The funding bill still agitates the waters of legislation, and Senator Morton, of Indiana, arises slowly, leaning upon his cane. What subtle influence brings to the mind’s eye the picture of a tiger chained to a broken cage? Surely that powerful organization was made to last three-score years and ten. What a glorious casket! Away with the cane! The pallor of his countenance is a part of the uncanny mockery of the night. There is no better speaker on the floor of the Senate. His thoughts flow fresh, clear, sparkling, like water from a hill-side spring. It is true, Indiana is a benighted State, morally defective, as seen by her divorces; her territory swampy, with fever and ague a yearly crop. But which is the best harvest a State can yield? Why men, to be sure, and when this fact is considered Indiana need not feel ashamed of herself. At this hour of the evening the floor is thickly strewn with all sizes of fragments of paper. It rustles under the feet of the nimble pages. Senator Wilson is opening his evening mail. He snaps the letter envelopes and hauls out the insides as gracefully as a bear scrapes honey out of a hollow tree. He is so earnest, and there is so much to do, and the sun will not stand still even for Massachusetts. He takes the time to read the name only of his correspondents; the reading through these letters must be done by a private secretary. What a huge pile of papers menace him! Public opinion says he is a man of “practical talent.” Is not this the best gift bestowed upon man? Blessed, thrice blessed, is the State that has a man in the Senate connected by an electric cord to the least of her people! Senator Cameron is walking up the broad aisle, erect and stately as a majestic pine in midwinter. This man is not one of the brilliant figures of the Senate, but he is high like the mountains and deep like the mines of the great powerful State he represents. Few, if any men, carry greater weight in Senatorial legislation. Senators Conkling and Stewart may be seen in their respective seats, and these two men may properly be called the “blondes” of the Senate. If these Senators were women they would have the whole masculine world at their feet. It would seem as if the forces of nature conspired to keep them at a red heat, these men are steeped in liquid sunshine; their beards, at a distance, are the best kind of imitation of spun gold. Once a watery veined Senator was actually seen warming his hands only a short distance from Senator Conkling’s head; but notwithstanding this fact a handsomer man is seldom seen on the floor of the Senate. There is evidence of strong-coming impatience. Senators pace the floor as lions stride their dens. When will the interminable talk cease? No one heeds it. Senator Sprague is seen in a leaning attitude against the wall. The golden background helps to make a fitting picture of the young millionaire. His face has a marble pallor which the rosy light of the chamber cannot dispel.