How the Cabinet Ladies Conduct Their Several Functions.

Washington, February 15, 1870.

Midway between a President’s levee and a private entertainment lies the social ground occupied by the card reception. It is semi-official in its character, because public position has much to do with general invitations extended to the guests. It does not necessarily follow that calls must have been exchanged between any of the parties in the contest. A man is invited because he is a Senator, head of a bureau, or an upper clerk in either branch of Congress. At the same time each Cabinet minister means to look after the social interests of his own State by gathering under his hospitable wings as many of its citizens stopping in Washington as his mansion will possibly admit, estimated by cubic measure.

Since the beginning of the social season four out of the seven Cabinet ministers have issued cards for three receptions each. These include Secretaries Fish, Belknap, Cox, and Postmaster-General Cresswell. The receptions held at the magnificent mansion of the Secretary of State have been simply a continuation of those elegant entertainments for which his distant home was celebrated when he was a citizen in private life. Only a man of great wealth can afford to be an American “Premier.” All the foreign legations are gathered around his liberal American hearth, and is it not most consoling to our national pride to remember that it is broad and generous in every sense of the word? Yet why our open-handed countryman should be obliged to spend his private means to keep up the dignity of the Republic only the people through their representatives can answer.

Elegantly unostentatious have been the receptions held at the handsome residence of the three remaining ministers. In either case no effort has been made of display. It would seem that these Secretaries have a just appreciation of the social bearings of their positions, and yet realize, with Mr. Dawes, that, in the face of the financial peril of the country, frugality and economy should be the order of the day.

The great reception triumph of the season has been held at the historic Seward mansion, at present the home of the Secretary of War. Outside of the public buildings no house in Washington is so memorable in associations as this plain, unpretending pile of brick and mortar. It is broad, old-fashioned, with rooms extending far back, and everything about it reminds one of the good old days of one’s grandfather, and its severe simplicity is as refreshing as pure air when compared with the sensuous gingerbread work of the luxurious modern mansion.

The reception of the War Secretary and his accomplished wife was honored by the President of the United States, accompanied by the well-known Dent family. The newspapers have much to say about the “Dents;” but a close inspection of their every-day lives, as well as their antecedents, proves that our Chief Magistrate might have fallen into much worse hands. It is true they are numerous; but, as they did not make themselves, this sin must be laid at another door. Besides, are they to blame because a President happened to drop into their nest? Is there a man or woman in the country with stamina enough to keep them modest if they had a brother-in-law more potent than any king? Besides, these dozen or more brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law are exceedingly well behaved, considering the excellent opportunities which might be turned to mischief. A member of the Dent family has never been known to be connected with the gold ring; has never been summoned before a Congressional committee. It is true, they like to snuggle under the warm wing of the President; but are not the great arms of the nation long enough to embrace the whole brood?

Up the very stairs that once echoed to the footsteps of the assassin Paine poured a stream of life composed of the creme de la creme of the national capital. Members of the foreign legations, with their ladies, were there; and this is unusual, as many of these haughty foreigners are seldom or never seen in Washington society except at the mansion of the Secretary of State. The Cabinet, Supreme Bench, Senate, House of Representatives, distinguished members of the press, were present; and, to give additional brilliancy to the scene, the Army and Navy were largely represented, glittering in blue broadcloth and the usual golden trappings.

At the entrance of the first parlor stood the Secretary of War; at his right hand might have been seen his fair young wife. With all due respect to secrecy, it is whispered that Secretary Belknap is just a shade handsomer than any other man in the Cabinet.

His exterior surface indicates the pure Saxon, and his eyes are the color of that deep blue liquid which is obtained by dissolving indigo in sulphuric acid. He had the true soldier’s form, which is tall, broad, and deep, and his voice is as mellow as an organ’s. His step has a ring when his foot touches the pavement, and his hand has the true grip, whether it hauls a rebel colonel over the earthworks on the battlefield, or touches the dainty finger-tips of a woman. It is said that Secretary Belknap has a warm place in the Chief Magistrate’s heart, which proves that the feminine element does not enter into the construction of a President. General Belknap is a warrior by inheritance as well as by practice, for ever since the beginning of the Republic the long line of Belknaps have taken up arms in defense of their country.

The fine young face of Mrs. Belknap, as she receives the host of dignitaries who have come to pay their respects to the great war power represented by her husband, is just as refreshing as pure water at the hillside. The bride of a year, a newcomer to the capital, she has not had time to be spoiled by adulation. The genuine, kind ways of private life she bears unspotted to her high social position, and the graceful manners which she brings with her from her Kentucky home remind us of the days of Mrs. Crittenden, when the distinguished women of that State were the fixed stars of society in Washington. Mrs. Belknap wore upon this occasion the same superb dress which graced the Prince’s ball, which proves that she does not intend to imitate those extravagant women who will not be seen twice in the same toilette. If this independent trait in her character lessens her in the opinion of her feminine peers, let us hasten to tell her how much it endears her to the people. Mrs. Belknap shares the honors of beauty with Mrs. Cresswell in the Cabinet.

Just beyond the War Secretary stood the President, with his sister-in-law, Mrs. Sharp, at his side. Marshal Sharp might have been in the vicinity, but as he is only a Dent by marriage, his presence or absence need not be noted. The President brought with him the same “killing eye” which the New York World so vividly described, yet another Dent sunned himself in its beams without the least sign of damage. Mrs. Grant remained at home, owing to indisposition, but Mrs. Sharp performed her part with exceeding grace and good nature. She wore a handsome blue silk dress, almost devoid of trimmings, with an elegant point lace shawl, and pearl jewelry. Mrs. Sharp is not noticeable for beauty or the want of it. She has the average face of American women, and her friends speak of her in the highest terms of praise.

Secretary and Mrs. Fish were seen not very far removed from the Presidential party. If Mr. Fish was not the Secretary of the State, we should call him jolly. He looks as if he breakfasts on reed birds, dines on terrapin, and floats his life barge on rivers of champagne. Oh! the dainties, the flavors, the sweets that go to make up this genial and generous man. In contemplating him, one realizes that it would not be so very bad to be a South Sea Islander or an innocent Feejee. It must be because he is so palatable in personal appearance that he makes such an admirable Secretary of State. How delicately he has manipulated our complicated Spanish and Cuban affairs! how discreetly he manages the Alabama claims! It is said, “There are as good fish in the sea as were ever caught.” Secretary Fish, with the official hook in his mouth lives to fling the truth in the face of the old adage.

Mrs. Fish—ah! where shall words be found to describe the woman that awakens that exalted sentiment, and makes one long to call her mother or some other endearing name? She has an intellectual countenance, noble enough to belong to a nun. Mrs. Fish has the mind, heart, and manners to grace the White House, and no greater compliment can be paid to an American woman.

In the vicinity of Mrs. Fish might have been seen standing many of the members of the foreign legations. Most noticeable were the ponderous daughters of the Peruvian minister, Colonel Don Manuel Freyre. The weight of these South American damsels reaches far into the hundreds. It is well for the country that Barnum has been lost in the Mammoth Cave else our relations with distant countries might become hopelessly entangled. Considering how densely humanity was packed in the parlors of the war mansion, these elephantine beauties might have created a panic had a tramp or a promenade become necessary, but, fortunately for life and limb, this was not undertaken, and no accident occurred to mar the festivity of the scene. These accomplished South American ladies are considered great beauties in their country, for in the land of the Incas superabundant flesh is not considered in the way.

In a picturesque attitude, leaning against a doorway, might have been seen Mary Clemmer Ames, of the New York Independent. Aggressive literary labor begins to work its way in tiny little grooves and daintiest of channels on her poetical face. Mrs. Ames has written some very fair poetry, which she is well aware of, and it has raised her to that sublimatic height to which common mortals seldom or never attain. Her costume was a credit to the New York Independent, for nothing more elaborate was to be seen in the rooms. To prove to the world that literary women do know how to dress it is necessary to describe this star of the first magnitude. Mrs. Ames appeared at the reception of the gallant War Secretary in purest white silk, en train, surmounted by a heavy pink satin overskirt. This overskirt arrangement was the crowning triumph of her superb toilette. This upper skirt was scalloped, paniered, and squared with mathematical exactness, and rounded with poetic measures. It was lifted up at the proper corners; at the same time it floated free in Greek outlines after the manner of ancient drapery. Nothing that an elegant pink satin overskirt could do for a poetess was left undone. It might be said that this rose-colored cloud had accomplished its destiny, and ought henceforth to be spirited to the Milky Way, there to shine in starry glory forever, a warning to all those common mortals who have a way of stretching their mouths every time they see a first-class literary woman prepared for the altar of a social occasion. Mary Clemmer Ames takes to rosebuds. Isn’t this surest evidence of the poetic talent? Rosebuds have stirred up more genius than all the cabbages which have been raised since the world began. A masculine biped hovered in the vicinity of Mrs. Ames, but as it was plain that he was no poet, a description of his person is omitted.

In another parlor were to be seen a galaxy of diamonds, with Mrs. Fernando Wood attached to the back of them. The writer has never seen so many handsome gems assembled, except on the person of Madame Bodisco, who used to wear the Russian family jewels at Washington. A necklace of great value sparkled at her throat, great clusters gleamed in her hair, her handsome arms were manacled with the same, but she did not seem to mind being a prisoner, for when her jailor appeared in the person of the Hon. Fernando, she took his arm just the same as if he were like other men.

The Hon. Samuel Hooper, of Massachusetts, was there, the finest wintry picture on the floor. After the same manner of the Secretary of State, he looks as if the earth loved him and had brought him the choicest offerings in her power. The sunshine of life has mellowed his character. Altogether he is a New England elm, around which the ivy of youth and affection loves to twine. Few men have so many strong friends as Mr. Hooper, and none can be found in public life less harassed by enemies.

For hours this distinguished sea of humanity whirled and surged through the mansion. Waiters managed, by some secret known only to themselves, to wedge their way through the dense throng and refresh the guests with cakes and ices. A room was provided where coffee and chocolate were served, but no costly wine or any other beverage that intoxicates was seen at the reception of the Secretary of War.

A glowering night prepared itself for the reception of the Postmaster-General. It rained, but as this part of the program concerned nobody but the hackmen and the horses, and as no Professor Bergh was present to look after the trials of his four-footed friends, the reception came off with additional glory reflected from the dark surroundings. In the midst of the pelting rain the carriages drew up before the handsome residence of the Postmaster-General, in the most fashionable quarter of the West End. Matting or drugget was laid outwardly from the mansion. A policeman opened the door of your carriage and held an extensive umbrella over your head while you found your way into the entrance. That short walk was the most impressive part of the evening’s entertainment. A cloud darker than the heavens above lined either side of the open space. It was reflected from the dense crowd of colored people who had collected to inspect the guests, who for a moment were visible as they passed from the carriage to the mansion. This crowd of boys, girls and men seemed as indifferent to the pelting rain as the dumb creatures which nature clothes in her own curious fashion. Once within the vestibule, we had light and music, celebrated men and brave women. In the usual place at the entrance of the first parlor might have been seen the Postmaster-General, and not far removed his accomplished wife. The Postmaster-General has a commanding person, a broad, towering brow, and underneath it a pair of opal eyes which burn and glow with the usual brilliancy of that exquisite gem. The lower part of his face denotes aggressive power, as well as that unmistakable pertinacity so necessary in a public man. He has set his face against the franking privilege, and the chances are that the Postmaster-General will win. No man in the United States has been so tortured with applications for office; and if he had the photographs of all the women who have applied to him for postoffices, and they were all laid in a row, single file, they would reach from Maine almost to California. Considering Postmaster-General Cresswell’s troubles, he is the most remarkably well preserved man in Washington.

Mrs. Creswell is handsome, as well as one of the most graceful women at the capital. Since the absence of Mrs. Senator Sprague from fashionable society, if she must have a successor, Mrs. Creswell seems the most available candidate for the vacant place. As an example of her exquisite taste she wore black velvet the evening of her reception, and no toilet is so “perfect at home.”

There seemed to be no end to the rooms in this modern mansion. In one place a soothing weed was prepared for the lords of creation, where they could steep themselves in smoke if they felt it to be desirable. In another chocolate and coffee were dispensed in dainty little cups that must have been imported from Constantinople. In the coffee-room might have been seen the genteel Montgomery Blair. He had a certain calm look of resignation on his face, sphinx-like in the extreme, as if he had the strength to bide the time of half a dozen administrations, if it was necessary, before the right one would “turn up” for the Blair family. Ex-Secretary McCulloch was also in the chocolate-room, surrounded by a bevy of pretty girls; but his associates were no better than he deserved, for a better, kinder-hearted man is hard to find. Another room was devoted to sandwiches, cakes, and ices. In a corner of this room was seen an immense punch-bowl, in which miniature icebergs were grating their sides. This punch-bowl contained lemonade colored with claret. An old lady whose veracity can be trusted, said there was just enough claret introduced in it to counteract dreadful effects of the ice and the acid in the beverage; that one could drink a dozen glasses without the least painful effect. At any rate, great quantities of this purple fluid disappeared, and no serious mischief followed.

Conspicuous among the hundreds of elegant women present was “Shirley Dare,” the Washington correspondent of the New York World. She was robed in blue satin, which was extremely becoming to her refined face, milky complexion, and amber-tinted hair. Her dress throughout was comme il faut as one of her own fashion letters, and among all the literary women who shine at the capital she is the one whom the writer feels most like grasping by the hand. She is the true woman journalist, who accepts the situation, and is willing to fight the battle of life on the woman’s platform. She believes that in our so-called weakness lies our strength, and that if women are only a mind to wake up and go to work, the men will never put down the brakes. The New York World has sent her here upon as delicate and difficult a mission as the females of olden times undertook when they were sent out by their sovereigns to distant courts to take charge of certain branches of diplomacy. The World ought to have provided the wardrobe, the carriage, jewels, and other important et ceteras to match, and afterwards give her a duchy when she returns to New York covered with scars and glory. A masculine reporter can slip unnoticed through the mazes of society; not so with a woman. She must be able to bear inspection. She must be prepared for any fate. What does a man know about society after he has bathed in it? He is unable to write a respectable society article. The great New York dailies have tried man after man at the capital, and have finally concluded there are some things which men cannot do. The newspapers now, in some directions, acknowledge the supremacy of woman.

Gen. Fitz Henry Warren, late minister to Guatemala, was present, accompanied by his accomplished wife. Mrs. Warren is a kind of periodical star in Washington society. A few years ago, when her husband was Assistant Postmaster-General, she was one of the noticeable women of the capital. She reappears again, bringing the graceful manners of the old regime, to which is added that rare cultivation acquired only by residence abroad, and the best gifts garnered in the passing years. Very few American women have remarkable inclinations for intellectual pursuits, but Mrs. Warren is found among the number.

Wending his way daintily, avoiding the long silken trains as if they concealed serpents and scorpions, was seen handsome Senator Carpenter, of Wisconsin. Oh! that this letter had not reached such a prodigious length, so that an inventory of his attractions might be made public! Let it be summed up that he is everything he should be and very little that he should not be. Few if any of the men at the reception had a finer presence. Colonel John W. Forney was there also. It was impossible to find out whether he was made for the reception, or the reception was made for him. At any rate, the fit was excellent; but the same reason that prevents a description of Senator Carpenter prohibits dwelling upon this specimen of his kind, and these two last difficult subjects must be laid, for the time, on the table.

Olivia.