The Cecil Whig., 1875-03-06
LETTER FROM WASHINGTON,
WASHINGTON, d. c., March 1st, 1875.

/ WASHINGTON, ID. c., March 1st, 1875.
/ DEAR WHIG:-To some extent, the fash
lonable season at Washington died into
Lent with more propriety than usual. In
stead OF ferocious burst that ran up to 12
O'Clock with toot- horns and champagne,
hours devoted to prayers, meditations,
cards. dinners and lunches, the season went
: into sort of a decline, and was dead-to
all outward appearance-before Lent be-
gan. | have thought frequently that Satan
must enjoy the absurd pretense of Lent in
| Washington. They do not put on the liv-
cry of Heaven exactly to serve his Majesty
in, but they do make use of this pretense
of pious period to end a season that
neither health or purse can continue any
lngton, as the world we'll knows by this
time, is fast and furious. 1t is an ordinary
thing for belle to do three parties of
night, whirlng through dances on cham
pagne aud terrapin; and this after making
a hundred calls of an afternoon. Girls
fresh and blooming, enter the vortex the
beginning of the season, and come out at
the end pale, limp and homey, rendered SO
from fashionable dissipation and the pres
ent g style of fashionable dressing. 1t is
a little curious to watch the blind effort
made by fashion, at times, to overcome the
obstacles fashion has created. The pres
ent mode of gathering the dress tightly
about the hips is one of these, and it is
really amusing to see the girl of the period
dancing, as it were, with her limbs tied
together. This swathing together of the
limbs has been very awkward during the
late icy condition Of our streets. The dear
creatures have gone down on the slightest
provocation. But then, they appear to
have style even in that particular respect,
and do it in a very peculiar way. When a
man falls his heels fly up and he comes
down solid and honestly; he gets up and
tries to look as if it didn't hurt; but a
woman makes two or three graceful little
slides abont in u promiscuous way, as if
she had contemplated the thing and was
taking her first lesson on skates; then she
sinks down in a heap with a great strain
on the cordage, and never under any cir
cumstances permits her head to get a bump
on the pavement and comes up smiling as
pugilst in the second round.
Here in Washington during the Lenten
season, the evenings are spent in various
ways, while pleasure holds contented sway.
The ladies have organizations, the gentle
men have theirs. When the ladies get
together, then what9 Such gossip! how
they do tear to atoms and analyze and
criticise every particle of their nature.
How they talk dress, styles, and fashions,
When the gents are with themselves, they
joke, smoke and drink. Yes, we are sorry
to say they drink. Still we are not
happy" For the life of man rs he passes
through nature to eternity, is beset by SO
many disagreeable annoyances that it would
be difficult to designate the class most dis
tressng. We believe. however, that the
endless variety of harsh and dscordant
sounds, when Jumped under a single head,
constitute the most irritating of human
world there are plenty of horns-horns of
plenty, horns of dilemmas, dinner horns,
fog horns, and horns generally. But none
OF these can startle the sensitive more thor
oughly, or fill the bill of a nuisance more
completely than the average horn of the
"oyster huckster,' as used in this locality,
and with which we are afflicted during half
the year.
Early every morning issues forth upon
the streets, from mysterious quarters a
perfect army of negroes, more varied in
color and apparel than Falstaff's ragged
regiment, each armed with canister, and
murderous tin-horn. Deploying in all
directions, they traverse every street and
| alley in the city. Marching slowly along,
each one of these dusky engines of devas-
tation lets out at measured intervals, a
shout sufficient to drown Satan's long roll,
coy -sto- o-o!" This is followed by a blast
upon the tin horn so shatterng, SO pro-
longed and ear splitting that the victims in
the vicinity fairly collapse with alright.
This process is varied occasionally by a
jerk at the door-beil on the part of the
| tiend, who inquiries if you will have any
oysters to-day. Or course you wont, and
by the time the door is slammed shut, and
swearing fairly begun, the building is shiv-
ering with the renewed blast of that tin
horn outside, and that demoniacal cry,
"Oy-sto- o-o. The sensitive man or the
light sleeper may gnash his teeth, the in
valid may even wish that he were dead,
but the winding of that Internal horn, with
its concomitant human yell, is kept up all
the same, and one sighs for pair of Tom
De Bond Browns heavy boots for lifting
purposes, or quiet retreat to the inner
most recesses of Cat Swamp or Turkey
town. OBSERVER.