. Not on any such scene of
the Season let us look, where the doors are locked behind us at eleven
o'clock, but on one of its "balls and masks begun at midnight, burning
ever to midday." It is like an Aztec revel for its flowers: the great
stairways, leading up and down between the rooms that glow with light
and resound with the tones of flute and violin, are wound with shrubs
where art conceals everything but the branch and blossom; doors are
arched with palms and long banana leaves; flowers swing from lintel
and window and bracket, stream from the pictures, crown the statues;
sprays of dropping vines wreathe the chandeliers that shed the soft
brilliance of wax-lights around them; mantels are covered with moss;
tables are bedded with violets; tall vases overflow with roses and
heliotropes, with cold camellias and burning geraniums; the orchestra
is hidden with latticed bloom and bud; and yellow acacias and scarlet
passion-flowers and a great white orchid with a honeyed breath
encircle the fern-filled basin where a fountain plays. The murmur of
music, the wealth of perfume, make the atmosphere an enchantment. A
crowd of gorgeous hues and tissues, bare bosoms and blazing jewels,
ascend and descend the stairs: here are women the fame of whose beauty
is world-wide, wearing lace whose intricate design, over the pale
shimmer of some perfectly tinted silk beneath, represents the labor of
a lifetime, wearing necklaces and tiaras of diamonds, where the great
stones set in a frosty floral splendor seem to throb with a spirit
of their own. There of course is the President; yonder is the
Chief-Justice; here again the general of all our armies; here flash
the glittering insignia of soldiers, here the fantastic array of
diplomats; down one vista the dancers float through their mazes, down
another shine the crystal and gold and silver of the tables red with
burgundy and bordeaux, tempting with terrapin and truffle, with spiced
meats and salads, pastries, confections and fruits; and close by is
the punch-room. You have your choice of the frozen article, or of that
claret concoction to hold whose glowing ruby a bowl has been hollowed
in the ice itself, or of the champagne punch, where to every litre of
the champagne a litre of brandy, a litre of red rum, a litre of green
tea, are given, and where you see a flushed and fevered damsel dipping
the ladle and tossing off her jorum as coolly as though she had not
had her three wines at dinner