Washington, February 14, 1870.
Never since the inauguration of our Republic has social life in Washington assumed such brilliant hues as during the present winter. With the departure of the Democratic dynasty, and the disappearance of the Southern queens of society, it has been thought that the sunshine of the “Republican court” would go out forever. But the extravagant magnificence of to-day eclipses all former years; and if Mrs. Slidell or Mrs. Crittenden should revisit the haunts of their former triumphs they would find the social kingdom in stronger hands than their own. If the Southern woman ruled as queen, the haughty Northerner sways the sceptre of an empress. The Southern queen pointed to her slaves; the empress of to-day wears a coronet of diamonds, and only death can set her bondmen free.
Reception, ball, dinner, sociable—which shall be described first? The Prince’s ball darted across the social sky like a meteor. It has come and gone, and Washington’s fashionable women still survive. The New York Tribune says that one young lady refused to dance with the Prince because she invariably declined all round-dances. Then she refused to be his partner in a quadrille, because it would keep dear papa and mama later than they had decided to stay. All this sounds very nice in the newspapers, only it is a pretty fib and counterfeit and should never pass for the genuine.
The President’s levee and the Speaker’s reception bear a strong resemblance to each other. Everybody is admitted to Speaker Blaine’s the same as the Executive Mansion. All the great men are there except the President, and all the pretty girls, in their best clothes, are cast up on this fashionable beach by the social waves of the people. If there is one sight in this wicked world, more pitiful than another, it is to see a poor widow’s daughter, or an innocent young Treasury employee in her simple robes of muslin, apparently raised for a brief time to the social platform of wealth and power. In no place on the face of the globe can the two opposite social elements come together as at a President’s levee or a Speaker’s reception. Wealth is pitted against poverty; strength against weakness, and the result sometimes is brought forth in a fruit more deceitful, bitter, and dusty than the apples of the Dead Sea.
It is the night of the Speaker’s social reunion. Carriages draw up before the handsome imitation brownstone residence. These vehicles deposit the precious perfumed darlings—the aristocracy—the cream of society. Gay cavaliers dance attendance on these flounced, frizzled, bejeweled butterflies. These cavaliers generally wear hats and overcoats which look as if they had been borrowed from the old-clothes man, or purchased at a bargain at the second-hand store hard by; but as no better place on the earth can be found for losing one’s outside wrappings than these levees and receptions, the men show their good sense by going prepared. The cars are freighted to overflowing. The ambitious young mechanic takes his young sweetheart on his arm and pays his respects to the Speaker. The suite of parlors at the brown mansion are on the first floor, and through the broad open doors, all newcomers can be inspected as they march to an upper story to be divested of wrappings, and it is quite as unsafe to judge what is beneath the ugly waterproofs as to guess what is under the caterpillar’s skin. Mirrors are provided in the dressing-room, where jaded maid and faded matrons can assist nature to carry out her most pressing needs. Boxes of pearl powder, brushes, combs, pins, dressing-maid are convenient, and if the last finishing touch of the toilet is omitted, the lady of the mansion is not to blame. It must be mentioned, however, that it is only the silk that powders in public; muslin and merino are the spectators in the scene.
“Belle, don’t you think one of my eyebrows is a little blacker than the other?”
“Yes; I think they both need touching up.”
“Too late now! Why didn’t you tell me before we left home? There, take up my handkerchief and rub it off.”
Pretty little white-gloved hand goes through with the daintiest manipulations, and the two eyebrows come out like Bonner’s fast team. Out of the dressing-room, down the tufted stairs that smother footsteps. There is something frightful about a human habitation where no footfall is ever heard. The eye is a glorious organ, but the ear is the better friend. You enter the first parlor, which is the beginning of the three en suite. It is elegantly furnished in exquisite taste. One of Bierstadt’s Rocky Mountain pictures has a conspicuous place on the wall. A Beatrice Cenci, in its voluptuous beauty, suspended in another place, takes you back to old sensual Rome, whilst a miniature world swings on its axis in a friendly corner in a second room, with plenty of books to keep it company.
Near the hall door of the first parlor stands the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and by his side may be seen his wife. If it is right to judge by personal appearance, they seem excellently matched. Speaker Blaine is a handsome man in every sense of the word. There is just about the right amount of material used in his construction, and, as a general thing, it has been put in the proper place. He has a large kindly eye that would not do to look into for any great length of time, for the same reason that gazing into the sea is apt to make one sick. All his other features have been arranged artistically to match his Oriental eyes, and his form is as straight and symmetrical as a Maine pine tree. He shakes hands with his numerous countrymen with a vigor, and if he did hold on an instant longer than it was necessary to the little kid-gloved digits of the New York World’s correspondent, it only proved that he was mortal like poor Adam, and that he was willing to touch any amount of evil for a woman’s sake.