Mrs. Blaine stood beside her husband with something brighter and better than mere physical beauty in her face. Few if any women at the capital have a stronger countenance, and yet it is sweet and womanly. Everything about her is toned down to softest neutral tints. If she calls forth no thrill of admiration, she awakens no spirit of criticism. There are some colors in nature that are particularly grateful to the eye. There are some women in the same sense that are particularly grateful to all the senses. Their presence breathes repose. When you get near them your mind takes off its armor, draws in its pickets, and prepares to go into winter quarters. Mrs. Blaine’s superb taste may be seen in her elegant, well appointed home, in the world-renowned behavior of her husband, and just as he fills his most honored position, with dignified grace, she fills another still higher—that of the American matron at home.
Most noticeable of all the distinguished men who hover around the Speaker is General Phil Sheridan. In an instant you perceive that he is carved out of material from which Presidents ought to be made. Judging from memory, he seems no taller than the late Stephen A. Douglas, and in the same sense that Mr. Douglas was called the “Little Giant,” General Sheridan impresses you with the awful attribute of power. He has uncommonly broad shoulders for his height, and an eye like the American eagle’s. As if to carry out this picture, the country knows that he is a solitary bird, without even a mate to share his lone eyrie in wicked Chicago, and if matters do not mend in this direction it would be well for the people to take this most interesting situation into their own hands, and at the same time put a man in his place who will not retreat in the face of the feminine foe.
A tropical exotic is seen in a distant corner. It is young Lopez, the son of the Dictator of Paraguay. “Shirley Dare,” a woman of taste, says, he is “handsome.” To our eyes he is distinguished looking, nothing more. That peculiar flame born of mixed blood burns under his swarthy skin; it flushes his cheek, reddens his lips, and shines in his eyes with the cold glitter of black diamonds. You picture him swinging in his hammock under South American skies, and yet it is well to remember that he has not been in his native country for eight years, and the probability is, if he should return, his father would see in him a formidable rival, and in that case he would share the fate of all his illustrious relatives.
Colonel Parker, the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, was there with his white wife. It will be remembered that Colonel Parker belongs to the Indian tribe known as the “Six Nations.” It is said that he comes from mixed blood. If this is the case, the Indian was put on the outside, and the white blood was kept for the lining. He looks as much like an Indian as President Grant looks like a white man, and he is a very good representative of his race. His wife is fair, standing beside him, and attracts attention because she has broken a law; but why should she be received in society for the same reason that puts the poor Irish washerwoman, who links her fate with another race, beyond the pale of association, only the newspapers can answer.
As yet no half breeds have made their appearance, which proves there is a destiny which has something to do with shaping our ends.
For the reason that the card receptions of Secretary Fish are held the same evening, many of the ladies of the foreign legations pay their respects to the Speaker and his wife before going to the mansion of the Secretary of State. Whilst the toilette of the American woman is quite as costly, it cannot be said to be as elaborate and far fetched as that of the European sisters. The dresses of these foreigners are usually made up of trimmings. The eye is bewildered and lost in the multiplicity of flounces, fringes, laces, ribbons, and all those things which, in moderation, ought to be dear to every woman’s heart. The stylish daughters of Baron Gerolt, the Prussian minister, were there, and their costumes must have been perfect according to the European standard. The whole upper surface of their pretty little heads was turned into a flower garden; rosebuds were planted around the edges, and full blown roses blossomed in the center whilst long shoots and tendrils clung to their chignons as ivy nestles up to a damp wall. Their dresses were composed of that peculiar tint of silk called “ashes of roses,” and the fringes and satin trimmings were deep rose pink. Oh, the weary, weary labor of making these butterfly wardrobes, and these dresses were made by hand! No sewing machine had been used in the production. The tiny short sleeves were put together like patchwork, and between each tiny piece of silk was a satin cord. There was just the same proportion of human work on the long trained skirts, on the little fractional waists; and yet these extravagant toilettes, worn by these daughters of so-called lineage, only proved that in matters of dress there is such a thing as gilding refined gold and painting the rose, but this kind of work is always attended with the same consequences.
A literary woman connected with the Rural New Yorker was present, and dazzled the beholders with her handsome face, lemon-colored silk, and black lace. A sweeter face scarcely ever looks out of a picture; but alas! alas! why did she not put herself into the hands of some stylish modiste, and yield the point as gracefully as a literary woman knows how? There is nothing so damaging to a woman’s toilet as to begin a certain style and not have the stamina or force of mind to carry it out. What is worse than a weak decoction of anything? If a woman decides to adopt “Pompadour” it must be completion to the last, else all is sacrificed. The reason that literary women sometimes fail in matters of taste in dress is because they do not give sufficient attention to the subject. The perfect arrangement of a woman’s costume is one of the fine arts as much as carving a statue, painting a picture, or writing an exquisite newspaper article.
Olivia.