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HE Senate Chamber at Washington is shaped like an arc. The galleries outline the segment; in the center of the chord is the marble dais whereon is enthroned the presiding officer. In the area below are first the clerks and the reporters, and then the Senators themselves, with the Democrats on the right and the Republicans on the left, and the Populists sitting wherever they can the architect evidently not having been aware that there may be three sides to a question.

To the thoughtful, who realize the folly as well as the futility of the cry, sometime popular, that the Senate should be abolished, there is something symbolical in the design of this dignified and beautiful assembly-room; for it seems to denote that the Senate is an important and essential part of the governmental circle, without which there would be an unsightly break-a gap that could not be filled.

The air of the Senate, like that of all high altitudes, is clear and calm. Beneath are the clouds and storms; here prevails the serenity of remoteness and permanence. As an exponent of this peculiar atmosphere, Vice-President Hobart seems the right man in the right place: he can be so somnolent

and altogether comfortable. Each Senator, too, in his moments of relaxation, predicates a double-gown and a pair of slippers. He not only has arrived, but he has brought his things with him, and is going to stay a little while. And why not, indeed?-who has a plainer right to fold the hands against political worry? In a half-dozen years one may survive a half-dozen tempests of unpopularity and yet come forth for re-election to find the sun shining never so brightly. Representatives, it is true, can never escape from the eternal" next fall;" that is an old man of the sea that presses its knees and drives in its heels in House, lobby, and committeeroom. But if a sword is suspended over any Senator's head, there are six strands that must be parted before damage can be done. Time is an emollient of bitterness. When Rip Van Winkle returned, he was fat and hearty and well liked by his neighbors.

Together with this security of position, a Senator has many high privileges. Like an Ambassador, he has instant access to the President. His name on a card can work all sorts of official wonders at the Departments, being a presto-change for positions not subject to civil service rules. Representatives of his party bow down before him, delighted

to receive the scraps after he has taken the lion-share of the patronage. The sight of a Congressman talking with his Senator reminds one of a good little boy being sent on an errand-he looks so pleased to do as he is told. A Senator, too, is attended by the most expert of underlings. There is no clerk so full of whispered information, au. thentic, mark you, as the Senatorial clerk. There is no page so spry as the Senatorial page. When he gets to be too old to be in two places at one time, he is translated to the House, and another little brother of Puck appointed in his stead. The Sergeant-atArms is a naturalborn coddler; it is said that he supplies mufflers and galoshes in the winter, and lemonade and fans in the summer for his wardsin-arms. As for the Capitol policeman, his hours are reduced when he serves in the Senate wing, the strain of responsibility is so intense. The Senate doorkeeper is a survival of the fittest-an heirloom of deportment from the fathers. Sometimes he quavers of the days before the war, as if they were but yesterday. He means the Mexican war.

interviewing so prevalent about the entrances of the House. At one side of the Senate Chamber is a large anteroom, where decorum reigns and hats are sternly admonished off if not immediately doffed. At the passageway to the inner apartment sits an elderly man, with several youths in waiting. You hand your card to this Lord Chamberlain in mufti, at the same time breathing the name of the Senator whom you desire to see, which he notes on the back. He then delivers the pasteboard, thus still further stiffened, to one of the esquires, with much of the air of Gunkeeper No. 1 to the King hand

The public seeking information finds a marked contrast for the better in the Senate wing of the Capitol. Officials not only know, but they seem anxious to impart. One gratefully misses that rollicking, transitory indifference so noticeable in the attachés of the House. Take Mr. Amzi Smith, for instance, Superintendent of the Senate DocumentRoom from time immemorial. Any one who has the pleasure of consulting him meets a veritable index of the rolls, who has not only the title and contents of every bill, but also abundant copies of the same, at his fingers' ends, all at the disposal of every comer.

Senators are much beset by visitors, but there is none of that informal, pertinacious

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ing the royal musket to Gunkeeper No. 2. Away goes the messenger, speedily or slothfully in direct proportion with length of service. On his return he stands in the doorway and makes the following announcements those seeking audience, who again find themselves looking for pumps and knee-breeches: "Senator Blank is not here at present." "Senator Soand-so will see you, sir. Juststep right in to the receptionroom." "Senator X? Very sorry, madam, but the

Senator makes it a rule not to see ladies at the Capitol."

Other Senators do make it a rule to see ladies at the Capitol, as the lucky seeker after Senator So-and-so discovers as he passes right into the reception-room. For there is an aura of femininity prevalent which seems to say that America is also ruled by a queen. As for the room itself, it might well have been borrowed from a salon of medieval Paris, or of a Hudson River night-boat, so profuse is it with heavy draperies, puffy furniture, and glittering glass ornamentations. Soon the Senator appears, beaming as to the eye and grasping as to the hand, and all aglow with the consciousness

of what a royal good fellow he is, to be sure. He leads to an unoccupied corner, and then the inevitable whispering begins. Suddenly an electric bell rings buzzily. "Executive session," some one cries; and the visitors scurry away, while the Solons, with many a mental wink, leisurely return to talk scandal behind closed doors-or, in other words, to consider the nomination of John Smith as Postmaster at Porkopolis.

Procedure in the Senate differs from procedure in the House as suaviter in modo differs from fortiter in re. Yet some of the mightiest engines are the most noiseless. Everything is done by your leave instead of in your despite. The majority sits with, instead of on, the minority. "This is a Senate of equals," remarked Webster, although well knowing that he wore the largest hat. There have been occasional wrangles, it is true, but these have been started by new men, recent graduates of the House, not yet thoroughly etiolated, and have been instigated by the aggressive independence of such an elevation. Now, true Senatorial independence is unconscious; you must take it for granted, like all other blessings, without even being duly thankful. That man is most apt to lead in the Senate who has the least design to do so. During the last session several eminent Senators won the censure of their

associates, besides a liberal supply of unreliable information, by attempting to canvass regarding certain important measures then pending a custom meekly acquiesced in by the House. This was an innovation; and a Senatorial innovation, be it understood, is impertinent. The one unpardonable sin in the Senate is to be un-Senatorial.

From a lack of autocracy, it follows that committees in the Senate are less powerful than in the House, where each committee illustrates the anomaly of a part being considerably larger than the whole. Even the way in which Senatorial committee-assignments are made marks this difference; for they are reported from a select committee and ratified by ballot, instead of being dropped from a Speaker's hat. In regard to chairmanships, seniority of service generally controls, but not always. For example, Senator Davis was chosen Chairman of Foreign Relations, although junior in service to Senator Frye. Precedence in a committee is strictly observed. A Senator will say proudly, "I am number two on Claims," and then add modestly, "I am number thirteen

still entitled to be called a deliberative body. Debate is regarded as an agent and not as an interpellator. There is no clôture, although there have been several desperate attempts to establish it, notably once by Henry Clay, and once again, in our own times, during Harrison's administration, in the interest of a new force bill. It may appear significant, except to those whose emblem for the will of the majority is a bludgeon, that in every instance where clôture has been advocated, it has been as the last resort for the passage of some unpopular and undemocratic measure. The Senate rules on the subject of debate merely provide that no Senator shall speak more than twice in any one debate on the same day. Hence, when a Senator gets the floor, he holds it at the will of his verbosity. A Senatorial sense of what is decent and right, however, proves an efficient check. This sense, by the way, like unconscious independence, is a development-something to be acquired by a new Senator, but second nature itself to an old one. As Senator Teller remarked during the rancorous Hawaiian debate last summer, it is assumed that no Senator says more than he has to say, and hence it is the pleasure of the Senate to hear him. In fact, a certain noblesse does oblige, as Mrs. Mala

prop, a not infrequent visitor at the National Capital, might observe.

From this very ease and breadth of procedure, it often happens that the Senate takes the initiative and both leads and controls public opinion. This is contrary to the popular notion that the Senate is nothing if not reactionary; but if all popular notions could be collated and published, the collection would be the most exhaustive epitome of delusions extant. Throughout the course of events leading up to the declaration that Spanish sovereignty must cease on the island of Cuba, it was the will of the Senate that prevailed. The most efficient machine is the simplest, not the most complex. Now, the Senate is a small, homogeneous body; it may almost be said to run itself, were not to run too active a verb to be used in such connection.

The Senators, necessarily, know one another well. Hence there is an imaginary line between the two sides, and not a barrier as in the House. It is a very common sight to see members of different parties visiting with each other. It seems as if the Republicans took the lead in this good fellowship, many of their younger Senators being fond of wandering over to the Democratic seats and cracking a joke or arguing a point of law

with some fine old Southern Bourbon. The latter, after having once settled in his stock and adjusted the wrinkles of his broadcloth, is more apt to remain statuesquely stationary. Many of the Senators are nomadic in their propensities, folding up their papers and stealing away from one seat to another like peripatetic philosophers in search of a shadier grove. Does a Senator envy the title to a certain seat, he puts his name down in a book kept for such records, and then, when the present occupant retires to private life, if the applicant still survives Senatorially, he succeeds to it.

The average age of the present Senate is about fifty-seven, the oldest Senator, Morrill, of Vermont, being eighty-eight, and the youngest, Butler, of North Carolina, being thirtyfive. There is something significant about these two extremes; for the former, in his tendencies and beliefs, is all that is settled and conservative, and the latter all that is new and radical. In general, it may be said

that influence in the Senate is proportioned with years. The older Senators seem to come from the East and South; the younger, from the Middle States and the West. All of the Senate are native-born except the following: Pasco, Mantle, Jones of Nevada, and Wetmore, who were born in England; Sewell, who was born in Ireland; Gallinger and McMillan, who were born in Canada; and Nelson, who was born in Norway. The foregoing, therefore, are the only ones ineligible to the Presidency. Not a serious disability, some will say, bearing in mind the old saying that the Senate is the graveyard of political hopes. But is this true? Only to the extent, it would seem, that, where only one can be successful at a time, many must be disappointed; for the Senate, assuredly, is a forcing-bed for Presidential candidates. There has rarely been an election, since Monroe's era of good feeling, when not one of the nominees has ever served in the Senate. The graveyard generalization is probably a sur