The Seventh had had a wearisome and anxious progress from New York, as I have chronicled in the June “Atlantic.”  We had marched from Annapolis, while “rumors to right of us, rumors to left of us, volleyed and thundered.”  We had not expected that the attack upon us would be merely verbal.  The truculent citizens of Maryland notified us that we were to find every barn a Concord and every hedge a Lexington.  Our Southern brethren at present repudiate their debts; but we fancied they would keep their warlike promises.  At least, everybody thought, “They will fire over our heads, or bang blank cartridges at us.”  Every nose was sniffing for the smell of powder.  Vapor instead of valor nobody looked for.  So the march had been on the qui vive.  We were happy enough that it was over, and successful.

Successful, because Mumbo Jumbo was not installed in the White House.  It is safe to call Jeff.  Davis Mumbo Jumbo now.  But there is no doubt that the luckless man had visions of himself receiving guests, repudiating debts, and distributing embassies in Washington, May 1, 1861.  And as to La’ Davis, there seems to be documentary evidence that she meant to be “At Home” in the capital, bringing the first strawberries with her from Montgomery for her May-day soiree.  Bah! one does not like to sneer at people who have their necks in the halter; but one happy result of this disturbance is that the disturbers have sent themselves to Coventry.  The Lincoln party may be wanting in finish.  Finish comes with use.  A little roughness of manner, the genuine simplicity of a true soul like Lincoln, is attractive.  But what man of breeding could ever stand the type Southern Senator?  But let him rest in such peace as he can find!  He and his peers will not soon be seen where we of the New York Seventh were now entering.

They gave us the Representatives Chamber for quarters.  Without running the gauntlet of caucus primary and election, every one of us attained that sacred shrine.

In we marched, tramp, tramp.  Bayonets took the place of buncombe.  The frowzy creatures in ill-made dress-coats, shimmering satin waistcoats, and hats of the tile model, who lounge, spit, and vociferate there, and name themselves M.C., were off.  Our neat uniforms and bright barrels showed to great advantage, compared with the usual costumes of the usual dramatis personae of the scene.

It was dramatic business, our entrance there.  The new Chamber is gorgeous, but ineffective.  Its ceiling is flat, and panelled with transparencies.  Each panel is the coat-of-arms of a State, painted on glass.  I could not see that the impartial sunbeams, tempered by this skylight, had burned away the insignia of the malecontent States.  Nor had any rampant Secessionist thought to punch any of the seven lost Pleiads out from that firmament with a long pole.  Crimson and gold are the prevailing hues of the decorations.  There is no unity and breadth of coloring.  The desks of the members radiate in double files from a white marble tribune at the centre of the semicircle.