Our entrance into the Federal City was not without its humorous side. We arrived in the early morning, about two o’clock, driving up to the National Hotel, where, owing to a mistake on the part of the night-clerk, an incident occurred with which for many a day I twitted my husband and our male companions on that eventful occasion. At that period it was the almost universal custom for Southern gentlemen to wear soft felt hats, and the fashion was invariable when travelling. In winter, too, long-distance voyagers as commonly wrapped themselves in the blanket shawl, which was thrown around the shoulders in picturesque fashion and was certainly comfortable, if not strictly _à la mode_. My husband and the other gentlemen of our party were so provided on our journey northward, and upon our arrival, it must be admitted, none in that travel-stained and weary company would have been mistaken for a Washington exquisite of the period. As our carriage stopped in front of the hotel door, Mr. Dowdell, muffled to the ears, his soft-brimmed hat well down over his face (for the wind was keen), stepped out quickly to arrange for our accommodation. The night was bitterly cold, and the others of our company were glad to remain under cover until our spokesman returned. This he did in a moment or two. He appeared crestfallen, and quite at a loss. “Nothing here, Clay!” he said to my husband. “Man says they have no rooms!” “Nonsense, Dowdell!” was Senator Clay’s response. “You must be mistaken. Here, step inside while I inquire!” He, muffled as mysteriously, and in no whit more trust-inspiring than the dejected Mr. Dowdell, strode confidently in. Not many minutes elapsed ere he, too, returned. “Well!” he said. “I don’t understand it, but Dowdell’s right! They say they have no rooms for us!” At this we were dismayed, and a chorus of exclamations went up from men and women alike. What were we to do? In a moment, I had resolved. “There’s some mistake! I don’t believe it,” I said. “I’ll go and see;” and, notwithstanding my husband’s remonstrances, I hurried out of the carriage and into the hotel. Stepping to the desk I said to the clerk in charge: “Is it possible you have no rooms for our party in this large hostelry? Is it possible, Sir, that at this season, when Congress is convening, you have reserved no rooms for Congressional guests?” He stammered out some confused reply, but I hurried on. “I am Mrs. Clay, of Alabama. You have refused my husband, Senator Clay, and his friend, Representative Dowdell. What does it mean?” “Why, certainly, Madam,” he hastened to say, “I have rooms for _those_.” And forthwith ordered the porters to go for our luggage. Then, reaching hurriedly for various keys, he added, “I beg your pardon, Madam! I did not know you were those!”