A stranger attending a Presidential levee for the first time at the capital has an opportunity to drain the cup of Washington society to its very dregs. Card receptions, such as are held at the homes of the Cabinet, Chief Justice Chase, and General Sherman, in a certain sense are veiled under the sacred seal of hospitality, and the newspaper correspondent dare not, cannot, without violating all delicacy and good taste, make a pen picture of the men and women whom the dear people at home like to know all about. A Presidential levee is altogether a different affair. It is public. It belongs to the people. When we go to the Executive Mansion we go to our own house. Our sacred feet press our own tufted Wiltons. We recline on our own satin and ebony. We are received graciously by our own well-dressed servants, and the people have a right to know, through the columns of _The Press_, the exact state of the situation. Whoever goes to a levee at the mansion becomes public property, and has no more right to complain because he has been caught in the net of a newspaper correspondent than the fish who has swallowed the hook of an honest fisherman. The time has been when a levee at the White House was like a social gathering in a modest village. The President not only shook hands with his guest, but also asked him to take a chair and inquired about the state of the crops “Down East.” The most precious republican simplicity has taken its departure with the Jeffersons and the Madisons; or rather it has necessarily been cast off with all the other swaddling-clothes of an infant Republic. A perfect river of human life pours through the Executive Mansion. Human beings are packed together just as solid as sardines in a box, whilst the President and Mrs. Grant are obliged to take each separate atom by the hand. After two hours of this kind of work, its ravage begins to show its effect upon the person of the Chief Magistrate. His eyes begin to have a far-off look, great drops of perspiration stand on his forehead, and his thin, quivering nostrils rise and sink, like the gills of a darling dolphin when taken out of the water. Sometimes the President gasps; but this is usually thought to be a handsomely suppressed yawn, and no matter how much he may desire to bring in his superb knowledge of military tactics, so far as it is known he has never been guilty of a flank movement; he has only appeared as if he would like to shoulder arms. Mrs. Grant stands a little way from the President--“fair, fat and forty.” She appears in grace and manner just as any other sensible woman would who had been lifted from the ranks of the people to such an exalted position. It is true she shows the people her comely neck and shoulders, and, notwithstanding the wintry weather, makes no attempt to cover her shapely arms; but her gracious condescension is appreciated, and the exhibition is free to all.