|WASHINGTON, D.C. I Have just returned from a polite and recherche party
here.
Washington is the hot-bed of gayety, and general headquarters for the
recherche business. It would be hard to find a bontonger aggregation
than the one I was just at, to use the words of a gentleman who was
there, and who asked me if I wrote "The Heathen Chinee."
He was a very talented man, with a broad sweep of skull and a vague
yearning for something more tangible--to drink. He was in Washington, he
said, in the interests of Mingo county. I forgot to ask him where Mingo
county might be. He took a great interest in me, and talked with me
long after he really had anything to say. He was one of those fluent
conversationalists frequently met with in society. He used one of these
web-perfecting talkers--the kind that can be fed with raw Roman
punch and that will turn out punctuated talk in links, like varnished
sausages. Being a poor talker myself and rather more fluent as a
listener, I did not interrupt him.
He said that he was sorry to notice how young girls and their parents
came to Washington as they would to a matrimonial market.
I was sorry also to hear it. It pained me to know that young ladies
should allow themselves to be bamboozled into matrimony. Why was it, I
asked, that matrimony should ever single out the young and fair?
"Ah," said he, "it is indeed rough!"
He then breathed a sigh that shook the foliage of the speckled geranium
near by, and killed an artificial caterpillar that hung on its branches.
"Matrimony is all right," said he, "if properly brought about. It breaks
my heart, though, to notice how Washington is used as a matrimonial
market. It seems to me almost as if these here young ladies were brought
here like slaves and exposed for sale." I had noticed that they were
somewhat exposed, but I did not know that they were for sale.
I asked him if the waists of party dresses had always been so sadly in
the minority, and he said they had.
I danced with a beautiful young lady whose trail had evidently caught
in a doorway. She hadn't noticed it till she had walked out partially
through her costume. I do not think a lady ought to give too much
thought to her apparel, neither should she feel too much above her
clothes. I say this in the kindest spirit, because I believe that man
should be a friend to woman. No family circle is complete without a
woman. She is like a glad landscape to the weary eye. Individually and
collectively, woman is a great adjunct of civilization and progress. The
electric light is a good thing, but how pale and feeble it looks by the
light of a good woman's eyes. The telephone is a great invention. It is
a good thing to talk at and murmur into and deposit profanity in, but to
take up a conversation and keep it up and follow a man out through the
front door with it, the telephone has still much to learn from woman.
It is said that our government officials are not sufficiently paid, and
I presume that is the case, so it became necessary to economize in every
way, but, why should wives concentrate all their economy on the waist of
a dress? When chest protectors are so cheap as they now are, I hate to
see people suffer, and there is more real suffering, more privation and
more destitution, pervading the Washington scapula and clavicle this
winter than I ever saw before.
But I do not hope to change this custom, though I spoke to several
ladies about it, and asked them to think it over. I do not think they
will. It seems almost wicked to cut off the best part of a dress and put
it at the other end of the skirt, to be trodden under feet of men, as I
may say. They smiled good humoredly at me as I tried to impress my views
upon them, but should I go there again next season and mingle in the mad
whirl of Washington, where these fair women are also mingling in said
mad whirl, I presume that I will find them clothed in the same gaslight
waist, with trimmings of real vertebræ down the back.
Still, what does a man know about the proper costume for woman? He knows
nothing whatever. He is in many ways a little inconsistent. Why does a
man frown on a certain costume for his wife and admire it on the first
woman he meets? Why does he fight shy of religion and Christianity
and talk very freely about the church, but get mad if his wife is an
infidel?
Crops around Washington are looking well. Winter wheat, crocusses and
indefinite postponements were never in a more thrifty condition. Quite a
number of people are here who are waiting to be confirmed. Judging from
their habits, they are lingering around here in order to become
confirmed drunkards.
I leave here to-morrow with a large, wet towel in my plug hat. Perhaps
I should have said nothing on this dress reform question while my hat
is fitting me so immediately. It is seldom that I step aside from the
beaten path of rectitude, but last evening, on the way home, it seemed
to me that I didn't do much else but step aside. At these parties no
charge is made for punch. It is perfectly free. I asked a colored man
who stood near the punch bowl, and who replenished it ever and anon,
what the damage was, and he drew himself up to his full height.
Possibly I did wrong, but I hate to be a burden on any one. It seemed
odd to me to go to a first-class dance and find the supper and the band
and the rum all paid for. It must cost a good deal of money to run this
government.