Brigham Young has sent this woman abroad to be on exhibition like any other work of art. She is expected to make new converts. She is allowed to indulge her taste in silks, jewels and point lace. The other wives are young, giddy, and commonplace. Their manners are just what must be expected from youth and inexperience, and their conversation, so far as two of them are concerned, was only noticeable on account of its warmth of grammatical accuracy. All the Mormons who come to Washington make us feel that they are by the side of us yet not annealed with the great body of the people. They have a bitter hatred of the Gentiles, cloaked, though it may be, by a frigid politeness. Mr. Hooper says: “Things seem strange to you, out our way, but it is quite as strange to us in this part of the country; but we don’t feel like meddling with your institutions.” He also remarked that it was very strange that so many people seemed desirous to settle out in that part of the world. He said it was the poorest, most unattractive portion of the American continent. It was for this reason that the “chosen people” exiled themselves, planted their homes where nature has set a bitter, sterile face. The late cry of “We only ask to be let alone” is borne to us from the saline hills of Utah. We answer it with the scream of the locomotive. The Pacific Railroad is the guillotine which will cleave the head of Mormonism asunder, and polygamy, the last sad relic of barbarism, the one single blemish which clings to our beloved Republic, is doomed. OLIVIA. AWAITING AUDIENCE AT THE WHITE HOUSE. GENERAL DENT AND ROBERT DOUGLAS AS BUFFERS. WASHINGTON, _April 27, 1869_. Just as the monarch of a Persian story gives audience to the high and low, so does President Grant receive the people, precisely after the fashion of an Oriental tale. It is not quite certain whether the President roams about the capital in the disguise of a dervish, as did the good Caliph Haroun Alraschid in his beloved Bagdad, but of a Sunday, if the weather be fine, he dashes up Fourteenth street, drawn by steeds, as fleet as the far-famed Arabian coursers, and a cloud of dust envelops his costly barouche as potent and insinuating as the flying sand in the desert. A day in the ante-rooms of the White House will prove to the most skeptical that the “Arabian Nights” are as authentic as Hawthorne’s “Twice-Told Tales.” The Eastern Hemisphere had her rise and decline before the sun of civilization kissed our rugged New England hills. The Orient is asleep. The Occident fills the eyes of the world to-day.