machinery of some sort had to be invented. An eternity of Grants, or even of Garfields, or of Conklings or of Jay Goulds, refused to be conceived as possible. Practical Americans laughed, and went their way. Society paid them to be practical. Whenever society cared to pay Adams, he too would be practical, take his pay, and hold his tongue; but meanwhile he was driven to associate with democratic congressmen and educate them. He served David Wells as an active assistant professor of revenue reform, and turned his rooms into a College. The administration drove him, and thousands of other young men, into active enmity not only to Grant but to the system or want of system, which took possession of the President. Every hope or thought which had brought Adams to Washington proved to be absurd. No one wanted him; no one wanted any of his friends in reform; the blackmailer alone was the normal product of politics as of business.
All this was excessively amusing. Adams never had been so busy, so interested, so much in the thick of the crowd. He knew Congress men by scores and newspaper-men by the dozen. He wrote for his various organs all sorts of attacks and defences. He enjoyed the life enormously, and found himself as happy as Sam Ward or Sunset Cox; much happier than his friends Fish or J. D. Cox, or Chief Justice Chase or Attorney-General Hoar or Charles Sumner. When spring came he took to the woods, which were best of all, for after the first of April, what Maurice de Guérin called "the vast maternity" of nature showed charms more voluptuous than the vast paternity of the United States Senate. Senators were less ornamental than the dogwood or even the Judas-tree. They were as a rule, less good company. Adams astonished himself by remarking what a purified charm was lent to the Capitol by the greatest possible distance, as one caught glimpses of the dome over miles of forest-foliage. At such moments he pondered on the distant beauty of St. Peter's and the steps of Ara Coeli.
Yet he shortened his spring for he needed to get back to London for the season. He had finished his New York Gold Conspiracy, which he meant for his friend Henry Reeve and the Edinburgh Review. It was the best piece of work he had done, but this was not his reason for publishing it in England. The Erie scandal had provoked a sort of revolt among respectable New Yorkers, as well as among some who
