Now you will understand, sisters, that no man, though he should happen to be smart as a steel trap, and pleasant as a willow whistle, can give extra brains or sweet manners to a wife who hasn't got 'em in her own right. So there is a chance that some short comings in the female line are not very uncommon. The senators and judges and cabinet people are, as a general thing, the picked men of the nation, but they choose their own wives, and some of them haven't half so much taste in the fine arts, to which many of this generation of women belong, as they have knowledge about politics. Still, these ladies are what they call representative women, and, nationally considered, are the cream on cream of American society. That is a fact, too, as far as they represent their own husbands. By marrying great men, or those who are merely fortunate, they are only lifted more clearly into the public view, where their virtues and their faults are held up for general examination. Still, it is wonderful how popular some of them get to be, and how soon they learn the duties of their places. Sometimes a first-rate woman happens to marry a first-rate man, and takes her place by his side naturally. A good many such women have earned a place for themselves in society quite equal to any their husbands have been chosen to hold by the people. Mrs. Madison, Mrs. Polk and Miss Lane were among these, and, as a perfect lady, well known for years and years in Washington, Mrs. Crittendon, the widow of Senator Crittendon--formerly Mrs. Ashley--is always mentioned side by side with her husband, and stood quite as high among women as he did among men. In my opinion, there is a senator's wife from Minnesota that can hold her own with the handsomest and highest of those that have gone before; but as she is extra modest too, I give no names. Then there is another, I will say it, who has done honor to her position and credit to her husband, and that is Mrs. Ulysses Grant. She is just a good, honest, motherly woman, pleasant to look at and pleasant to speak to. She acts out what she pretends to, and pretends to be just what she is. If this woman hasn't pulled an even yoke with her husband, both in the war and after the war, no female of my acquaintance ever did. It's of no use talking, I like that woman. But I am a-going at a rate that wants pulling up, so I tighten the bridle and take a new turn. What I began to write about was, a reception at Mr. Horatio King's, which always takes off the first skimming of cream from Washington society. Mr. King is a New England man, and was born and brought up in Maine, which lifts him almost to a level with us of Vermont. In fact, in the way of statesmen and authors, I am bound to say that Maine pulls an even yoke with the Green Mountain State. So far as authors are concerned, I'm afraid she goes a little ahead of us. The city of Portland was just a nest of authors before they took wing and settled down in other places.