Ten Years in Washington

In Short

This book serves as a sweeping, descriptive tour of Washington, D.C., during the mid-19th century. Part travelogue, part political history, and part social commentary, it pulls back the curtain on the federal government’s internal operations, from the bustling halls of the Capitol and the precise, rhythmic work of female clerks in the Treasury Department to the quiet, haunted history of the city’s oldest private homes. By chronicling both the grand figures of the era and the forgotten widows petitioning Congress for aid, the author reveals a capital that is as much a place of human struggle and personal tragedy as it is a seat of political authority. It has endured as a primary account of how a developing nation defined itself through its institutions.

The Story

The narrative begins with a panoramic view of Washington, a city born of L’Enfant’s ambitious planning but scarred by the realities of war. The author paints a vivid portrait of a capital that long functioned merely as a meeting ground for ambitious men, lacking a cohesive national identity until the Civil War forced a new, painful unity upon the American consciousness. She traces this evolution through the physical landscape, moving from the desolate, muddy hills of the past to the rising, symbolic majesty of the Capitol dome.

The story progresses through the corridors of power, moving from the legislative chambers to the bureaucratic heart of the government. The author takes the reader into the Treasury Department, where she observes the "Division of Issues"—an room filled with women whose deft, rapid counting of millions of dollars keeps the nation’s currency in motion. She finds in these women a metaphor for the unsung, mechanical labor that sustains the grandeur of the state. From there, the gaze shifts to the Patent Office, where the absurdity of human invention—ranging from perpetual motion machines to macabre models—highlights the eccentric, often desperate energy of the American spirit.

As the narrative deepens, it moves into the private and social spheres. The author explores the "old homes and haunts" of Washington, lingering on the cottage of David Burns and the tragic histories of the Decatur and Stockton-Sickles houses. These chapters serve as a bridge between the cold, public nature of government and the warm, human memories buried within the city's older walls. The account of Martha Jefferson and the venerable Dolley Madison provides a glimpse into the social burdens placed upon women in high station, contrasting their private desires for quietude with the public’s relentless demand for their time and performance.

The narrative reaches a poignant conclusion with visits to Mount Vernon and the Arlington National Cemetery. Here, the author reflects on the cost of the Republic, moving between the sacred relics of the first president and the rows of graves belonging to those who perished in the recent conflict. The story ends not in the halls of debate, but in the contemplative silence of these burial grounds, where the author finds the true weight of the nation’s history. It is a journey from the architecture of political ambition to the final resting places of the "beautiful and brave," leaving the reader with a sobering sense of the human cost required to maintain the seat of government.

How It Unfolds

The city’s foundation The author begins by examining the original plans of Peter Charles L’Enfant, establishing the physical layout that would eventually define the capital’s public face. She contrasts these early, orderly intentions with the messy, reality-shifting experience of the Civil War, which transformed the city from a collection of state interests into a singular national hub.

Behind the legislative curtain The narrative moves into the Senate and the House, describing the sumptuous, often oppressive decor of the rooms where policy is made. She turns her attention to the marginalized figures—such as the widow pleading for a forgotten claim—to expose the disconnect between the grandeur of the architecture and the individual human suffering it overlooks.

The Treasury’s rhythmic labor A detailed look at the Division of Issues showcases the work of female employees, whose mathematical precision and manual dexterity underpin the nation’s financial system. The author highlights the disparity between their vital, high-stakes labor and the meager compensation they receive, arguing that such work deserves recognition beyond gender-based assumptions.

The oddities of invention The focus shifts to the Patent Office, illustrating the bizarre, often humorous side of the American urge to create. By detailing the interactions between the Commissioner and various dreamers, the author explores the thin line between genius and delusion in the nation’s capital.

The ghosts of the city The final chapters explore the older, more intimate spaces of Washington, such as the Burns cottage and the homes of former First Ladies. This exploration serves to ground the high-level politics of the city in the tangible reality of those who lived, loved, and died within its borders.

Reflections on the end The book concludes at the gravesites of national heroes and soldiers, using these sites to synthesize the themes of sacrifice and memory. The author argues that the Capitol should be a place of "sad sincerity," demanding that both the art within its walls and the policies enacted beneath its dome be worthy of the lives lost to preserve them.

The People

The book is populated by a mix of powerful statesmen and the "forgotten" citizens who populate the capital's margins. Dolley Madison stands as a central figure of grace, representing the dignity and personal sacrifice required of the nation’s early leadership. Her ability to navigate both the social demands of the White House and the poverty of her later years serves as a study in resilience.

In contrast, the unnamed widow represents the typical citizen navigating the bureaucracy. Her struggle to retrieve a claim from a committee pigeon-hole highlights the indifference of the political machine toward individual hardship. The author also presents the female clerks of the Treasury—women like those who count thousands of notes daily—who embody hidden, essential power. They are the silent, expert engine of the state, standing in sharp contrast to the male politicians described by the author as often being "too narrow-minded" to appreciate their worth.

Finally, figures like Charles Sumner appear as the keepers of the city’s aesthetic and moral conscience. Through his advocacy for beauty and integrity in the Capitol’s design, he represents the author’s own desire for a national identity rooted in high culture and sincere purpose rather than factionalism or "rude experiments."

In Its Own Voice

Describing the atmosphere of the Capitol’s most serene space, the author writes:

The Marble Room, which alone, of all the rooms of the Capitol, suggests it— “The end of all, the poppied sleep.”

Reflecting on the indifference of the political machine to individual citizens, she observes:

The widow’s claim, on which hangs such a heavy load of debt and fear, lies hidden and forgotten in the pigeon-hole of the Committee of Claims.

Contemplating the necessity of artistic integrity in public architecture, she notes:

There should not be a single ornament put upon a great civic building, without an intellectual intention.

What It's Really About

At its core, the book is a meditation on the tension between the "idea" of a nation and its messy, lived reality. The author is deeply concerned with the question of whether a vast, geographically and culturally diverse country can possess a singular, unifying soul. She argues that this unity was only achieved through the immense suffering of the Civil War, which forced citizens to look toward the capital as a symbol of their collective existence rather than just a site for partisan games.

Furthermore, the book serves as an argument for the dignity of labor, particularly women’s labor, which the author contends is systematically undervalued by the very men who claim to represent the people. Beneath the descriptions of departments and monuments lies an appeal for the government to recognize the human cost of its maintenance—from the widow in the hall to the clerk at the desk—and to treat the capital not as a commodity to be exploited, but as a sacred trust for all time.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate 19th-century prose, with its rhythmic sentences and occasional didactic flair, will find this a fascinating, if sometimes demanding, read. It is not a detached history; it is a visceral, sensory experience of a city undergoing a profound transformation. Those interested in the history of women in the workforce will be particularly struck by the author’s sharp, modern-feeling critique of institutional sexism, which remains as pointed and relevant today as it was in the 1880s.

The book is rewarding for its blend of the grand and the microscopic. One moment, the reader is walking through a memorial hall, and the next, they are reading about a specific, soot-stained bank note recovered from a sunken steamer. However, a modern reader should be prepared for the author’s period-specific moralizing and the occasionally dense, meandering style that characterizes the writing of the era. The text assumes a certain familiarity with the political figures of the mid-1800s, which may require some patience or extra context. Despite these hurdles, the book remains a powerful piece of observation—the feeling of rain against the window of the East Room or the sight of battle-torn flags on the Capitol steps lingers long after the final chapter. It is a portrait of a capital discovering its own gravity, and for anyone curious about how the United States built its sense of self, it provides an invaluable window into the past.