adventurer like scores of others; a politician without party; a writer without principles; an office-seeker certain to beg for support. All this was, for his purposes, true. Adams could do him no good, and would be likely to do him all the harm in his power. Adams accepted it all; expected to be kept at arm's length; admitted that the reasons were just. He was the more surprised to see that Sumner invited a renewal of old relations. He found himself treated almost confidentially. Not only was he asked to make a fourth at Sumner's pleasant little dinners in the house on La Fayette Square, but he found himself admitted to the Senator's study and informed of his views, policy and purposes, which were some times even more astounding than his curious gaps or lapses of omniscience.
On the whole, the relation was the queerest that Henry Adams ever kept up. He liked and admired Summer, but thought his mind a pathological study. At times he inclined to think that Mr. Summer felt his solitude, and, in the political wilderness, craved educated society; but this hardly told the whole story. Summer's mind had reached the calm of water which receives and reflects images without absorbing them; it contained nothing but itself. The images from without, the objects mechanically perceived by the senses, existed by courtesy until the mental surface was ruined, but never became part of the thought. Henry Adams roused no emotion; if he had roused a disagreeable one, he would have ceased to exist. The mind would have mechanically rejected, as it had mechanically admitted him. Not that Summer was more aggressively egoistic than other senators,—Conkling, for instance,—but that with him the disease had affected the whole mind; it was chronic and absolute; while, with other senators for the most part, it was still acute.
Perhaps for this very reason, Summer was the more valuable acquaintance for a newspaper-man. Adams found him most useful; perhaps quite the most useful of all these great authorities who were the stock-in-trade of the newspaper business; the accumulated capital of a Silurian age. A few months or years more, and they were gone. In 1868, they were like the town itself, changing but not changed. La Fayette Square was society. Within a few hundred yards of Mr. Clark Mills' nursery monument to the equestrian seat of Andrew Jackson, one found all one's acquaintance as well as hotels, banks,
