Another turn of the human kaleidoscope, lo! here is Congressman Harmer, of Philadelphia, with his handsome wife. What a superbly matched pair. Quicker than electric flash the mind goes back to Eden, to the first Adam and the first Eve, and you are comforted with the proof that creation goes on in pretty much the same faultless way, making pairs, each half for the other. It is true there is often a missing link, but that makes the union all the more beautiful by comparison of the broken parts tossed helplessly on a sea of trouble. But Mrs. Harmer, her dress must have been faultless, for alas, nothing is remembered but her fine figure and handsome face.
General and Mrs. Albright were there. Pennsylvania at large had to be represented, and who could do this so well as this kind-hearted, able, and accomplished woman, with her husband to do all the heavy work. She reminds one of a piece of sterling gold. In the course of years she will lose no appreciable weight. How about increasing in value? She will increase just like this precious metal, for suppose we drain the country for exports, and water the currency, and the bottom of the mines fall out? This is a fruitful subject, but no time to do it justice.
But there was a woman there whose gorgeous outfit reminded one of the tales in the Arabian Nights. Her jewels were of the rarest and most costly kind. With the exception of a necklace worn by a Peruvian beauty, and the Russian gems which used to adorn Madame Bodisco, nothing has been seen lately at the capital so dazzling. A pendant pearl, which hung from the centre of the enchanted string around her neck, was as large as the egg of a humming-bird. Oh, the diamonds, the emeralds, and all the other precious stones! There was a mass of silk, feathers, and lace, and no doubt a woman swaddled somewhere, but she could not be seen for the imprisoned glory of those shining stones. She went away before 12 o’clock, else no doubt her godmother would have turned her fine horses into mice. Who was she? Listen, now; hold your breath! if we must tell--the wife of the correspondent of the New York _Herald_!
“Who is that man, did you say?” This is he whom the cruel Don Piatt has dubbed the “Mighty Mullet,” and yet the facetious Don may be telling more truth than he intends, for, like the noiseless coral, he is at work rearing his strongholds all over the land. Think how many glorious tombstones he will have, pyramids that will last hundreds of years. He is our Ptolemy. Who dares dispute it? When asked his opinion of a celebrated beauty he replied: “If she only had a southern exposure and that attic story was removed and a French roof put in its place, she would be all right.” Architecturally speaking, I mean. A man never should have but one idea, if it is the right one, and a great architect should have nothing but a house in his head.