human race, like the ill-fated Andre; others have
the mystic power of touching the baser passions, and Honorable
Benjamin F. Butler is master of this last terrible art. But it may be
possible that he bears the same relation to the human family that a
chestnut burr does to the vegetable world, and if we could only open
the burr we might forget our bloody fingers and find ample reward
for our pains.
These last days of a closing session have been marked by a war of
words waged between the Honorable John A. Bingham and General
Butler. Now these little hand-to-hand fights are the very spice of
politics when they happen between the opposite ranks. But when
Republican measures lance with Republican, when the war is of a
fratricidal character, and brother gluts his hand in his brother’s blood,
then it becomes the nation to take these unruly members tenderly
by the hand and to mourn after the most approved fashion. It
cannot be said that Honorable James A. Bingham has the manners
of a Chesterfield, but we shall widely differ from letter-writers who
call him “Mephistopheles.” There is nothing satanic about him. He is
only a very able man, terribly in earnest. When he puts his hand to
the wheel he never looks back. Whatever he undertakes must be
carried out to the bitter end. If he has seemed conservative, it was
only that he might not make haste too fast. He has been the useful
brakeman in Congress this winter; never in the way when the
locomotive was all right and the track was clear. Those wicked side-
thrusts from General Butler in regard to Mrs. Surratt have wounded
him, and he chafes like a caged tiger; but he can comfort himself
with the idea that there is one the less of the so-called gentler sex to
perpetrate mischief, and that a few more might be dealt with in the
same summary, gentle manner, if the wants of the community or the
ends of justice seemed to demand it.
John Morrissey is in his seat, and, to all appearances, he is on the
royal road to one kind of success. Everybody feels kindly towards
him because he is so unpretending, and he has the magic touch
which makes friends. Quiet, gentlemanly, and unassuming, his voice
is never heard except when it is called for or when it is proper for his
reputation that he should speak. If he would only slough off the old
chrysalis life—yea, cut himself adrift from those gambling houses in
New York, he might prove to the world that there is scarcely any
error of a man’s life can not be retrieved. We trust that John
Morrissey will remember that Congress is a fiery furnace; that it
separates the dross from the pure metal; and that, in this wonderful
alembic, men’s minds and manners are tested with all the nicety of
chemical analysis. Also, that the cream comes to the top and the
skim milk goes to the bottom and will continue to do so unless a
majority of the members can prevail on old Mother Nature to add a
new amendment to her “constitution.”
Olivia.
 A WEST END RECEP TIO N.

The Modes and Methods of a Typical Society Function.

Washington, January 15, 1868.

A gradual change is coming over the face of events in Washington.
The old monarchy’s dying. Andrew Johnson is passing away. If it
were summer, grass would be growing between the stones of the
pavement that leads to the stately porch of the Executive Mansion,
but the motion of the political and social wheel of life is not in the
least retarded. In many respects it would seem as if time were
taking us backward in its flight and that we were living over again
the last luxurious days of Louis XV. If Madame Pompadour is not
here in the flesh, she has bequeathed to this brilliant Republican
court her unique taste in the shape of paint-pots, rouge, patches,
pointed heels, and frilled petticoats; the dress made with an
immense train at the back, but so short in front that it discloses a
wealth of airy, fantastic, white muslin; the square-necked waist, so
becoming to a queenly neck; the open sleeve so bewitching for a
lovely arm. This is the “style” which the fair belles of the capital have
adopted. Our letters are meant to embody both political and social
themes; but, if the truth must be told, the business of the people of
the United States is suffering for want of being transacted. Our great
men are too busy with the tangled skein of the next administration.
Although half the present session has slipped away, scarcely
anything has been accomplished. The real hard work is represented
by the lobby, which is as ceaselessly and noiselessly at work as the
coral builders in the depths of the sea.
 General Butler is trying to enlighten the nation upon the knotty
subject of finance. He seems to have taken the dilemma by the
horns. It is not decided which will get the best of it, but the people
can rest assured that General Butler will make a good fight. Like
Andrew Johnson, he has only to point to his past record. It will be
remembered that the gallant General paid his respects to the step-
father of his country on New Year’s day. An eye witness of this
historical event pronounced the “scene” extremely “touching” and
one long to be remembered by the fortunate beholders. A
sensational writer is engaged upon a new drama founded upon this
theme. It will soon be brought out upon the boards at the National
Theater under the high-sounding title of “Burying the Hatchet.” The
writer of the drama is at a loss whether to call this production
comedy or tragedy. It would be extremely comic, only the closing
scene ends with Andy’s plumping the hatchet into the grave from
sheer exhaustion, and the moment afterward he glides away into
obscurity like a graceful Ophidian, or Hamlet’s ghost. The wily
warrior is left master of the situation; not at all shut up like a fly in a
bottle, but still able to be of use not only to his constituents but to
the masses of his admiring countrymen.
But why talk politics when the social strata is so much more
interesting? It is the social star which is in the ascendent to-day. The
new Cabinet is discussed in shy little nods and whispers, between
sips of champagne and creamy ices, in magnificent drawing rooms
at the fashionable West End. Aye, why not give our dear Chicago
friends a description of the most brilliant party of the season, which
took place at the handsome residence of a merchant prince and
member of Congress, the Honorable D. McCarthy, of Syracuse, N. Y.
As the guests were brought together by card invitations, it follows
that only the cream of Washington society was represented. To be
sure there was a crowd; but then, it is not so very uncomfortable to
be pressed to death by the awful enginery of a foreign minister, a
major-general and a Vice-President elect, or to find yourself buried
alive by drifts of snowy muslin or costly silk or satin, and your own
little feet inextricably lost by being entangled in somebody’s train,
and yourself sustained in the trying position by being held true to
the perpendicular by the close proximity of your next neighbor. This
can be borne by the most sensitive, owing to the delicate nature of
the martyrdom.
Between the hours of 9 and 10, and many hours afterwards,
carriage after carriage rolled up to the stately mansion, lately
occupied by our present minister to England. Two savage policemen
guarded the gate, and the coming guests slipped through their
fingers as easily as if they had been attaches of the whisky ring.
Once out of the carriage you found yourself standing upon the
dainty new matting, from which your feet never departed until they
pressed the Persian carpet of the inner hall. All wrapped and hooded
and veiled, you ascended the broad staircase to find at the first
landing an American citizen, of bronze complexion and crispy hair,
who led you to the ladies’ dressing-room. Handmaidens of the
African type instantly seized you and divested you of your outward
shell or covering. A dainty French lady’s maid stood ready to give the
last finish to your toilet or to coax into place any stubborn, mulish
curl, and to repair, if it was necessary, any little damage or flaw to
your otherwise faultless complexion. When you were “all right,” you
found your attendant cavalier awaiting you at the door to conduct
you, as well as himself, to the presence of the sun and moon of the
evening, around whom all this growing planetary system revolved. A
cryer at the door calls out the name of the cavalier and lady, in a
stentorian voice. You shudder. This is the first plunge into
fashionable life; but you come to the surface and find that you are
face to face with the duke and duchess, in the republican sense of
the word. Your hand is first taken by Mr. McCarthy, who is a tall and
elegant person, whom you also know to be one of the “solid men” in
Congress, as he certainly is without. You next touch the finger tips of
“my lady,” a noble matron in purple velvet, old point lace, and
flashing diamonds. At her right hand stand her two pretty daughters,
with real roses in their cheeks, and real complexions, delicate
enough to have been stolen from milky pearls. No jewels but their
bright eyes. No color in their faultless white muslin dress, except
little flecks of green that underlie the rich Valenciennes. You leave
them, and smuggle yourself in the enclosures of a deep, old-
fashioned window. The curtain half hides you while you gaze upon a
shifting, glittering panorama, more gorgeous than a midsummer
night’s dream. The air is laden with the perfume of rare exotics and
the fragrance of the countless handkerchiefs of cob-web lace. Just
beyond you at the right stands the servant of Her Majesty, Victoria of
England. There is nothing to denote his rank or position in his plain
citizen’s dress. A modest order, worn on his left breast, tells you that
he is the successor of Sir Frederick Bruce; but in personal
appearance Sir Edward Thornton bears no resemblance to his
illustrious predecessor. He seems to be enjoying an animated
conversation with a lady of rank belonging to his own legation.
Monsieur the French Minister, exquisite, dandified, polished as a
steel rapier, is talking to the host of the evening. Count Raasloff, the
Danish minister, is exchanging compliments with Major-General
Hunter. Though all the grand entertainments in Washington are
graced by many of the diplomats resident here, they seem to get
through the evening as if it were a part of their official duty. They
cling together like any other colony surrounded by “outside
barbarians.” The marble face of a petite French countess never
relaxed a line from its icy frigidity until she found herself stranded in
the dressing room up stairs, safely in the hands of the foreign
waiting-maid. Then such chattering—the artificial singing birds in the
supper room were entirely eclipsed. But let us leave at once these
cold, haughty dames, who have nothing to boast of but the so-called
blue blood in their veins. The world would never know they existed,
unless some pen-artist sketched their portraits. We have had no
dazzling foreign star in society here since the departure of Lady
Napier. Oh! spirit of a fairy godmother, guide our pen while we touch
our own American belles, the fairest sisterhood under the sun. “Who
is the belle of the ball room to-night?” every one asks. You must not
be told her name, reader, but you shall know everything else. Just
imagine Madame Pompadour in the palmiest days of her regal
beauty, stepping out of the old worm-eaten frame, imbued with life
and clad in one of those white brocaded silks upon which has been
flung the most exquisite flowers by the hand of the weaver. Hair
puffed and frizzled and curled until the lady herself could not tell
where the real leaves off and the false begins. The front breadth of
dress is not more than half a yard in depth, but the long-pointed
train at the back could not be measured by the eye; a yard-stick
must be brought into requisition. There is a dainty little patch on her
left cheek, and another still less charming on her temple. A necklace
of rare old-fashioned mosaic is clasped around her throat, and a
member of Congress from Iowa, who is said to be a judge,
pronounces her to be the most beautiful woman in Washington. Oh!
that newspaper letters did not have to come to an end. Room for
one of Chicago’s fair brides, the only beloved daughter of Senator
Harlan, Mr. Robert Lincoln’s accomplished wife. She looked every
inch the lily in this sisterhood of flowers. She wore heavy, corded
white silk, with any quantity of illusion and pearls.
So far hath the story been told without a word about the feast.
The land, the sky and the ocean were rifled, and made to pay tribute
to the occasion. Artificial singing birds twittered in the flowers that
adorned the tables, while a rainbow of light encircled the same. This
beautiful effect was accomplished by the gas-fitter’s art, and this
exquisite device came very near bringing Chicago to grief, for the
Honorable N. B. Judd found himself at the end of the magic bow, but
instead of finding the bag of gold he just escaped a good
“scorching.”
Again we touched the hand of the lady hostess, and then all was
over.
Olivia.
 IN TH E AR ENA OF THE SEN ATE.

Messrs. Nye and Doolittle Cross Blades in Ideas and Arguments.

Washington, January 26, 1868.

Again the Senate chamber recalls the early days of the rebellion,
or rather the last stormy winter before its culmination. The galleries
are densely crowded; the voice of eloquence is heard ringing in
clarion notes through the hall; but in place of the handsome,
sneering face of Breckinridge as presiding officer, rare old Ben Wade
rises, like a sun of promise, to light up the troubled waters, and to
help warn the ship of the Republic off the rocky shore. Scarcely a
drop in the river of time since haughty Wigfall arose, and, with right
hand clenched defiantly in the face of the Republican side, his
flaming eye resting upon Charles Sumner, declared that he owed no
allegiance to the Government of the United States. It was the forked
flames licking the marble column, for Senator Sumner sat calm and
immovable as the figure of Fate. Gone, too, is Davis, the man of
destiny; and Toombs, the swaggering braggart, with silver-voiced
Benjamin, the only human being endowed with the same melodious,
flute-like tongue that bewitched our dear first mother. And yet there
is treason enough left to act as leaven in case Senator Doolittle and
the President succeed in introducing it into the loaf of
reconstruction.
To-day two of the most warlike as well as two of the most
powerful men in the Senate have been engaged in real battle; but
instead of muscle against muscle, the air has been filled with javelins
of arguments and ideas. Let the pen be content with describing the
two combatants—Senator Doolittle, of Wisconsin, and Senator Nye,
of Nevada.
The battle, like Massachusetts, speaks for itself. Senator Doolittle,
the President’s spirit of darkness, bears the same relation to the
human race that a bull-dog does to the canine species. His
arguments are tough and sharp as a row of glittering teeth, and
would do the same horrible execution if the President and small
party of barking Democracy at his heels were strong enough to tell
him “to go in and win.” Rather above the medium height, built for
strength, like a Dutch clipper, with close cropped hair and broad,
projecting lower jaw, it must have been an accident that made him
let go of the Republican platform, or he must have been choked off
by a power entirely beyond his control. But now that he is fast hold
of a different faith; no resolution of a Wisconsin senate, no bitter
protest of an indignant, injured constituency, can shake him one
hair’s breadth. And to this powerful makeup a pair of glistening
steel-gray eyes, a presence easier felt than described, and you have
plenty of material out of which to construct a triple-headed Cerebus
strong enough to guard the gates of—even the Executive mansion.
His antagonist, Senator Nye, of Nevada, has the finest head in the
American Senate. Mother Nature must have expended her strength
and means in the handsome head and broad shoulders. It must
have been originally meant that he should stand six feet and an inch
or two in his stocking feet, yet by some of those accidents which
never can be guarded against, he is scarcely of the average height.
His face presents one of those rare spectacles, those strange
combinations, in which intellect and beauty are striving for
supremacy.
Eyes of that indescribable hazel that light up with passion or
emotion, like an evening dress under the gaslight. Nose chiseled
with the precision of the sculptor’s skillful steel, and a mouth in
which dwells character, passion, and all the graces, neatly fringed by
a decent beard, as every respectable man’s should be. Hands small
and bloodless, the usual accompaniment of the powerful brain of an
active thinker. Last, but not least, there is enough electricity about
him to send a first-class message around the world, with plenty left
for all home purposes.
The Senate chamber is a painful place for the eye to rest this
winter. Its furniture, carpets, and many other etceteras are
suggestive of molten heat. There is a flaming red carpet on the floor,
and every chair and sofa blushes like a carnation rose. Red and
yellow stare the unfortunate Senator in the face whichever way he
turns. Even what little sunlight manages to sneak into this celebrated
chamber steals in clothed in those two prismatic, nightmare colors.
When the galleries are packed, as they were to-day, there is scarcely
more air than in an exhausted receiver, and it is astonishing that so
many delicate women can remain so many hours subjected to such
an atmosphere. And now that the galleries are sprinkled with dark
fruit, thick as a briery hedge in blackberry time; this, taken into
consideration, with many other wise reasons, may help to account
for the large Democratic gain in the late election returns.
Never within memory, not even during the extravagance of the
late war, have so many costly costumes adorned the persons of our
American women as the present winter in Washington. And the
Capitol, with its oriental luxuriance, seems a fitting place for the
grand display. A handsome blonde, enveloped in royal purple velvet,
without being relieved by so much as a shadow of any other color or
material, brings the words of the Psalmist to all thoughtful minds:
“They toil not, neither do they spin (or write), yet Solomon in all his
glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
Olivia.
 SPEAKER C OL FAX.

His Affection for His Mother—Other Characteristics.

Washington, March 2, 1868.

The season of Lent has folded its soft, brooding wings over the
weary devotees of fashion in Washington. Luxuriant wrappers, weak
tea, and soft-boiled eggs have succeeded the Eugenie trains, chicken
salad, and all those delicious fluids that are supposed to brace the
human form divine. The penitential season of Lent is just as
fashionable, in its way, as the brilliant season which preceded it.
There is nothing left for the “Jenkinses” but “to fold their tents like
the Arabs, and as silently steal away.”
But as hardy native flowers defy the chilly frost, so Speaker
Colfax’s hospitable doors swing upon their noiseless hinges once a
week, and the famous house known as the “Sickles mansion”
becomes a bee-hive, swarming, overflowing with honeyed humanity;
and let it be recorded that no man in Washington is socially so
popular, so much beloved, as Schuyler Colfax. General Grant, the
man who dwells behind a mask, is worshiped by the multitudes, who
rush to his mansion as Hindoos to a Buddhist temple; but Schuyler
Colfax possesses the magic quality of knowing how to leave the
Speaker’s desk, and, gracefully descending to the floor, place himself
amongst the masses of the American people, no longer above them,
but with them, one of them—a king of hearts in his own right; a
knave also, because he steals first and commands afterwards.
It is needless to say that all adjectives descriptive of fashionable
life at the capital have long since been worn thread-bare. Why didn’t
Jenkins tell the truth and say, instead of “warm cordiality, elegant
courtesy,” pump-handle indifference and metallic smile? Why did he
not tell the dear, good people at home the truth, and nothing but the
truth, and say that madame the duchess practices smiles or
grimaces before the glass, and serves the same up to her dear
friends at her evening receptions? Why should not a smile fit as well
as her corsets or kid gloves? Too much smile without dimples to
cover up the defect destroys the harmonious relation of the features.
Not only that, but it invites every fashionable woman’s horror. It
paves the way to wrinkles, the death-blows of every belle.
“Look at my face,” says Madame B——, of Baltimore, the widow of
royalty, the handsomest woman of three-score years and ten in
America, addressing one who shall be nameless. “You are not half
my age, and yet you have more wrinkles than I; shall I tell you
why?” “To be sure, Madame B——.” “I never laugh; I never cry; I
make repose my study.” Now, let it be added that this aged belle of a
long-since-departed generation on every night encases her taper
fingers in metallic thimbles, and has done so for the last forty years;
consequently her hand retains much of its original symmetry, and
the decay of her charms is as sweet and as faultless as the falling
leaves of a rose.
Speaker Colfax’s receptions, in one sense of the word, are unlike
all others. No prominent man in Washington receives his thousands
of admirers and says to them, after an introduction, “This is my
mother!” She stands by his side, with no one to separate them,
bearing a strong personal resemblance to him, whilst she is only
seventeen years the older. At what a tender age her love
commenced for this boy Schuyler—nobody else’s boy, though he
were President! She has put on the chameleon silk, and the cap with
blue ribbons, to receive the multitudes that flock in masses to do
homage to her son. Pride half slumbers in her bosom, but love is
vigilant and wide awake. There is no metallic impression on her
countenance; a genuine, heartfelt welcome is extended to all who
pay their respects to her idol. So the people come and go, and
wonder why Speaker Colfax’s receptions are unlike others. Only a
very few stars of the first magnitude in the fashionable world shone
at the Speaker’s mansion last night. The Associate Justice of the
Supreme Court from Iowa was there, with his elegant, lavender-
robed wife—a woman who skims over the treacherous waters of
society in Washington as gracefully and safely as a swan upon its
native element. David Dudley Field, of New York, was there—a tall,
stalwart man, after the oak pattern; and the fine faced woman, with
gold enough upon her person to suggest a return to specie payment,
was said to be a new wife. Mark Twain, the delicate humorist, was
present; quite a lion, as he deserves to be. Mark is a bachelor,
faultless in taste, whose snowy vest is suggestive of endless quarrels
with Washington washerwomen; but the heroism of Mark is settled
for all time, for such purity and smoothness were never seen before.
His lavender gloves might have been stolen from some Turkish
harem, so delicate were they in size; but more likely—anything else
were more likely than that. In form and feature he bears some
resemblance to the immortal Nasby; but whilst Petroleum is brunette
to the core, Twain is a golden, amber-hued, melting blonde.
Members of Congress were there. George Washington Julian was
present; great, gifted, good, as he always is, proving to the world
that even a great name cannot extinguish him. Nature was in one of
her most generous moods when she formed him, for he towers
above the people like a mountain surrounded by hills. He dwells in a
higher atmosphere and sniffs a purer air than most Congressmen,
and this may account for his always being found in the right place,
never doubtful. People know just what George Washington Julian will
do in any national crisis. So he is left alone to score the measures of
his conscience, just as the earth is left to her orbit, or the magnetic
needle to the pole.
Olivia.
 TH E H IG H CO URT OF IMPEACHMENT.

Characteristics of Leading Counsel and Their Arguments.

Washington, March 14, 1868.

With lightning leap the historical proceedings of the “High Court of
Impeachment” have flashed all over the country. The bone and
sinew of the matter have been given to the people, but the delicate
life-currents and details which go to make the creation perfect, if not
gathered by the pen, must be buried in the waste-basket of old
Father Time. Decorum, dignity, solemnity, are the order of the day,
and one might as well attempt a “glowing description” of a funeral
as to weave in bright colors the opening scenes of the greatest trial
on record.
Outside the Capitol, in the crowd, the incidents are beyond
description. Men are there from all parts of the country, pleading,
swearing for admittance—offering untold sums for a little
insignificant bit of pasteboard. But the police, stony, frightful as the
“head of Medusa,” shut the doors in their faces, inexorable as the
fiat of the tomb. A limited number of honest, tender-hearted
Senators are trying to smuggle in a few beloved “outsiders;” but the
police are instantly convened into a “court of impeachment,” and the
unfortunate Senator has to bow before the majesty of the law. A
ticket is the only open sesame, and a bit of yellow pasteboard so
dazzles the multitudes that even Andrew Johnson is forgotten for a
time. But the fortunate ticket-holder, when once beyond the hurly-
burly outside, finds that an entrance to a different atmosphere has
been attained. It is like leaving the famished, parched plain at the
mountain’s foot and climbing up into the cool region, almost among
the eternal snows. The Senate chamber, always chilly in comparison
with the warm, leaping blood of the House, is now wrapped in
judicial robes of coldest gray. When it is remembered that Senators
were allowed four tickets and members half that number, it will
readily be understood that even the aristocracy had to be skimmed
to fill the galleries, and with the exception of a few newspaper
correspondents, the chosen ones belong to or are attaches of the
proudest families in the land. And it is a most significant fact that
women hold nearly all the tickets. They sail into the gentlemen’s
gallery like a real “man of war,” shake out the silken, feathery
crinoline, rub their little gloved hands in an ecstasy of delight, and
while perching their heads significantly on one side, gaze sorrowfully
at the few forlorn men stranded amongst their number, either
through accident or to prove to the world that the genus man under
the most trying circumstances is not extinct. As the Senate clock
points to the hour of 1, Senator Wade leaves the chair, and Chief
Justice Chase, robed in his judicial drapery, enters at a side door and
takes the vacant seat. Very soon the managers of the impeachment
file in, Bingham and Boutwell taking the lead. A table for their
accommodation has been prepared, and as they take their seats the
silence seems like the dead, unbroken calm inhabited only by time
and space. The moment has arrived for the utterance of the most
solemn words ever echoed in the Senate of the United States—the
proclamation of the Sergeant-at-Arms calling a recreant President to
stand forth and prove his innocence or else meet the just
punishment of his crime. A momentary silence follows, and the
counsel for the accused advance and take their seats. That which
was uncertainty is now a positive fact.
Andrew Johnson will not meet the august tribunal face to face.
There is to be a state dinner in the evening at the White House, and
if feasting can be thought of at such an hour, it may be possible that
he is engaged on the bill of fare. Louis XV was engaged with his
powders and paint box, Dubarry, Pompadour, and venison, when the
storm was brewing that destroyed his family and swept the innocent
with the guilty off the face of the earth. The counsel, three in
number, face the tribunal. Mr. Stanbery is the first of the number to
speak. Keen and hair-splitting, he seems to think he is going to carry
the day by storm. He rather demands forty days for preparation
instead of requesting it. He is followed by Mr. Bingham, who confines
himself entirely to the law, without the least flourish of rhetoric or
word painting. Very soon the Senate retires for consultation. Then
an hour and a half are devoted to gossip in the gallery, and one has
time to sweep the rows of seats with an opera glass and glean all
the handsome faces; and if the whole truth and nothing but the
truth must be told, old Mother Nature (the more shame on her) has
been just as niggardly and mean in dealing out “magnificent eyes”
and “voluptuous forms” to the creme de la creme as if she were only
managing the family affairs of some poor nobody who has not a
ghost of a chance for Congressional or any other honor in our
beloved country. A limited number of large solitaire diamonds were
visible; but good taste excludes nearly all diamonds except in full
dress. As this was the highest court in the land amongst men, it
might as justly be said that it was the highest court of culture,
refinement, fashion, and good taste amongst the women. If all the
elements which make men great, just, and wise were found on the
floor, it can as truthfully be said that the galleries were never filled
by so much purity, so much that goes to make woman the
connecting link between men and the angels. Who is that noble
woman with the silver hair? The mother-in-law of Edwin M. Stanton.
The other whose face time has mellowed to autumnal sweetness
and perfection? The mother of Senator Trumbull. No, no; that
picture of delicacy and grace, arrayed in silk tinted with the shade of
a dead forest leaf, with dead gold ornaments to match? Why, that is
the queen of fashion—the wife of a Senator, the daughter of Chief
Justice Chase.
No more time to notice those chosen amongst the women. The
Senate has assembled, and General Butler has the floor. He takes
the largest, most comprehensive view of the case. He is going to
make his mark upon the age, if he has not already. He seems the
very incarnation of force and will. He is followed by Judge Nelson of
Tennessee, one of the President’s counsel. Originally a preacher, I
am told, he brings the same kind of persuasion to bear upon the
Senate that he would upon rebellious sinners. As the Senate do not
look upon themselves in that light, it follows that something more
substantial will have to be used; but, as the President has chosen
each of his counsel for certain personal qualifications, it is very
probable that he expects nothing but flowery sentiment from him—
the ornamental, instead of the useful. Judge Curtis, the ablest of the
President’s counsel, said but very little, seeming well content with
Judge Nelson’s waste of words. Wilson, of Iowa, one of the ablest
judicial minds in the country, made a few remarks, of which law was
the cubic measure; and, after some amendments and voting, the
day and the people vanished; and thus ended one of the great
historical days of the age.
Olivia.
 MR S. SENATOR WADE.

The Maker of and Sharer in Her Husband’s Triumphs.

Washington, March 17, 1868.

A calm steals over the restless political waters, and whilst we are
waiting for the next act in the great drama let us draw near those
who, by the sudden turn of the wheel of fate, are lifted high above
the multitude. Never, even in the days of the French Revolution,
have the women performed more conspicuous parts in the national
play of politics than at the present time in Washington. It can
truthfully be said that there is nothing so malignant and heart-
rending in its effects upon a good man as the burning desire to be
President. God help the man when this iron has entered his soul, for
this fiery ambition drinks up every other sweet virtue, just as the
July sun licks up the purling brook and precious dew drop. It is not
man alone who is consumed by ambition; it is woman also, who, in
this as well as in everything else, often takes the lion’s share. It was
Eve who first ate of the fruit, and gave it unto Adam, and he did
partake of it also. It is a woman who apparently has everything that
the visible or invisible world has to bestow, and yet, like the princess
in the fairy tale, deems her place incomplete unless a roc’s egg is
hung in the centre of the jeweled chamber. There is only one
position at the “republican court” that this most elegant woman has
not attained. She has never “reigned” at the White House. Every
other triumph has palled upon her taste, and if the nation would like
the finest and amongst the largest of diamonds in the country to
glisten in the Executive Mansion, and the most graceful and queenly
woman of the day to eat bread and honey in the national pantry,
they will hasten to withdraw their support from any military
chieftain, and bestow the awful burden upon a man who at this very
moment is staggering under as much as any faithful public servant
can very well carry.
Come, reader; let us leave the dusty highway of frivolity and
fashion. Come into the cool, refreshing shade. You are in the
presence of the woman who, in all human probability, will be the one
above all others of her sex to whom the argus eyes of this great
nation will soon be directed. She is in the full meridian of middle life,
tall and distinguished-looking, as one would imagine a Roman
matron might be in the days of Italian glory, and it would seem that
she is precisely such a mate as her bluff and out-spoken husband
would select for a life-long journey in double harness. It is evident
that he must have chosen for qualities that would wear under the
most trying circumstances; and the material must have met his
expectations, else why should they bear such a strong personal
resemblance to each other—the very same expression of
countenance—unless they have suffered and rejoiced together, and
hand in hand tasted the bitter with the sweet?
It is well known in Washington that Mrs. Wade has not the least
ambition to shine in the fashionable world; that she has been heard
to express her exceeding distaste for the formal reception; it has
even been whispered by those who ought to know that she has the
old-fashioned love for the click of the knitting needles; and the
nation may yet find out that the reason why Senator Wade has
always stood so firm for the right was because his feet have been
clad in stockings of domestic manufacture, for this is no more
astonishing than had Archimedes the slightest point on which to
place his fulcrum he might have moved the whole world.
For many years Mrs. Wade’s name has been prominently identified
with the public charitable institutions at Washington as well as
elsewhere. Says the secretary of the “News-Boys’ Home:” “It is her
private benevolence that will longest be remembered, for it is yet to
be known when a worthy object was sent from her presence
unrelieved.”
When we remember her scholarly culture, her extensive reading,
and her acquaintance with the best minds of the age, would it not
almost seem that this second tragedy, this suicide instead of
assassination at the White House, was the providential means taken
to purify the halls of legislation at the very fountain head? For if
Senator Wade drifts into the Executive chair, through no fault or
effort of his own, bound by no promise to friend or foe, what hinders
him from seizing the helm of the ship of state, and, with the aid of
Congress, guiding her out of the breakers into the calm, still waters
of Republican prosperity and peace? As only a Hercules can perform
this labor, this may account for the succession, as well as for Senator
Wade’s clear head, broad shoulders, and stout heart; and when it
happens that there will accompany him to the Executive Mansion the
same social atmosphere that characterized the days of Mrs. Adams
and Mrs. Madison, will it not seem like a return of the honest
simplicity of our forefathers, or like the long-delayed perfecting of
the Republic’s youthful days?
Olivia.
 AT THE PR ESIDENT’ S L EV EE.

Disgusting Manners of a Member of the French Legation—Handsome

General Hancock.

Washington, March 24, 1868.

It is well known that in every country the foreign diplomats are
among the last to desert the reigning dynasty. There was a new
illustration of the fact in the presence of so many ambassadors from
abroad at the Executive Mansion last night. Conspicuous among the
number was a representative of the French legation, Parisian to the
core, Johny Crapaud in all his glory. Instead of a nosegay, Louis
Napoleon’s decorations dangled from a stray button-hole; and when
we say that his white kids were immaculate, that his necktie eclipsed
the proudest triumph of Beau Brummel, and that he was as plain in
form and feature as only a Frenchman dare to be, we have a
complete picture of foreign diplomacy, one item excepted. This was
a little jeweled opera-glass, carried in his left hand, and when our
country women with bare, dazzling shoulders came within a certain
distance of this august person, instantly the glass was leveled to an
exact angle with the parts exposed, and with no more fear or
hesitation than the doctor who brings the microscope to bear upon a
bit of porcine delicacy when the cry of trichinæ is heard throughout
the land. This may be the perfection of French taste and good
manners, but it is simply revolting to the American. There is a
difference between private life and the public stage; between a
Canterbury danseuse and the daughter of a Senator. It is because
we have treated foreigners so kindly, so forbearingly, that they have
learned to despise us.
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