Another of my few rambles took me to the Senate Chamber，hoping to hear and see if this large machine was run any better than some small ones Iknew of.I was too late，and found the Speaker's chair occupied by a colored gentleman of ten；while two others were "on their legs，"having a hot debate on the cornball question，as they gathered the waste paper strewn about the floor into bags；and several white members played leap-frog over the desks，a much wholesomer relaxation than some of the older Senators indulge in，I fancy.Finding the coast clear，I likewise gambolled up and down，from gallery to gallery；sat in Sumner's chair.and cudgelled an imaginary Brooks within an inch of his life；examined Wilson's books in the coolest possible manner；warmed my feet at one of the national registers；read people's names on scattered envelopes，and pocketed a castaway autograph or two；watched the somewhat unparliamentary proceedings going on about me，and wondered who in the world all the sedate gentlemen were，who kept popping out of odd doors here and there，like respectable Jacks-in-the-box.Then I wandered over the "palatial residence"of Mrs.Columbia，and examined its many beauties，though I can't say I thought her a tidy housekeeper，and didn't admire her taste in pictures，for the eye of this humble individual soon wearied of expiring patriots，who all appeared to be quitting their earthly tabernacles in convulsions，ruffled shirts，and a whirl of torn banners，bomb shells，and buff and blue arms and legs.The statuary also was massive and concrete，but rather wearying to examine；for the colossal ladies and gentlemen，carried no cards of introduction in face or figure；so，whether the meditative party in a kilt，with well-developed legs，shoes like army slippers，and a ponderous nose，was Columbus，Cato，or Cockelorum Tibby，the tragedian，was more than I could tell.Several robust ladies attracted me；but which was America and which Pocahontas was a mystery；for all affected much looseness of costume，dishevelment of hair，swords，arrows，lances，scales，and other ornaments quite passéwith damsels of our day，whose effigies should go down to posterity armed with fans，crochet needles，riding whips，and parasols，with here and there one holding pen or pencil，rolling-pin or broom.The statue of Liberty I recognized at once，for it had no pedestal as yet，but stood flat in the mud，with Young America most symbollically making dirt pies，and chip forts，in its shadow.But high above the squabbling little throng and their petty plans，the sun shone full on Liberty's broad forehead，and，in her hand，some summer bird had built its nest.I accepted the good omen then，and，on the first of January，the Emancipation Act gave the statue a nobler and more enduring pedestal than any marble or granite ever carved and quarried by human bands.
One trip to Georgetown Heights，where cedars sighed overhead，dead leaves rustled underfoot，pleasant paths led up and down，and a brook wound like a silver snake by the blackened ruins of some French Minister's house，through the poor gardens of the black washerwomen who congregated there，and，passing the cemetery with a murmurous lullaby，rolled away to pay its little tribute to the river.This breezy run was the last I took；for，on the morrow，came rain and wind：and confinement soon proved a powerful reinforcement to the enemy，who was quietly preparing to spring a mine，and blow me five hundred miles from the position I had taken in what Icalled my Chickahominy Swamp.
Shut up in my room，with no voice，spirits，or books，that week was not a holiday，by any means.Finding meals a humbug，I stopped away altogether，trusting that if this sparrow was of any worth，the Lord would not let it fall to the ground.Like a flock of friendly ravens，my sister nurses fed me，not only with food for the body，but kind words for the mind；and soon，from being half starved，I found myself so beteaed and betoasted，petted and served，that I was quite "in the lap of luxury，"in spite of cough，headache，a painful consciousness of my pleura，and a realizing sense of bones in the human frame.From the pleasant house on the hill，the home in the heart of Washington，and the Willard caravansary，came friends new and old，with bottles，baskets，carriages and invitations for the invalid；and daily our Florence Nightingale climbed the steep stairs，stealing a moment from her busy life，to watch over the stranger，of whom she was as thoughtfully tender as any mother.Long may she wave！Whatever others may think or say，Nurse Periwinkle is forever grateful；and among her relics of that Washington defeat，none is more valued than the little book which appeared on her pillow，one dreary day；for the D D.written in it means to her far more than Doctor of Divinity.
Being forbidden to meddle with fleshly arms and legs，I solaced myself by mending cotton ones，and，as I sat sewing at my window，watched the moving panorama that passed below；amusing myself with taking notes of the most striking figures in it.Long trains of army wagons kept up a perpetual rumble from morning till night；ambulances rattled to and fro with busy surgeons，nurses taking an airing，or convalescents going in parties to be fitted to artificial limbs.Strings of sorry looking horses passed，saying as plainly as dumb creatures could，"Why，in a city full of them，is there no horse pital for us？"Often a cart came by，with several rough coffins in it and no mourners following；baroucbes，with invalid officers，rolled round the corner，and carriage loads of pretty children，with black coachmen，footmen，and maids.The women who took their walks abroad，were so extinguished in three story bonnets，with overhanging balconies of flowers，that their charms were obscured；and all I can say of them is that they dressed in the worst possible taste，and walked like ducks.
