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TWO interesting scenes in Washington at the corner of First and A streets north-east—one today, one some hundred years ago.
Today, a dismal spectacle there—an old gray building, condemned and deserted, the wreckers fallen upon it.
A hundred years ago, a cheerier sight—a brand new, rather pretensious structure on that corner, erected to house Congress after the burning of the Capitol by the British.
That temporary home of Congress was called the Brick Capitol; and so, too, is that building we are just about to tear down. Despite all the questioning as to genuineness, despite all the changes a century has wrought, that doomed structure on the corner is rightly the “old Brick Capitol.” Final proof of that has come on the very eve of destruction.
But now for the story when that old Capitol was young.
Begin in the autumn days of 1815, when Congress moved into the brick building on the corner. That was the brilliant Fourteenth Congress, probably the most brilliant our country has known.
What interesting men just to look at as they gathered toward their new home. Those were transition days, and the whole scene showed for it. Now and then a coach-and-four issued imposingly from the roadway through the park and drew up at the door—some distinguished senators of the old school. Not surprising to see them step forth in knee breeches and buckled shoes, hair in queue and powdered. But arriving in “hacks” or afoot, came men of other appearance; many in trousers and boots, their hair short after the manner of the new day.
You could pretty well tell the members' politics by their dress. Taken by and large, the queued ones in knee-breeches were Federalists; the short-haired ones in trousers were Republicans. And there you had about the only difference between the parties. The old contention as to whether Nation or State should take have the big letter had got lost as the flames of the burning Capitol fused the States into a muddle. The Republicans were in the saddle—riding like Federalists.
Follow now those distinguished and confused lawgivers into their little makeshift home. Entering through the arched doorway, we come to the Senate chamber on the first floor. This 45 feet long and 25 feet wide, with a height of 15 feet. Here we may not be held long. Atmosphere a trifle funereal; and besides, no outstanding figures here such as we are expecting to find above.
So up the broad staircase we go, into the chamber of the Representatives. This is 77 feet long and 45 feet wide, with a height of 20 feet. A large gallery runs along one side. The considerable drapery we see is not a matter of esthetics at all, but of acoustics—
House much troubled to hear itself talk. There are desks for about 175 members; many without the members. Under easy-going informality the missing ones are somewhere about; gathered sociably over in the “coffee-corner” perhaps, or out in the gardens. Some of the men at the desks are still clinging to the old custom of keeping their hats on; though that is going.
Now we send quick glances about for certain figures. Henry Clay leader of the Republicans, is up there in the Speaker’s chair. Odd place for a man preeminently an orator. Yet he had already, still in his thirties, taken first rank as a presiding officer. He looks the part pretty well—will better when he fills out. The long, spare figure is lithe and graceful; the countenance high-browed, big-mouthed and winningly homely. The most popular member, this young man in from Kentucky.
Our eyes, roving over this upper room, now rest upon a different sort of person—just as long, about as thin, but more romantic. Handsome John C. Calhoun, of South Carolina, not yet 35, is here setting out to make a stir in the world. And he is doing it with about as tense a face and as deep-set eyes and as intractable hair as are to mark his later years. But now the hair shows something of attempted parting, and the eyes have a fairly startling brilliance that they will not quite keep. Republican of Republicans, future high priest of State's rights, this strange genius is here the foremost champion of Federal power.
No danger of our overlooking that dark young man sitting there in an absorbed, brooding way—he is of the great head and big black eyes — Daniel Webster. About 35 years old, just becoming famous, he already is getting the &lquo;god-like” look. Those eyes, oen day to recede beneath overwhelming forehead, now open so wonderously wide that brows seem fairly lifting to make room for them. However, probably he is not here called “all-eyes” as he was at college. We notice little side whiskers—don't Websterian. This overaweing young son of New Hampshire is a Federalist; whatever that means by now.
No, that is not a boy sitting at the desk nearby. It is a man over 40 years old. If he should suddenly rise, he would carry that small head, so almost child-like in countenance, 6 feet and 4 inches above the floor. We are seeing the famous Virginia orator John Randolph, of Roanoke. A strange, lone figure to remain on through the long days of his public life. Great and little, brilliant and puerile, sometimes almost inspired, always probably more or less mad.
Clay, Calhoun, Webster, Randolph! A rather imposing galaxy gracing this temporary Capitol.
The first three must be taken together. They do not know it yet, but they are starting in here to become that immortal trinity of geniuses, the Great Triumvirate. Virtually for the first time these young giants, Clay, Calhoun, Webster, are now meeting and measuring one another. Sometimes shoulder to shoulder, oftener divided this way or that. They are largely to shape the destinies of the country almost to the opening gun roar of the Civil War.
One day came interesting visitors. A representative, called down to the street door, found a carriage waiting containing two women wishing to be shown about. And so, that afternoon, this little hall of Congress had the honor to entertain (never mind matrimonial name) Martha and Nelly Custis “granddaughters” to George Washington.
The Brick Capitol early started to stage momentous scenes. To begin with, nothing less than the first congressional “salary grab.” From the outset of the Government the national lawgivers had worked for $6 a day, actual service. But now, everything had gone up. Why not lawmaking? A bill was introduced in the House giving congressmen $1,500 a year.
There was not much debate. Enough though to let us glimpse in action John Randolph, of Roanoke. Not that the man said much. Never did, even when he talked for two or three days. Not matter, but manner, held you spellbound to the end. Now he arose as a child on stilts, and said, “Mr. Speaker!”—said it as not other man could. The words rang. There had been no gun fired, but somehow it seemed as though there had. Then, in a high voice magically flexible, came keen relevant thought, hobnobbing with far-fetched but charming vagaries. Exactly what he said, we never shall know. Reporters could not cope with the swift, devious utterance. But in general we know; and this man’s speech—was the best one made for the salary bill.
Whirled through, upstairs and downstairs, that bill soon was a law. Then the country went into a furor—that is to say, into “ebullient indignation.” No act of Congress from the beginning of the Government had so incensed the people; and many members were to pay dearly for the first congressional “salary grab.”
Two memorable events of this session were debates in the House upon the tariff and upon the Bank of the United States. The echoes of those famous debates come down to us yet. But we always think of them as ringing from the lofty halls of the great Capitol, not from and upstairs room on First street. Now that trinity of geniuses came into action, Clay and Calhoun were for the tariff and the bank; oppose to both stood Webster.
Young Calhoun already had settled to the style of debate that was to mark him as an orator. The tall, graceful figure stiffened to overintensity. The voice, loud and harsh, rang down the room in short, sharp sentences like quick hammer blows. Was there any attempt at oratory here? Some said Calhoun was above resort to the “devices of eloquence;” other that he thought himself quite in the manner of the great Athenian. Now, as always, was that air of tremendous earnestness. Orator or not, a young member to be reckoned with. But how impossible to foresee the reckoning! Here in the Brick Capitol, this man of fire championing the central Government; and before long, over in the restored Capitol across the way to thunder nullification!
Then, Henry Clay upon the floor. Likely the House went into committee of the whole just for this. He must have risen with misgivings. He was about to utter a speech that he knew would be used against him—that has been unfairly so used down to the present day. He who just before the war had declared such a measure unconstitutional, was about to give support to the national bank his eloquent support. Of course, if any man could thus reverse himself to the complete satisfaction of everybody, it would be this fascinating man of the golden voice. Among moderns has there been any other voice to compare with it? Somebody has answered —yes, one, that of the elder Pitt. High among the honors of the little temporary Capitol, to have known the voice of Henry Clay in the days of its perfection.
Young Daniel Webster arose. Just doing that was an impressive thing then, as it was to be always. He spoke at some length as to the bank. And he was in long trousers (Even if he was a Federalist), and a buff waistcoat, and a blue coat with brass buttons. Likely some members failed to catch his opening words. His habit then was to begin in a low tone. An though they had hung still more curtains in that upper room, yet words kept on getting lost it it. With young Webster on the floor, another kind of oratory. While his voice was good, and on emotional occasions could soar majestically, the brick Capitol never heard it do so. There he was more intent upon the oratory of language than of utterance. Already he dressed logic as no one else could do. He made few gestures, perhaps because of this short forearms. What the man said in opposition to the bank was probably unanswerable—unfortunately for him.
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Indeed most oddly, the words of each member of the Great Triumvirate in the opening session at this corner Capitol were to turn veritable plaques in later years.
In April, 1816, Congress adjourned—the end of this brick building’s first experience as the Capitol of the United States. A successful one. Members has stretched out fairly content; talk of removing the seat of government had dwindled to a whisper, and sore-tried little Washington felt that Uncle Sam had taken her by the hand again.
When in December, Congress convened in the building for the 1816-17 session, there was excitement enough. Members were smarting from the belaboring of their constituents over that salary law. Upstairs and downstairs—anger, defiance, disgust. Upstairs especially. For upon representatives more than upon senators fell that severest popular rebuke ever administered to an American Congress. What to do? The appointed a committee to find out. Daniel Webster was a member and wrote its report. This spiritedly upheld the salary vote, but recommended, nevertheless, that Congress go obediently back to daily wages. Finally the two houses voted to repeal the law—but to take the money this time!
By this session the low-hanging gallery of the House was become so much a &lquo;lounging place” for the ladies that it was a recognized social center of Washington. Perhaps this was so to a greater degree than could have been with any other than the devoted ladies' man, Henry Clay in the chair. A fair visitor spoke of the members as having &lquo;grown very gallant and attentive.” Surely all of that on one occasion anyway. An interesting debate was on—“a hundred ladies in the gallery.” Eloquence ran into the hours, and beauty might have drooped and faded but for those “gallant” champions of the floor. They could not get into the crowded gallery, but they fastened oranges and cakes on the ends of poles and passed them up over the low railing. The Brick Capitol's tribute to American Womanhood!
At length came the closing days of the session—time for giving attention to another matter. March 4, 1817, was almost at hand and James Monroe to be inaugurated as President. The little Capitol's one inaugural. But it did not manage it well. The Senate and the House fell out as to the use of the room for the ceremonies. Late into the night of March 3 the deadlock held. As a last resort, carpenters were put to work in the darkness, and next morning a “scaffold” or “elevated portico” appeared at the front of the building, and upon that Mr. Monroe became President.
Little Washington, left to its summer quiet again, went slowly on with the restoration of her burned buildings. So slowly that congressmen could see little progress when they came back in December to the Brick Capitol for the 1817-18 session. These men were the new, the Fifteenth Congress. A body less able than its predecessor. The marked losses were Calhoun and Webster. One gone to join the Cabinet; the other retired for time from public life. So a break in the story of the Great Triumvirate. After a while, in the restored Capitol over the way, Clay, Webster, Calhoun would meet again to join swords or to cross them, in that trinity of brilliant, disappointed careers.
Again, Henry Clay was chosen Speaker. In every Congress he attended he was elected Speaker, though twice he resigned. We may call him the founder of the Speakership as it is known today. Before Clay, the presiding officer of the house was an exalted umpire. He made him a political power. He established the tradition in that upstairs room that an umpire could be a player in the game. Earlier Speakers had seldom taken part in debate. He frequently did. Probably the statement is true that not one his decisions was ever overruled. But doubtless some should have been—from other lips would have been. A popular as well as able Speaker, Henry Clay.
It was in this session of Congress that the little Brick Capitol faced a problem too big for it. The territory of Missouri came knocking at the door for admission to the Union. Ominous knocking. Heretofore, by a remarkable game of give-and-take—free State now, slave State next—several commonwealths had been admitted, and yet the great scales of sectional power hung fairly even. But now, at this application, everybody knew that the game was about up.
A second and a third time that knock at the door! Upstairs and downstairs, North and South looked into each others eye warily; neither side quite ready for the question. So, putting off the evil day, Congress turned to other things, and late one April night adjourned. But, as members issued from the arched doorway, of the Brick Capitol, some to go northward, some southward, they knew that they were separating as never before. They knew that, even unheeded, Missouri's knocking had shattered the sectional truce; knew they were going their separate ways now but to prepare for a long deferred, inevitable conflict.
That summer, far enough away from Missouri, another trouble was brewing for this little Capitol. The United States did not then own Florida, but long had been seeking to acquire it from Spain. The low portion along our border was a lawless strip, inhabited chiefly by Indians. Of late they had been raiding over the line, robbing, burning, slaying. Gen. Andrew Jackson, “hero of New Orleans,” was sent to punish them. The order seems to have been too small for the general. Incidentally, as it were, he also invaded Florida; captured two Spanish fortresses, expelled their garrisons, stationed garrisons of this own, and executed two subjects of Great Britain!
In the thrill of such doings the Brick Capitol threw open its doors, on a mid-November day, for the 1818-19 session of Congress. From all over an astonished country came members bristling with question marks. What is this about Jackson? Does it mean war? Resolutions for investigation were quickly introduced. But all this could not
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crowd out Missouri, whose knocking was again at the door.
Jackson! Missouri! Well, perhaps the brave little Capitol that had served Washington, sensing somehow that this was the last session of Congress it should ever know, was crowding the stage for spectacular finale.
The Jackson matter came first —chiefly upstairs. A spirited arraignment of the general. Everybody was there. No such proceeding—not even the trial of Aaron Burr—had ever so aroused the people.
Public interest centered upon one man in the debate. Henry Clay—when would he speak? Now the day was come. Trying to get upstairs would tell you that. Thronged with members on the upper floor were senators Cambinet officials, foreign ministers, distinguished strangers. The gallery was “crowded to suffocation.” Lobby and stairway little better
The tall, slender young Henry Clay arose. All knew it was in opposition to Jackson. The idol of the people against the hero of the people—but the hero'star in the ascendant. One of the greatest, of the most unfortunate moments in Henry Clay's life. Rarely was he to speak more brilliantly—never words he would more with to recall.
Doubtless, as usual, he began with a bit of almost unconscious acting—a straightening of the tall form, a waiting attitude fro an impressive moment. Then upon “perfect silence” fell the rich tones fo that matchless voice. For some reason, perhaps tenseness of the occasion, the man was speaking louder thatn was usual with him. He observed this after a while—too late.
Now, unsparing condemnation of Jackson. All had been wrong —illegal, unjust, perilously highhanded. What an opportunity of this artist's word-wizardry and word-melody. As always when the dramatic called, the whole lithe, swaying figure was eloquent. No matter that logic at times went astray, so long as it did it in tones orchestral. if we, catching what we may of his speech from cold type, think it “remarkable,” a “brilliant effort,” what must have been thought by those who caught it upon the appealing, thrilling, thundering diapason of that marvelous voice!
When Mr. Clay had spoken about three hours, he found that his voice, keyed to unusual tension, was failing, and he rather abruptly turned to his peroration.
The long-awaited speech at an end, so virtually was that day's session of Congress. Mr. Clay passed into the lobby, where he was surrounded by admirers of both sexes. But feminine admiration was always the more acceptable, and he soon was “lounging gracefully” at the feet of a pretty woman on the stairway.
Close following young Clay's speech, Gen Andrew Jackson (sensing battle from afar), came storming into Washington. Here, even with the storming, was the most striking American of his time. A tall, lank figure, straight as an indian; smooth, cadaverous face, topped by a shock of hair; high nose and piercing eyts, hawk-like; the whole man intense, dominent— and peppery as a hornet. With his alarming presence and his devastating oaths (omitted here as they would melt the type), Gen. Andrew Jackson stalked Washington. He did not at first go to the little hall of Congress, but he kept in effective touch with proceedings there.
At last one of the most dramatic debates ever held in the House came to an end—Jackson exonerated by a vote of more than two to one. He soon appeared in that upstairs room, but without attempt at demonstration, and did not remain long. What he himself thought of his Washington campaign is shown by his words to a friend: “It is fortunate I have come on, had I not, things would not have been as they are.” Now he set forth upon a triumphal tour of Eastern cities.
The Brick Capitol next turned to Missouri. The House took up a preliminary bill for its admission to statehood. That was on a Saturday afternoon bound to be remembered. The matter was no more than fairly up, before Mr. Tallmadge, of New York, was. When he sat down, the fat was in the fire. He had introduced the inevitable amendment to prohibit slavery in the new State. So here in the Brick Capitol was opened the historic battle between slave section and free to set seal upon the great West, and to grasp dominance in the Nation.
Through most of this sectional debate ragged tempers were fairly held; but they slipped the leash now and then. One day, feeling as to slavery running high, a dramatic indident occurred. Some members of the House so situated as to command a view of the street, beheld a little procession passing—a slave-driver's procession of some fifteen Negroes chained together, being driven westward. A scene as though set in a play. As legislative eyes followed the somber line drawing across the snow into Capitol Park—well, perhaps the little scene played its part. The Northern forces won here anyway, and the Missouri bill, with an antislavery provision, was passed and sent to the Senate.
Now excited interest ran hurriedly downstairs. There was enough to hold it there. The South made better showing among senators, who quickly passed the Missouri bill with the anti-slavery feature cut out. Just now, too, this floor recieved report from a committee it had appointed upon Florida matters — dead against Gen. Jackson.
So stood House and Senate, at odds over both Missouri and Jackson, when but a week remained of the session. If the brick building on the corner rather lost its head that last week of its existence as Capitol of the United States, there was reason enough. Things moved so fast—especially Jackson. The general was sitting at a manquet in his honor in Balimore when he learned of the Senate committee's report against him. He left the table and at daybreak next morning was dashing to Washington. He came charged with oathful threats to cut off senatorial ears. More than one member of the Senate committee now went constantly armed. The story is that a carriage drew up at congressional corner, and the irate general, intent upon chastising somebody, had got as far as the Senate door when he was met by Commodore Decatur, who succeeded in dissuading him from his purpose. Just as well, for it seems that Jacksonian merit, Jacksonian command of language, had already so impressed the Senate that the derogatory report was tabled and never heard of again.
Meanwhile, the Missouri bill was kept going up and down stairs between the two angry houses till it died with the last hours of the session. The little temporary Capitol had started what it could not finish—a sectional struggle that was to go on and on to the great compromise; and on and on again to Appomattox!
So it was that on March 3, 1819, in a burst of “tremendous excitement” but not much doing, Congress adjourned and the brick building on the corner went out of business as the Capitol of the United States.
However, there was yet to be one strange harking back to those proud days. The year 1850 came, and early April. A group of prominent senators issued from Capitol Park and entered that that old-time home of Congress, then a fashionable boarding house. They went to an upper room, and when they came out and passed down the stairway they were tenderly bearing all that remained of one of their eminent colleagues. And that meant that this storied building, which had seen the beginning of the Great Triumvirate, was witnessing also its end. For one of those pallbearers was Henry Clay, another Daniel Webster, and the still form between them that of John C. Calhoun.
That was the last reflection of those greater days when the old building on the corner was young—the Capitol ot the United States.
Now, after playing of her important parts in the passing of its hundred years, the last one as headquarters or the National Woman's Party, this historic structure has come to its end. Efforts to save it failed. Condemned and empty, it stands today upon its tree-grown terrace —the wrecking outfit already coming round the corner. Better stand back out of the way of falling bricks and stones and history.