THE MODES AND METHODS OF A TYPICAL SOCIETY FUNCTION.
A gradual change is coming over the face of events in Washington. The old monarchy’s dying. Andrew Johnson is passing away. If it were summer, grass would be growing between the stones of the pavement that leads to the stately porch of the Executive Mansion, but the motion of the political and social wheel of life is not in the least retarded. In many respects it would seem as if time were taking us backward in its flight and that we were living over again the last luxurious days of Louis XV. If Madame Pompadour is not here in the flesh, she has bequeathed to this brilliant Republican court her unique taste in the shape of paint-pots, rouge, patches, pointed heels, and frilled petticoats; the dress made with an immense train at the back, but so short in front that it discloses a wealth of airy, fantastic, white muslin; the square-necked waist, so becoming to a queenly neck; the open sleeve so bewitching for a lovely arm. This is the “style” which the fair belles of the capital have adopted. Our letters are meant to embody both political and social themes; but, if the truth must be told, the business of the people of the United States is suffering for want of being transacted. Our great men are too busy with the tangled skein of the next administration. Although half the present session has slipped away, scarcely anything has been accomplished. The real hard work is represented by the lobby, which is as ceaselessly and noiselessly at work as the coral builders in the depths of the sea.
General Butler is trying to enlighten the nation upon the knotty subject of finance. He seems to have taken the dilemma by the horns. It is not decided which will get the best of it, but the people can rest assured that General Butler will make a good fight. Like Andrew Johnson, he has only to point to his past record. It will be remembered that the gallant General paid his respects to the step-father of his country on New Year’s day. An eye witness of this historical event pronounced the “scene” extremely “touching” and one long to be remembered by the fortunate beholders. A sensational writer is engaged upon a new drama founded upon this theme. It will soon be brought out upon the boards at the National Theater under the high-sounding title of “Burying the Hatchet.” The writer of the drama is at a loss whether to call this production comedy or tragedy. It would be extremely comic, only the closing scene ends with Andy’s plumping the hatchet into the grave from sheer exhaustion, and the moment afterward he glides away into obscurity like a graceful Ophidian, or Hamlet’s ghost. The wily warrior is left master of the situation; not at all shut up like a fly in a bottle, but still able to be of use not only to his constituents but to the masses of his admiring countrymen.