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UNIVERSITY COURIER.
LETTER FROM MISS GERTIE A. BULLENE, 77.
We have been permitted to publish the following letter, addressed to the G. E. B. club, which, as coming from a graduate of the University, well and favorably known to a very large proportion of the readers of the Courier, will be perused, we have no doubt, with great delight :
WASHINGTON, D.C.
My Dear Club:-I said I would wait until I had a budget of news sufficiently large to substitute for those most excellent chronicles with which, I have no doubt, the G. E. Bs. have been beguiling these few last Tuesday afternoons. But I have waited so long that the budget is so large that it would take volumes to hold it all, and in mercy and compassion I send only a portion of said budget.
I will begin by telling you all "Howdy," and that I sincerely wish every one of my dear G. E. Bs. could be here with me, and having just as nice a time as I am. Oh girls, I am having such a delightful time. No one can imagine half how much I enjoy it, unless they are here to see me. But this isn't telling you anything, so here goes.
I won't dilate upon Chicago, though I spent two days there very pleasantly; saw Ella Hadley; went to the Grand Opera of the "Huguenots," and came away on Saturday night, ten o'clock. Arrived in Washington, Monday A.M. I was just in time for the President's grand Levee, which occurred on Monday evening. My first visit to the White House was naturally an episode of importance, and it was delightful. However, I was totally unprepared for anything so strikingly democratic. One can hardly imagine anything so odd and amusing as this panorama of contrasting faces and costumes. Silks, satins, velvets, laces, and diamonds, side by side with the rudest and most uncouth costumes imaginable. A brilliant beauty, gorgeously attired, sandwiched in between two honest sons of toil, who are as blissfully ignorant that they are any more the cause of her flashing eyes than they are of her gleaming gems. A poor little homespun country lassie, drifting in between two statesmen; a helpless little old man, almost annihilated between two ponderous, black-velveted, bediamonded matrons. Well, at last we came to the goal, the ultimatum of our struggles—the Blue Room. Here the President and his lady were receiving, shaking hands with every one in that vast crowd; at their left stood their son, Webb Hayes, who received your name and introduces you to the President. But Mr. H., being well acquainted with the President and lady, introduced me himself. I was not in the least impressed by Mr. Hayes—the next day I could not remember at all how he looked. Indeed, that evening, I could see no one but his lovely Frau, who is the most charming lady I ever saw. She is a dark brunette, and was dressed in heavy cream brocade. She wins your heart immediately, when she grasps your hand as if you were the dearest friend she had on earth, and says in the most cordial voice, "I am happy to meet you Miss——. Good evening." I had come into that room feeling scared, bewildered, and exceedingly like a bashful country girl; I went out from there too proud for any use, and feeling myself of the utmost importance to the world in general. I have no doubt every other poor, little country girl underwent exactly such a metamorphosis in that same Blue room that evening. There are three smaller rooms to pass through—the Red room, the Blue room, and the Green room—before you enter the large and magnificent East room. This is the room where Lincoln's body was laid in state. This was crowded with just such a mixture of everybody as the others. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers scattered about everywhere, and a band just without, in the vestibule, discoursed the most entrancing of music. It was altogether a novel and delightful experience for me, which must be my excuse for detaining you so long in the White House.
One Saturday afternoon we drove down to the Navy Yard to witness an exhibition of a life-saving apparatus by Prof. Boynton. The man is supposed to have just been shipwrecked. He is enveloped in a water proof suit from head to foot; attached to this is a small water tight boat, like a box, containing necessaries for prolonging "life on the ocean wave." Of course the idea was to show us how easily one could move about, and how long it would be possible to sustain life by the aid of this apparatus, but in order not to tire the audience he introduced some features in the entertainment which were amusing from their absurdity. He took from his boat hammer and nails, and after hunting around he discovers some boards, from which he constructs a raft; he jumps on the raft, fires a salute to some sail supposed to be visible, fires rockets of distress, scans the horizon with a telescope; the materials for all this business he finds in his box. Then he takes a fishing rod, swims off, lies on his elbow on the bosom of the Potomac, and draws up a fish; then he builds a fire on the raft, cooks his fish and sets the table. You should have heard the screams of laughter when he took from his box a table cloth, spread it on the raft, a goblet with a red napkin folded in it, a plate of oranges, castor, and everything pertaining to a first class table, ate his dinner, washing it down with a bottle of Bass ale, the cork of which he pulled lying on his back in the water. It was all very amusing, and the banks of the Potomac were crowded with spectators. The President, members of the Cabinet and a great many notables were there.
The first Sunday I was here we attended the Congregational church, where Dr. Rankin preaches, who is, I understand, a relative of one of the G.E.Bs. In this church they have the finest organ I ever heard. There is a "Vox humani" stop, which is the most marvelous imitation of a tenor voice that can be made. Indeed, I thought it was a man singing, and was wondering where he was, when they told me it was only a stop. The organist, Prof. Bischoff, is blind, but I don't think the eyes were ever made that could see how to make such music as he feels, and draws from that organ with his wonderful touch.
I haven't said a word about the Capitol yet. I don't know how. It has been described to death already. I believe one may read a thousand descriptions, and yet your first visit to this magnificent building is a revelation, a perfect burst of grandeur—this labyrinth of marble columns, inlaid floors, and frescoed ceilings. It is needless to say more. One is in the Capitol of the United States. That tells the story. I have been there many times already; I go whenever I can possibly spare time from other things. The House is vastly more entertaining than the Senate. The members have so much more fight in them than the Senators, and it's such fun to see them get up and shake their fists at each other and scream till they are black in the face, and just when they have worked themselves way up the crescendo, to the climax of eloquence and noise, down comes the Speaker's hammer, and they have to stop, nolens volens. We went once to an evening session, and it was a stormy one, too. All the galleries were packed with spectators, and the session lasted till eleven o'clock.
The library in the Capitol is well worth seeing—three immense rooms packed four stories high with books. Every book printed in the United States is found upon these shelves; there are three hundred and fifty-two thousand books, and three copies of each work, so there are over a million volumes in the library. There is an extremely booky little old man, with gray hair, who can put his finger right on any book you may ask him for, whether it be obscure, grave, or trashy.
The Corcoran Art Gallery figures conspicuously among the lions of the city. It is a very large building, completely filled with pictures and statuary, besides a great many antique and rare specimens of bronzes and pottery. Mr. Corcoran has donated the building, with its rare collection, to the city. We have "done" the Patent Office and Dead Letter Office, both of which are very interesting. The former is, undoubtedly, the biggest toy shop in the world, for here is found the world in miniature, or rather the miniatures from which the world has been made. It is rather tiresome and monotonous to examine case after case of door locks, safe keys, stew pans, et cetera, et cetera, and it was a relief to stumble upon Mrs. McCullough's steam cooker, the one name in all that huge collection that we recognized. No, I forget; way off in one corner of the room,