This morning I have shaken hands with the President at the White House—a modest building not larger than our Mansion House, and, like that, interesting for its many associations. Mr. Arthur is in the prime of life—a tall, well-made man, with dark-brown hair and eyes, of rather sluggish temperament, apparently. He did not say much to me, nor, I imagine, does he say much to anybody. His plan seems to be to hear and see as much, and say as little as he can. We met in a room upstairs, where, from ten to eleven, he is at home to Congress men, who would see him on public affairs before Congress meets, as eleven in the morning is the usual hour when it commences business. There were seven or eight waiting to speak to the President as he stood up at his table, so as to get the light on his visitors’ faces, while his own was shaded as much as possible; and, owing to the heat in Washington, the houses are kept so shaded that, coming out of the clear sunlight, it is not always easy at the first glance to see where you are. The President did not seem particularly happy to see anybody, and looked rather bored as the Senators and Congress men buttonholed him. Of course, our conversation was strictly private and confidential, and wild horses shall never tear the secret from me. Posterity must remain in the dark. It is one of those questions never to be revealed, as much so as that which so provoked the ancients as to the song the syrens sang to Ulysses. The President’s enemies call him the New York dude, because he happens to be a gentlemanly-looking man, and patronises Episcopalianism, which in America, as in England, is reckoned “the genteel thing.” The Americans are hard to please. Mr. James Russell Lowell had got the gout, and the New York writers said, when I was there, he had attained the object of a snob’s ambition. It is thus they talked of one of their country’s brightest ornaments. But to return to the President. He is a wise man, and keeps his ears open and his mouth shut—a plan which might be adopted by other statesmen with manifest advantage to themselves and the community. The President wore a morning black coat, with a rose in his buttonhole, and had the air about him of a man accustomed to say to one, “Come,” and he comes; to another, “Go,” and he goes. I made some few remarks about Canada and America, to which he politely listened, and then we shook hands and parted, he to be seized on by eager Congress men, I to inspect the public apartments of the White House. He has rather a hard life of it, I fancy, as he has to work all day, and his only relaxation seems to be a ride in the evening, as there are no private grounds connected with the House. In the model Republic privacy is unknown. Everything is open and aboveboard. Intelligent citizens gain much thereby.