From:   "Behind the Scenes in Washington"

James Dabney McCabe

1873, NY

Benjamin F. Butler, of Massachusetts, is a burly, heavy man, who waddles as he walks, and carries his head slightly bent forward.  He is the best abused, best hated man in the House.  It suits some persons to imagine that Ben Butler, as he is popularly called, is simply a blustering, swaggering politician without much ability of any kind.  The truth is that Butler's big head contains a good share of the brains of the House, and he possesses qualities, which would make him a leader in any cause he might espouse.  He failed signally as a soldier during the Rebellion, but as an administrative officer he "was a success."  He is a man of extensive, patiently acquired, and thoroughly digested information, and has the courage to form and hold opinions of his own.  His share in the impeachment trial of President Johnson was marked by an extraordinary amount of vigor and ability, made all the more striking by the strong personal hostility, which characterized it.  Butler is much of a philosopher.  He is a man of strong feelings, but he has learned to control them, and when it suits him, he can pocket his grievances, and work with a smiling face by the side of the men whom hates with all intensity of his nature.  Giving him credit for patriotism, it cannot be denied that he has a thorough appreciation of the interests of Benjamin F. Butler, which those who know him feel sure that his acts, which sometimes seem inexplicable to the outside public, are all directed to the permanent advancement of these same interests.  A Scotch writer, who recently visited this country, has drawn the following picture of him:

"A short, stout man, with a large bald head, a round body and short spindle legs, stood at the front of the platform, speaking in a somewhat harsh but very fluent and articulate voice.  It was easy, even at a glance, to see how this man had the power to make himself an object of deadly hate to a whole people.  There was a power in the big bald head, in the massive brow, in the vulture nose, and the combatively bullying face, in the heavy eyelids, and in the keen scrutinizing eye.  It was literally eye, not eyes, for the right eyeball seemed to be engaged in some business of its own, as if relieved from regular duty, while the spirit of the man when he looked at you seemed to crouch at the other, and (from under the heavy eyelid) glare out keenly and warily.  He had in his left hand a pamphlet or bit of paper -- I could not see which -- but once or twice he brought this paper up to his eye, as if for reference.  Tastes differ, but I confess Butler's face was not pleasant to me.  His speech, as far as I heard it, was clear, logical, and full of practical wisdom, but was delivered with an audacity of manner that made one reluctant to admire even what deserved admiration."

The same writer is responsible for the following story, which is too good to be lost:

"The character written in Butler's face seems to have developed itself at an early age.  When a lad at college, it was binding on the students to attend the college church -- a duty, which to Benjamin was very irksome.  On one occasion he heard the college preacher (who was also a professor) advancing propositions like the following: 1. That the elect alone would be saved. 2. That amongst those who by the world were called Christians probably not more than one in a hundred belonged really and truly to the elect.  3. That the others, by reason of their Christian privileges, would suffer more hereafter than the heathen who had never heard the gospel at all.

"Butler, whose audacity was always more conspicuous than his reverence, made a note of these positions, and on the strength of them drew up a petition to the Faculty, soliciting exemption from further attendance at the church, as only preparing for himself a more terrible future.

"'For,' said he, 'the congregation here amounts to 600 persons, and nine of these are professors.  Now, if only one in a hundred is to be saved, it follows that three even of the Faculty must be damned.'  He (Benjamin Butler) being a mere student, could not expect to be saved in preference to a professor.  Far, he said, be it from him to cherish so presumptuous a hope!  Nothing remained for him, therefore, but perdition.  In this melancholy posture of affairs he was naturally anxious to abstain from anything that might aggravate his future punishment; and as church attendance had been shown in last Sunday's sermon to have this influence upon the non-elect, he trusted that the Faculty would for all time coming exempt him from it."