But for a veteran of threescore years and ten he seems a remarkably fresh, flush, good-looking man ; and the crook in his neck, when it inclined his face to me, instead of being a deformity, gave him a peculiarly confidential and interesting manner of con versation. I found the "White House" in a state of unusual neatness, not to say elegance; and yet, to me, it never seemed so sad; for I remembered some cosy hours passed in its smaller social rooms, with the accomplished and beautiful Bettie Bliss and the intelligent and amiable Miss Fillmore. The only familiar household face I saw was that of McManus, who, for the last twelve years, has ushered in and out all the great and little folks, who "called to see the President." No change of Administration touches him-an exception to the revolutionary rule of "rotation." In the reception-room and in the antechamber there were, perhaps, fifty men waiting for an audience, with more or less anxiety in their faces-a crowd of beggars, either wanting office, or to be retained in office. Thank my stars, I had nothing to ask for; and when I told the President I had no "business" to be there, his face was lighted up and relieved with a most welcome smile; and giving me an extra shake of the hand, invited me to pass the evening, socially, with Miss Lane. He then said to the nervous-looking crowd of waiting gentlemen: "I have to observe the miller's rule, gentlemen; and those of you who wish to speak to me on business can do so now, in the order of your coming." Whereupon they began to approach him one by one, pop a word into his private ear, and then fall back. I noticed that the President listened with a placid, yet imperturbably non-committal look, making no answer that amounted to a yes or no; but with a bland and politic assurance that each particular case should be taken into special consideration. What a bore! I exclaimed, as I descended the stairs so many thousands have trod with palpitating hearts. My dear old bachelor Buck! Virgin spinster that I am, I would not share your cares for all your honors; and I would rather adorn a cottage ornée, with the unknown man after my own heart, than to reign over the cold formalities of the "White House' forever. My next call was one that interested me vastly more; but from which I returned in a still more reflective, not to say melancholy mood. The Red Chiefs of the Western wilderness-the aboriginal natives of the soil-the chosen delegates of the Pon cas and Pawnees are here, in all the glory of paint and feathers, to "ratify a treaty," and learn from their "great father" that they can no longer occupy the pleasant hunting-grounds where their ancestors have fished and fought, and lived and loved, for unknown ages. This hard and cruel fate was distinctly stated to them by the Commissioner; and I have seldom heard any tone more touching than the half grunt, half groan, with which they responded to every sentence of the interpreter. Two or three among them are fine-looking fellows; bright-eyed, broad-chested, athletic men, with brave and fearless faces, and expressive, sonorous names, good enough for Longfellow to weave into his Runic rhymes: Wagosoppee, the "Whip," (principal chief;) Geshthouwago, or the "Strong Walker;" Michael Cerre, or "Washkomonny, the Hard Walker;" Dishmonickagahe, or the "Lone Chief;" Showcabbee, or the "Threatening Cloud;" and Fantamganoghee, or the "Standing Buffalo," &c., &c. One of these warriors of the wilderness seems to be regally proud of his necklace of human scalps. But they are the savage trophies torn from his own people, not from the heads of the white men. These Poncas must move westward from Nebraska, and they are here to sign the treaty that banishes them from their fathers' graves. Is it not sad? But life, even to the most favored and refined races, is full of sad necessities. A few years more, and the remnant of the once mighty red race will vanish from the great continent which once was all their own, and their history will be but a plaintive echo, growing fainter and fainter to every succeeding age. "Slowly and sadly they climb the western mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun." A grand ball at Postmaster-General Brown's uses up the day and me together. It was the "opening ball" of the season; and a regular Washington jam. All the beaux and belles in the city were there. Eighteen hundred invitations were given out; probably a thousand persons were present. Gov. Brown is rich, and entertains like a prince. His family consists of a wife and "one fair (step) daughter, and no more, whom he loveth passing well." Several members of the Cabinet, and most of the Foreign Ministers were present, including the gentlemanly Lord Napier and his beautiful lady. But in point of style the New-York ladies decidedly bore the palm. Mrs. Bergh, Mrs. Sickles, and Mrs. Clark were elegantly dressed, and shone as the particular stars of the evening. Among the "lions," none were more marked or more courted than Mackay, the poet editor, whose modesty of manner is as rare as his character and his talents are meritorious. The dancing (the waltz, the polka, the lancers, and the quadrille) was kept up until one o'clock, when your "fair correspondent" retired with profound satisfaction, to seek that solitary solace-"tired nature's sweet restorer-balmy sleep." MY DEAR LETTER II. WILLARD'S HOTEL, WASHINGTON, LORD NAPIER is a brick. } Learning, as I suppose, from the Picayune, which everybody here who is anybody always carries in his pocket, that your "fair correspondent" was at Willard's, his lordship did the handsome thing. He came, and saw, and conquered. I am not entirely—that is, not formally "out" yet; but I could not resist the attractions of Lady Napier's grand ball on Thursday evening last. It was a magnificent affair. Shall I tell you something about it? In the first place, I was "taken" with the excellence and systematic arrangement of the dressing or undressing rooms. Our |