Haply there was a body of demigods, as yet uninvoked, who should speedily settle all that.  When Smith of Minnesota, Robinson of Vermont, and Jones of Georgia returned to Congress from these rural seclusions so potent with information and so freed from local prejudices, it was understood, vaguely, that great things would be done.  This was always understood.  There never was a time in the history of American politics when, to use the expression of the journals before alluded to, “the present session of Congress” did not “bid fair to be the most momentous in our history,” and did not, as far as the facts go, leave a vast amount of unfinished important business lying hopelessly upon its desks, having “bolted” the rest as rashly and with as little regard to digestion or assimilation as the American traveller has for his railway refreshment.

In this capital, on this languid midsummer day, in an upper room of one of its second-rate hotels, the Honorable Pratt C. Gashwiler sat at his writing-table.  There are certain large, fleshy men with whom the omission of even a necktie or collar has all the effect of an indecent exposure.  The Hon. Mr. Gashwiler, in his trousers and shirt, was a sight to be avoided by the modest eye.  There were such palpable suggestions of vast extents of unctuous flesh in the slight glimpse offered by his open throat that his dishabille should have been as private as his business.  Nevertheless, when there was a knock at his door he unhesitatingly said, “Come in!”—­pushing away a goblet crowned with a certain aromatic herb with his right hand, while he drew towards him with his left a few proof slips of his forthcoming speech.  The Gashwiler brow became, as it were, intelligently abstracted.

The intruder regarded Gashwiler with a glance of familiar recognition from his right eye, while his left took in a rapid survey of the papers on the table, and gleamed sardonically.

“You are at work, I see,” he said apologetically.

“Yes,” replied the Congressman, with an air of perfunctory weariness,—­“one of my speeches.  Those d——­d printers make such a mess of it; I suppose I don’t write a very fine hand.”

If the gifted Gashwiler had added that he did not write a very intelligent hand, or a very grammatical hand, and that his spelling was faulty, he would have been truthful, although the copy and proof before him might not have borne him out.  The near fact was that the speech was composed and written by one Expectant Dobbs, a poor retainer of Gashwiler, and the honorable member’s labor as a proof-reader was confined to the introduction of such words as “anarchy,” “oligarchy,” “satrap,” “palladium,” and “Argus-eyed” in the proof, with little relevancy as to position or place, and no perceptible effect as to argument.

The stranger saw all this with his wicked left eye, but continued to beam mildly with his right.  Removing the coat and waistcoat of Gashwiler from a chair, he drew it towards the table, pushing aside a portly, loud-ticking watch,—­the very image of Gashwiler,—­that lay beside him, and, resting his elbows on the proofs, said: