Love, travel, even death itself, waited on the chances of the dies daily thrown in the two Houses, and the committee rooms there.  If the measure went through, love could afford to ripen into marriage, and longing for foreign travel would have fruition; and it must have been only eternal hope springing in the breast that kept alive numerous old claimants who for years and years had besieged the doors of Congress, and who looked as if they needed not so much an appropriation of money as six feet of ground.  And those who stood so long waiting for success to bring them death were usually those who had a just claim.

Representing states and talking of national and even international affairs, as familiarly as neighbors at home talk of poor crops and the extravagance of their ministers, was likely at first to impose upon Philip as to the importance of the people gathered here.

There was a little newspaper editor from Phil’s native town, the assistant on a Peddletonian weekly, who made his little annual joke about the “first egg laid on our table,” and who was the menial of every tradesman in the village and under bonds to him for frequent “puffs,” except the undertaker, about whose employment he was recklessly facetious.  In Washington he was an important man, correspondent, and clerk of two house committees, a “worker” in politics, and a confident critic of every woman and every man in Washington.  He would be a consul no doubt by and by, at some foreign port, of the language of which he was ignorant—­though if ignorance of language were a qualification he might have been a consul at home.  His easy familiarity with great men was beautiful to see, and when Philip learned what a tremendous underground influence this little ignoramus had, he no longer wondered at the queer appointments and the queerer legislation.

Philip was not long in discovering that people in Washington did not differ much from other people; they had the same meannesses, generosities, and tastes:  A Washington boarding house had the odor of a boarding house the world over.

Col.  Sellers was as unchanged as any one Philip saw whom he had known elsewhere.  Washington appeared to be the native element of this man.  His pretentions were equal to any he encountered there.  He saw nothing in its society that equalled that of Hawkeye, he sat down to no table that could not be unfavorably contrasted with his own at home; the most airy scheme inflated in the hot air of the capital only reached in magnitude some of his lesser fancies, the by-play of his constructive imagination.

“The country is getting along very well,” he said to Philip, “but our public men are too timid.  What we want is more money.  I’ve told Boutwell so.  Talk about basing the currency on gold; you might as well base it on pork.  Gold is only one product.  Base it on everything!  You’ve got to do something for the West.  How am I to move my crops?  We must have improvements.  Grant’s got the idea.  We want a canal from the James River to the Mississippi.  Government ought to build it.”