For some moments Mr. Cleveland said nothing, and then, with great impressiveness and something of serenity, he said, “I have long seen that. The public man cannot go astray who follows the plain people, nor can the politician err who respects their impulses.” In this single remark we have probably the secret revealed of the influence which controls Mr. Cleveland. It has been said of Mr. Cleveland that Republicans have supported him because he is a better man than his party, but the assertion seems a flippant and thoughtless one. Mr. Cleveland is no better than the best ideals of the Democratic party, although he is immeasurably better than the false and abhorrent influences and elements which have been pleased to associate themselves with that party. At its best the Democratic party is a splendid force. Mr. Cleveland is esteemed better than his party by some Republicans, because his party has not always been true to its principles. But he is a true Democrat. PATTI AT CRAIG-Y-NOS. BY ARTHUR WARREN. Two queens travel from the Paddington station of the Great Western Railway in London to their palatial homes--the Queen of England, and the Queen of Song. If you ask at Paddington for directions to Craig-y-Nos Castle, the porters will inform you with not less alacrity than they would have shown had you inquired the way to Windsor. And you observe they delight in the duty. They make you as comfortable as possible for your two-hundred-mile journey. You depart with the circumstance of an ambassador. Had you been accredited to the foot of the throne by some reigning monarch of the continent you could not be more thoughtfully attended by the railway serving-men. You are a guest of Madame Patti, and that, in the eyes of these honest fellows, is as good as being a guest of Queen Victoria. I pulled up at the end of a broiling hot day in August, at a wee bit station on the top of a Welsh mountain. The station is called “Penwyllt;” it overlooks the Swansea Valley, and stands about half-way between Brecon and the sea. When a traveller alights at Penwyllt there is no need to question his purpose. He can have but one destination, and that is Craig-y-Nos Castle. A carriage from the castle was awaiting me, and we set off down the steep road to the valley, a sudden turn showing the Patti palace there on the banks of the Tawe. The place was two miles distant, and a thousand feet below our wheels, but I could see an American flag flying from the square tower, and there it waved during the successive days of my visit; for it is Madame Patti’s way to welcome a guest with the emblem of his nationality. A prettier compliment is not conceivable.