Others had only called to thank the President for his kindness concerning their pardons. They were about to start home, and it would afford them the greatest pleasure to co-operate in the work of reconstruction, and especially to do all in their power in support of the President’s policy. The District Attorney of Tennessee wanted to know what course to pursue about confiscations. He had been endeavoring to discharge his duties under the confiscation law, but before he had been able to get through the proceedings in any case, the President’s pardon had put a stop to it. He was told to call to-morrow. So the crowd thinned out, one by one. By half-past five Mr. Johnson was alone with his secretaries—only a few idlers still passing before the open door for a stolen look at the Chief-Magistrate of the Republic. * * * * * At the other end of the avenue, in a large, pleasantly-furnished suite of rooms in the basement of the capitol, was a curious contrast. Whoever chose, whatever the degree of his treachery, might go in to stare at the President or ask for a pardon. At the rooms of the Court of Claims, a poor, friendless, cowardly, and cruel Swiss mercenary was on trial for his life for cruelties to National prisoners, known to have been fully reported to the Rebel officials the President was pardoning. Near one end of the connecting rooms stood a long table, at the head of which, sat the small, nervous figure of Major General Lew. Wallace, and around which were grouped the members of his Military Commission. Among them was General Thomas, the grey-headed Adjutant General of the United States Army; hearty and companionable, General Geary of Pennsylvania; and General Fessenden, of Maine, still limping from his wounds. Opposite General Wallace, at a little cross-table, sat young, long-bearded, pleasant-faced Colonel Chipman, the Judge Advocate of the Commission. Near the latter, shrinking down upon his chair, and mostly seeking to avoid the gaze of the crowd, sat the cringing prisoner on trial for atrocities almost without a parallel in the history of modern warfare. He was badly dressed, in old, shabby-genteel clothes, was slovenly, and seemed to have lost all care for his appearance. He listened in a submissive, helpless sort of way to the testimony. Occasionally something seemed to touch him keenly and he would turn to his counsel and whisper earnestly; but for the most part, he sat silent, bent-up, cowering, and apparently wretched. The proofs of his guilt were overwhelming. The man not convinced by them would be the man to doubt whether there was sufficient historical evidence of our ever having had a war with Mexico. But there were others, as guilty as he, guiltier indeed in that they made him the tool to do deeds to which they would not stoop themselves. They should have been seated by his side, to make the trial other than a bitter mockery of justice.