Jessie Benton Fremont Among the Notables in the Blue Room.

Washington, January 31, 1871.

The fashionable season at the capital is in the full meridian of glory. Every working day of the week is devoted by the beau monde to dissipation. Feminine faces seamed with the scars of sleepless nights are the rule, and plump, rosy cheeks the exception. All is glare, glitter and pomp, and nothing home-like and substantial. One social gathering is like another, except that the women change their dresses; but the ideas afloat upon all occasions are precisely the same. An exhibition of the weather takes place every day, consequently one topic of conversation can not be exhausted. Another subject, as Bret Harte would say, “never peters out.” Women who go to receptions must be “dressed;” consequently the taste, the quality, the cost of each other’s costumes afford endless food for comment. Whilst the season lasts there is no time for reading, sensible conversation, or reflection. The fashionable wife of a Senator has not time to rest her corporeal frame before a fresh demand is made upon her nervous and vital forces. In other cities of the Union the mansions of the opulent and hospitable are thrown open because the host and hostess desire to see their guests. In Washington this order of things is reversed. Entertainments are official instead of social, and the magnificent card reception of a Cabinet minister is as cold and formal as a President’s levee. Receptions of every kind seem to be cast in the same cruel and relentless mould. Whilst it is not expected that President Grant should stop the ceremonies of a levee to introduce Jones to Brown, it would seem that a Senator’s wife, at an afternoon reception in her own little, quiet parlor at a boarding-house or hotel, would make her two or three guests acquainted for the time being, even though these women were foes ever after. But no introductions take place. The hostess must be a wonderful woman to keep three shuttles of conversation going without occasionally breaking threads. On account of these difficulties many of the “leaders” in the gay season invite a few particular friends to help carry on the tasks of reception day. Mrs. Grant set the example by inviting a number of ladies to preside at her “Tuesday afternoons.” But in order to make everything perfect the wife of the President orders the reserve force to come down at the last end of the battle. This battalion consists of General Grant and as many of the Cabinet officers as choose to follow, and if General Dent comes trickling after in his yellow kids there is nothing left to be done except for the sun and moon to stand still until the performance is over. In order to fortify the ladies for the afternoon’s work Mrs. Grant provides a dainty lunch beforehand, in the family dining-room. A spotless cover of white linen is spread over the national mahogany. Upon this pearly foundation rest rare and fragrant hothouse exotics. Fruits rifled from the trees of the tropics, luscious oysters from the smiling Chesapeake, sardines from the limpid Mediterranean, and pastry concocted by the “incomparable Melah” lend their charms to grace the feast provided by our “first lady” for the maids of honor when they go to the White House to grace reception day. Being only mortal, like the rest of us, it does sometimes happen that Mrs. Grant and her accomplished assistants linger a little too long over the nutritious chocolate and Bahei; consequently, callers assemble in the East Room and stamp their feet with impatience because the performance does not commence.

At last the hour has arrived, the doors of the “Blue Room” are thrown open, and the play begins. Daylight has been as carefully excluded as if it had thievish propensities. An immense chandelier hung in the centre of the room throws a fitful glare over the enchanted scene. Blue and gold everywhere. Blue satin damask masks the walls; blue velvet carpet under the feet; blue and gold upholstery scattered profusely around. Baskets of natural flowers make the air fragrant with faintest perfume. Mrs. Grant stands near the entrance, with General Michler, master of ceremonies, at her left, and her maids of honor at her right. General Michler’s face lights up with real joy at the delightful prospect before him. Not a woman of the vast incoming throng, be she hag or beauty, but must come in contact with him before she reaches the Mecca of her hopes. Mrs. Grant, one of the most amiable and excellent of women, looks as if she meant to make everybody welcome, and she puts so much hearty good feeling into a hand-grasp that she would certainly lose caste in the fashionable world if she was not safely intrenched behind an impregnable fortress. She is clad in a heavy, pearl-colored brocade, embroidered with field flowers and modestly trimmed with point lace. Mrs. Grant has never been accused of being a beauty, and yet there may be seen in her person a great many points which help to make the handsome woman. She has a very fine figure, and an arm as beautiful as Mrs. Slidell’s (and the Greek Slave statue was modeled upon the plan of this elegant Creole rebel). Mrs. Grant has an exquisite complexion, lovely hair, and a sincere, unaffected manner, which endears her to every personal acquaintance. General Grant thinks her beautiful, and, as he is the highest authority in the nation, this question is settled. Now let the country hold its peace.

Next to the “first lady” stands the superb wife of the Secretary of State. She is clad in palest of lavender, richly ornamented with duchess lace. Mrs. Fish is a fine, queenly looking woman, of middle age. Time has gently touched her, for her figure is as erect, her complexion as faultless, and her eyes as bright as in the days of her girlhood. A Long Island acquaintance of Mrs. Grant is also assisting to receive. She is rather pretty, and is becomingly dressed in pink silk, underneath white muslin and lace.

The wife of Judge Dent is also lending a helping hand in the ceremonies. She is a Southern woman by birth, and the mistress of all those charms for which the daughters of sunny climes are noted. She is clad in lemon-colored silk, and her person makes a delightful place for the eye to rest upon after long and severe wanderings.

Last, but not least, the brilliant wife of General Horace Porter makes up the group. She is a dazzling little woman, with pearly teeth, all her own. She may be an American, but she looks like a French woman. Her costume is made up of pink and blue, the two colors shaded with an artist’s brush. She is talking to some friend about the “baby left at home,” which proves that Horace Porter is consoled in his difficult position by a very sweet wife and a thoughtful mother.

The guests have begun to assemble, not only in scores, but hundreds. Conspicuous in the throng, towering like a palm in an oasis, might have been seen the majestic form of Sir John Rose, of Canadian fame. His fine old English face seemed alive with festive animal spirits, sound health, and the good results of a long temperate life. He might have been thinking of the solution of the fishery difficulties, but his eyes did not betray the least fishy appearance as they rested upon the fair faces and fine forms of our countrywomen. He remained only a short time, but was spirited away by some member of one of the foreign legations. About the time of the appearance of Sir John Rose the President and Cabinet, with the exception of General Belknap, descended from some unknown region and enlivened the brilliancy of the afternoon. General Grant appeared in a plain working suit, and his manner from the first betrayed business. Whilst he seemed willing to take every fairy by the hand, he was very careful at the same moment to look in an opposite direction. It might be possible that this was a mere political dodge to gain time to be prepared for woman suffrage; at any rate, no delicate creature could have left the Executive presence feeling that she had been particularly favored, and the most perfect gossip present pronounced his manner noncommittal, as usual. In close proximity to the Chief Magistrate might have been noticed the slender scion of a famous stock, in the shape of the quaint form of Secretary Boutwell, of Massachusetts. There seemed to be nothing dangerous in the appearance of the distinguished financier except the immense size of his feet. However, to set the mind of the country aright in regard to the foundation of the national finances, it is here declared, upon highest authority, that Secretary Boutwell’s extremities are precisely like other men’s, but the huge boots have been purposely built to frighten away female applicants for office, and bold impertinent Congressmen. Secretary Boutwell has a fine face, a gracious presence, and can be ornamental at times, as well as useful.

Far away in the offing might have been seen a jolly “iron-clad” who is well known in Washington society as the gallant Secretary of the Navy. No telescope was necessary to see him cruising about, with his main-sail handsomely squared, and his jib-boom set in the right direction. All at once he changes his course and bears down upon a modest little craft that seems entirely unaware of danger. Ugh! it is all over! No lives lost! They have bespoken each other on the wild waters of conversation, and each hurries forward to a different port.

One of the most distinguished women who paid her respects to Mrs. Grant, and honored the large assembly, was Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont, the better part of the great “Pathfinder,” of Pacific Railroad fame. General Fremont may have found a great many wonders in his terrific exploration, but the best thing he ever did find is “Jessie,” and if he is ever crowned with immortal bays, it will be because in their youth they ran away. Although Mrs. Fremont is below the average height of her countrywomen, she has a royal presence and a queenly face. Neither paint, powder, nor any other artifice of the age conceals or enhances the mischief time has wrought with her features, and her head is crowned with an abundance of snowy hair, but her countenance is lighted up by a pair of brilliant eyes, and the dimples that enchanted the “Pathfinder” still remain.

How shall we manage to get space in The Press to describe the wives of Congress? Every adjective and adverb in the dictionary might be used and the work not then be accomplished. One most noticeable fact in relation to the receptions of the winter is the wearing of last year’s costumes. Very few new dresses are seen, and black silk was worn by nine-tenths of the ladies who went to Mrs. Grant’s reception. A very few trains were seen, but walking-dresses were the rule and long dresses the exception. A great many hats were worn, but the most elegant toilettes were finished by bonnets. Mrs. Hunter, wife of the Major-General, wore a black silk dress and a white satin bonnet; and Mrs. Cresswell, wife of the Postmaster General, wore the usual habiliments of the season. It will be noticed that the taste of American women is becoming more chaste and refined. Visiting suits are sombre; rich high colors are reserved for the evening. But more of this anon.

Olivia.