I can only say in answer to your letter that every statement made by the Rev. C. H. Pendleton in the interview which you send me is basely false, and I pity the man of his calling who has been made the tool to give circulation to such wicked heartless lies. I can wish the women of our country no greater blessing than that their lives may be as happy and their husbands as kind, attentive, considerate and affectionate as mine. Very truly, FRANCES F. CLEVELAND. Praise was showered upon the President’s highly popular wife, who never made a mistake. Without a word, she settled problems that had stirred tempests of discussion. The matter of wines was settled by her for herself. She merely turned down her glass, declining thus to use them, and the quiet dignity placed her action above argument. She made the unsightly bustle unfashionable and set also an example of simple and becoming hairdressing. It fell to the President to announce to the nation the loss of another ex-President--his immediate predecessor--Chester A. Arthur, who, after his retirement, never recovered his health which had been undermined and shattered by the anxieties of office. He died in his home within two years after he left the White House. This was the period when many noted authors, writers, and artists made Washington their abiding place at least for a time. Among them, Frances Hodgson Burnett, at the high tide of her popularity, had established herself on Farragut Square. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, from the sheltered seclusion of the porch of Prospect Cottage, was wielding her prolific pen and producing a novel a year. Joaquin Miller had built his unique cabin in the trees, a mecca for all kindred spirits and for throngs of the curious. The learned Spofford and the gifted Bancroft rode horseback in literary companionship. The spell of Mark Twain and Walt Whitman was upon the city; and Grace Greenwood, Gail Hamilton, Mary Clemmer Ames were listed among the shining lights of the press so valiantly served by Townsend and Poore and dozens of others. Mary S. Logan was already filling bookshelf space. Olivia Edson Briggs, trenchant and satirical, had stamped upon the public mind the quality of her Olivia letters, compendiums of news--gossip, politics, and fashion. Mary S. Lockwood won favour reminiscing over the city’s quaint, half-forgotten old homes, so replete with romances and tragedies of national history. The literary élite, too numerous to mention, left their stamp upon the life of the flourishing, shifting population of the most unique city in the world, where no rank, power, or residence is permanent.