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LOTE UNDYING.
They say Love cannot die.
WiV»7f d one j *® Itso? Yon know all now,
witn immortality upon your brow ;
t warm , deep love you gave us here
' n 8onie di.vmer, holier sphere;
Still hovers o’er this bleeding, aching heart
otriving to heal the wounds, to soothe the smart.
dear one J when I reach these arms of mine
Longingly outward, does a love divine
£rom that sweet soul, so warm and tender still,
Kespond to mine? On Heaven’s sun-lighted hill
Does your love wait for me?
A QUEEN of FLIRTS
— OR, —
Playing With Edge
Tools.
BY FLORENCE HaRTLAND.
CHAPTER II.
Two weeks have flown since Aylmer Holmes’
arrival at Sedgemore—two weeks of careless en
joyment, seemingly unmarked by noticeable or
memorable events; and yet there has oocurred,
even in this short period, much that will materially
influence the future, not only of the young Louis,
ianian, but of several others beneath the same
roof.
There have been times when, even against his
better judgment—which was always remarkably
clear and cool for one of his youth and compara
tive inexperience—Aylmer was sorely tempted to
trample other considerations under foot, and sur
render himself unreservedly to the spell of Ada
Clydesdale's p -culiar fascination. Her beauty was
too dazzling, her marked preference for himself
too flattering, for any man to witness altogether
unmoved ; and it is only fairly presumptive that
Aylmer, despite his boasted invulnerability, would
at an early stage of their acquaintance have fallen
a helpless victim had his feelings not been happi
ly held in cheok by the disclosure of Harvey’s re.
lations toward his sister's guest, and the conse
quent point of honor this involved. These “ re
lations” were, however, of a nature that Harvey
himself could hardly define. In speaking of this
affair to his friend, he was at first very reticent,
but at length opened his whole heart, and confided
to Aylmer all his gloomy doubts and fears, his
torturing uncertainty, and inability to bring his
capricious mistress to a just decision.
“ Be a man, Harvey !” said Aylmer, indignant
ly. “ I would blush to let any woman lay my
pride and self-respect so low in the dust. Only
show her that you will not longer be her plaything,
that you demand and will have an explicit answer,
and believe me, unless this pretty autocrat be the
veriest despot that ever ruled over the kingdom of
men’s hearts, you will speedily bring her to terms.
If there be a passably good-looking girl in this
vicinity, I would advise you to get up with her a
vigorous flirtation. This is a remedy for griev
ances of your sort, very seldom known to fail.”
“ Are you sure, Aylmer,” said Harvey present
ly, disregarding the latter part of his friend’s har
angue, and speaking with great hesitation, “are
you quite sure—pardon me if I do you injustice—
that you are not yourself somewhat interested in
Miss Clydesdale ? She is so beautiful, and (here
Harvey spoke as if the acknowledgement was lit
erally wrung from him) has shown you more flat
tering attention than she usually bestows upon
men. Have you not noticed it? and are you—can
you be totally unmoved?”
For an instant—only for an instant—Aylmer
hesitated ; then his snswer came with the clear,
honest ring of manly truth :
•If I denied that-there have been times since I
spet her when Miss Clydesdale’s great beauty
attracted me—as it must to some degree attract
all uien- -I should be uawortby «€ .he *»„»* y<M»
repose in my honor. Nay, Harvey—let me con
fess ’it—I have once very nearly yielded to the
spell' against which you yourself—you remember
it—warned me; and which might have been
equally fatal to my peace as it has proven to be
to yours. Bnt that is quite past. Forgive me,
dear old fellow, if I give you pain; but I must
tell you that I think this woman whom you love
to madly is thoroughly heartless—a cold, calcu
lating schemer who is playing for the highest
stakes, with whom human hearts—no matter how
■gallant and true—are but instruments to pander
to her vanity, which she will at any time,
without a pang of remorse, use as stepping-stones
to the attainment of some more alluring ambi
tion. It is folly to talk tnus to a man in love;
worse than folly. But, Harvey, old fellow, I
w j s li i w i s h—that you could throw off this in
fatuation. Believe me, some day you will see
her as she is, and find that—despite her siren
face—she is not worthy of you!’
It was, as Aylmer himself confessed, worse
than folly to make this declaration to a man in
love. It required all Harvey’s solf control to re
press the bitter retort, the paesionate denial that
rushed it to his lips. The blood crimsoned his
face in a torren’, his vaice trembled with
agitation as he answered, proudly and coldly:
‘Not worthy !—and of me! Great heavens!
there is not a crown ed head in all Europe that
might not feel honored to kneel at her feet and
do her royal homage! For me, if I might dare
trust to call her some day my wife, I would own
myself her willing slave and glory in the bond-
age!’ , ...
Alymer saw that further conversation in his
friend’s excited state should be dangerous. He
rose at once, and said with the winning warmth
that always charmed Harvey, ‘Well, old boy, I
earnestly trust you are right—not I. At any rate,
you know how entirely I recognize your happiness
as mine. But come ! I remember just now an
accepted challenge from Miss Julia for a game of
chess-’
As the young gentlemen entered the parlor, a
moment later they paused at the door in silent ad
miration of the picture it presented. In the centre
of the handsome apartment was a marble table,
on which burned a large astral lamp, whose mel
low light flooded the room with mild radiance. At
this table Julia was seated; her bright, piquant
face flushed with animation, was bent oyer a
chess-board where she had just been fighting a
valiant battle with an imaginary antagonist.
At some distance from her, on a low, broad
couch, drawn directly under an open western
window that revealed a wide stretch of blue,,
starlit sky, sat, or rather half reclined, Miss
Clydesdale. Her beautiful head, upturned to the
gummer-night heaven, lay at ease on the scarlet
cushions, one bare polished arm thrown carelessly
above it, the white jeweled fingers idly toying
with the roses that crowned her half-bound hair.
A dress of some soft , sheeny white material floated
in graceful folds about her, only relieved at the
wafat and throat by scarlet ribbons. There was
something bo subtly intoxicating about her—a
glamour of such irresistible witchery—that Har
vey drew his breath hard as he looked ; and even
Aylmer, with all his coolness, muttered incau
tiously aloud—“ How very beautiful! ” At the
sound. Miss Clydesdale slowly turned her head;
and Julia sprang up gleefully, with an eager re
cital of her recent exploits at chess, which, she aa-
Atired Aylmer, had given her such unlimited con
fidence in her own powers that she felt equal to
a?encounter with the renowned champion—even
Faul Morphy himselt
«i prefer seeing to hearing of yonr rapid ad-
** In this noble science, said her adver
sary, as he gravely seated himself at the board.
“ If I remember rightly, at our last match yon
were check-mated in half a dozen moves.”
Jnlia blushed brightly, but shook her brown-
tressed head with her own pretty willfulness.
“ We shall see,” she said gaily; and so the
game began.
Another game, more deeply interesting, at least
to one of the players, was progressing on the
lennge by the open window.
“Bo you know, Ada,” Harvey began in a low,
hurried note, as the spoilt beauty swept aside her
voluminous skirts and made room for him at her
side, “that the suspense in which you keep me is
growing beyond my powers of endurance ? I have
waited, as best I could, for weeks, hoping every
day you would let me know your decision; but
now this fever of unrest must be allayed. If I
am to be made happy, beyond my wildest dreams,
by the bestowal of that white hand, tell me so—
tell me so in mercy right now; or, if you cannot
love me as I ask—if I am finally to be turned
away from your presence with all the light and
trust and hope blasted out of my life—for God’s
sake let me know it to-night! ”
The passionate appeal had as well been breathed
to the cold marble of a lovely statue. Ada Clydes
dale was not a woman ever to allow herself to be
swayed by an impulse, however generous. Even
if there arose in her selfish heart a momentary
impulse to act honestly, and tell this manly fellow
her real feelings towards him, it was crushed the
next instant by the reflection that as yet she re
ally did not know what her disposal of him wonld
be; as her movements, she had some days previa
onsly admitted to herself, depended entirely upon
the course of Harvey’s friend—the haughty South
erner, whose courteous indifference to her peer-
“And mark her definition of real love—the
deathless and the beantiful:
“ ‘ Unless you can muse In a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breath of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith Is last
Thro’ behooving and unbehooving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past—
Oh, never call it loving j’
“ Is it not lovely ? But after all,” said Harvey,
bitterly, “Mrs. Browning waa-ronly a woman’
an exceptionally grand one I own, but still—a
woman! Could even she enter into the great
depths of passion as a man could ? Does any
woman ever really know, in all its height and
depth and breadth, the meaning of tovn ? Listen
to Swinburne. Have you ever read hfs ‘End of
a Month ?’ It is so weird and strange and wild
so unlike any and everything else in our literature-
“ ‘ The night—last night—was wild and shaken.
More strange the change in you; ’
Once more the old love's love forsaken,
We went outonce more to the sea.
For the old love’s lo ve sake, dead and buried
One last time—one more, and no more— ’
We watched the waves set in, the serried
Spears of the tide storming the shore.
Across, aslant, a scudding sea-mew
Swam,dipped and dropped, and grazed the sea-
And one with me I could not dream you,
And one with you I could not be.
***********
As the white wing the white wave's fringes
Touch'd, and slid over, and flashed past;
As a pale cloud a pale flame tinges
From the moon’s lowest light and last—
So once, with fiery breath and flying.
Your winged heart touched mine and went •
And the swift spirits kissed, and, slghino- ’
Sundered and smiled, and were content.”’
“ But here is the volume ; let me read i; to you.
Its undertone of cynicism accords with my own
feelings to-night.” (
Pauline Lucca.
less self had of late piqued the proud belle almost
beyond self-control. The question with her now
was simply—Aylmer Holmes, with his broad acres
in the sunny South, the land always of her ardent
dreams ; or, failing in this, Harvey Estebrooke,
with his mad idolatry of herself, and his hand
some patrimonial estate in Virginia. The first,
certainly, if she could win; otherwise, the sec
ond.
It was, therefore, no part of Miss Clydesdale’s •
programme to give Harvey, at present, a definite
answer. She turned to him, instead, with her
large, soft eyes full of eloquent reproach—a look
that must have thrilled any man, however cold,
and poor Harvey felt his heart throb almost to
suffocation.
“ You speak of pain and wild unrest,” she said.
“ Does not my love satisfy you ? Are you weary
ing of me? Ah! ’tis the same old, old story—
woman’s faith and man’s inconstancy! 1 trust
you. I do not doubt your allegiance. Why do
you constantly upbraid me l”
“ Upbraid you, Ada! What have I said like
it? I only ask to know my fate. I only humble
my manhood to the dust, and pray you to have
mercy on me ! Have I wounded you, my darling,
my beautiful, beautiful queen ? ”
Ada did not answer, glad of an excuse to allow
Harvey to believe himself in the wrong. Instead
of continuing the conversation, she held towards
him a dainty volume of verse that lay on her lap.
“Read to me,” she commanded. “Just now,
Mrs. Browning is my especial pet. I think noth
ing, in all English poetry, is sweeter than her
‘ Lady Geraldine’s Courtship.’ Do you remem
ber ?
‘There’sa lady—an earl's daughter—she is proud
and she is noble.
And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes
the perfumed air;
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely
eyes to trouble,
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened
in her hair.’
Isn’t that last line exquisite? And this—
‘Eyes,’he said, ‘now throbbing thro’ me are ye
eyes that did undo me—
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian stat
ue-stone;
Underneath that calm, white forehead arc ye ever
burning torrid .
O’er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life
undone.’
Harvey turned to her suddenly, repeating, in
an undertone, the first line of the stanza, with a
meaning too pointed to be misunderstood
“Eyes, - ’he said “now shining thro’ me, are ye
eyes that did undo me.”
Then he took up the book and glanced hurriedly
over its pages. .
“Yes, she was a glorious woman—a great jewel
in England’s crown of gifted sons and daughters.
How grandly she sweeps the vast harp of hnman
emotions—now with the firm, strong, powerful
touch of a man—then with all the sweetness and
delicaey of the most womanly woman—always
with the sure touch of a master. Some of her
shorter poems are exquisite. Do you remember
‘A Woman’s Shortcomings ? ’ ”
“ ‘ She trembles her fan In a sweetness dumb
As her thoughts were beyond recalling,
;lance for some,
Speaks common vonu wnu» uiuauing air,
Hears bold words unreproving;
But her silence says—wnat she never will ewesur—
And love seeks better loving.’
Harvey was a cultivated elocutionist, and now
his soul was full of the fiery passion that must
have surged through the poet when he wrote this
remarkable piece of verse.
“ ‘ But I, who leave my queen of panthers,
As a tired, honey-heavy bee.
Gilt with sweet dust from gold-grained anthers,
Leaves the rose-chalice, what for me?
From the ardors of the chaliced centre,
From the amorous anther's golden grime
That scorcii and smutch all wings that enter,
I fly forth warm from honey-time.
But as to a bee's gilt thighs and winglets,
The flower-dust and t he flower-smell eliugs;
As a snake’s mobile, rampant ringlets
Leave the sand marked with prints of rings ;
So tomy soul in surer fashion
Your savage stamp and savor hangs,
The print and perfume of old passion—
The wild-beast mark of panther's fangs!’”
At its conclusion, Aylmer looked up from the
chess-board eagerly.
“ Splendidly done, Harvey, and a marvelous
poem ! Strange that I never met with it. What
smothered passion bursts through the veil of stoi
cism with which the poet strives to mask his heart !
Some of the verses will haunt me all night—like a
strain of wild, fantastic music.
“ ‘ The print and perfhme of old passion—
The wild-beaut mark of panthers fangs.’’ ’
As Aylmer slowly repeated the last line, his eyes
rested on Miss Clydesdale; and—was it imagi
nary ?—she thought there was a curious expression
of mingled scorn and amusement on his handsome
face. Was it possible that Mr. Holmes could mean
to apply any of that fiery imagery to her ?
CHAPTER III.
It was the night before the young Louisianian
was to leave the hospitable roof of his old college
chum, and start on the j ourney to his Southern
home.
It was a glorious midsummer night. The air
was heavy with the rich breath of dewy roses ;
the wind swept through G.-he tall trees in the
avenue as if whispering some glad story—a mes
sage from the watching stars ; the full moon hung
high in the deep-blue heaven, and in the clear,
mellow light the earth looked lovely as a white-
robed bride.
It had been arranged to have one more sail on
the broad bosom of the storied James ; and about
eight o’clock the little party embarked, Ada tak
ing her guitar and Harvey his flute to furnish
the music. But for some time no one seemed dis
posed either to talk or sing; even bright, buoyant
Julia was silent. The little boat sped on its way
through the sparkling waters, with white sails
spread and taper mast bending gently to the fresh
breeze. The holy beauty of the hour wooed to
happy dreams, but there was one heart in the
party not in accord with the lovely qniet of the
scene. Ada Clydesdale, for the first time in her
spoilt, imperious life, felt herself foiled.
She had striven since the first evening of Ayl
mer’s coming to throw the same spell around
him that she had woven about so many gallant
and faithful hearts; and, galling as was the ac
knowledgment to her pride, she was fpreed to own
that she had most signally failed. There had
been times when his adequation of her beauty was
too evident to bo questioned; yet his eyes might
have worn the same look had they boon resting on
the cold marble ef a heartless status, or drinking
in the mute loveliness of a pictured Yenus. Net
one word that even her egotism could construe
into something warmer than the ordinary conven
tionalities of society, had ever escaped him if we
except the few hurried words, spoken, certainly
with an earnestness that ought to have redeemed
them from the imputation of flattery, after she
had sung that passionate love-song on the evening
of his arrival. A thousand times since then had
she asked herself whether those words really in
dicated the wakening of a passion which her con-
temptous answer had summarily checked.
She asked herself the same question now, as
the boat danced on over the bright river, leaning
over the low gunwale and trailing her white
hand through the water to watch the flash of the-
moonlight on the diamonds. Had her own pre
cipitate folly lost her the prize she coveted ? Her
pride was aroused—her vanity piqued—she
would not be foiled ! Was her matchless beauty
to fail in winning him, the only man in whom
she had ever condescended to feel the slightest
personal interest. Could it really be that he was
unmoved? Could any man be with her—the belle
of fair Baltimore—for three weeks, and boast him
self unconquered? No! he must—he did—feel an
interest in her he was too proud to reveal, be
lieving her betrothed to his friend.
She would not allow him to start on the morrow
on his journey to the South with this confession
unspoken ; she would humble her pride—she, Ada
Clydesdale!—and let him read plainly the inter
est he aroused in her heart, and the certainty of
success should he sue for her hand.
She drew herself up with the sudden animation
of this resolve, aud passing the ribbon of her guitar
about her neck, leaned towards Aylmer, who sat
with Julia on the seat in front of and facing her :
‘Shall I sing for you? and shall it be a song of
deathless love and yet of unutterable despair? I
cannot sing other to-night!’
Surprise for a moment kept him silent. What
could she mean ? Her eyes shone like stars—her
cheeks were brightly flushed—her bosom heaved
as if some.8trong emotion possessed her—the sil
very music of her voice was jangled. Never had
he seen a more dazzling vision of womanly beauty
as she sat before him in the full mellow glory of
the moonlight, the bright rays playing about her
graceful head, and bringing out every magnificent
curve of her superb form—a vision to bewilder
and intoxicate men of coolest brain and most pas
sionless heart.
He half caught his breath as he answered, bow
ing with his own inherent charm of manner:
“ Thank you ; you are too good ; but, pray, do
net let it be a song of despair, or even of sadness.
I should like something sparkling as this moonlit
river—exhilarating as this strong breeze that has
a touch of the salt raciness of old ocean.”
She shook her head willfully; then, sweeping
the strings of her guitar with those white, jeweled
hands, woke an exquisitely mourful prelude, and
began that most plaintive of all songs, whose every
note is burdened with a heart-break—Tennyson’s
“Idle Years.” Far away over the bright waters
floated the sweet, sad melody as the boat sped on
through the moonlight, and the summer stars
seemed bending from their radiant home to listen:
“ Deep as love—deep as first love—and wild with all
regret,
Oh, death in life! the days that are no more! ”
Like a wail of intolerable desolation rang out the
mournful music, each word so thrilled with feel
ing—so burdened with the poet’s sorrowful re
gret—that it seemed only the lament for her own
blasted hopes and darkened life.
Ada paused. Silence lay like a spell upon the
two men before her, and Julia’s bright eyes were
shining through a mist of tears.
Once more the musician swept the strings of
her instrument; and this time it was Schuber’s
breaks the- seal of Julia’s letter, there is an air of
Tj 81 ™ 8 bstraction about her, strangely unlike the
Ada Clydesdale we have known. But in a mo
ment more the listlessness is gone; she bends over
the letter devouring it rapidly with eager eye,
while a hot flush burns on her cheek, and her
bosem heaves with agitation-*
( d ? ubt ‘ eas ’ bo " greatly surprised,’
writes Julia, when I tell you that Mr. Holmea-
Aylmer, I suppose I must call him now !-toas
made another visit to Sedgemore, and I-it is
i h Wnte it ’- Ada d0 «- hat it must be
done I have promised to marry him.’ The
reader pauses here and clasps her hands tight-
y over her heart, while a spasm ef pain ooiT-
tracte her features ; then she seizes the sheet
again and reads on : ‘I can scarcely realize that
one so gifted and so superior ; so worthy every
way of the most queenly woman, should havS
chosen little common-place me ; but he oalls
me his “Virginia wild-rose, aud says he loved
me for my artlessness and sunny temper, only
too glad that I was, as I told him, quite a strang
er to the society of the gay, fashionable worid.
It was such a surprise when he told me of his
feelings ; for, indeed Ada, although I did find
myself growing interested in him during that
summer visit, I tried to dismiss the thought! feel
ing it must be hopeless, as he would so certainly
be capti vated, as all men are, by yourself. I can
not understand yet how he could ever have
looked at me in your presence ; and have told
him saucily that I knew I must be second
choice ; that he must have offered himself to
you first and been promptly rejected. But a
truce to nonsense, and now to something more
important. Our wedding will take place here
at dear old Sedgemore, on New Year's Eve, and
you, dear Ada—I will take no denial—are to
come and be first bridesmaid. Don’t be too
elaborate in your costume on the occasion, as
Aylmer has begged me to dress in simple In
dia muslin, and wear natural flowers—his own
Southern jessamine, he says—for my only or
naments.
“You will come—will you not, Ada ?—if only
to please yonr old friend, and give Aylmer the
happiness of hearing you sing. I do not speak
of the rapture your coming would be to Har
vey; yon know that too well already. Oh, Ada!
if anything could mar my own joy it would be
the thought of how much wretchedness your
rejection caused—and still causes—him; and
my own disappointment that I could not call
you by the fond name of sister. Bat I am
building air-castles already, in regard to what
happy results that Christmas visit may accom
plish; and you will not be cruel enough to
quite demolish them !
Always faithfully yours,
J ULIA EsTEBBOOK.”
She flings the letter to the floor and spurns it
passionately with her foot; then sinks back in
her chair and covers her face with her hands:
“Yes,” she says slowly, aloud, “I acknowledge
it; a little chit of a country girl has taken from
me the only heart I ever really cared to win—
the only one whom my own proud heart was
willing to own before all the world as its mas
ter and its king!”
Ah, sneer at it who may ! there is suoh a
thing, even in this fleeting dream of life, as
Retribution !
Serenade, with its dainty cadences, its exquisitely
tender melodies.
As the last, lingering echo of that marvellous
voice died far away down the river, Aylmer broke
“1 Vhiilf'oft’fen'j'Al’nfy kniuvupau uuuiv, Uiv«~—. v.—
this lovely night, and long to hear you sing again.
Believe me, yours is a most beautiful gift.” Then
he added with an irrepressible spice of malice—
“I am sure it will prove a perpetual joy to
Harvey—he so passionately loves music.”
And this was all. She had poured out her
whole soul in the singing; had pleaded with him
as unequivocally through those passion-fraught
words as though her lips had said^plainly, “I love
you—will you love me !” And tier reward was a
covert allusion to her future as connected with
that of Harvey.
She turned her face away to conceal the morti
fication and disappointment she felt it must indi
cate; and, pretending a sudden dissatisfaction
with her position in the boat, despite the entreaties
of the two gentlemen, she sprang up on the small
platform bow, and twining her arms around the
mast looked out across the sea.
Perhaps she was too engrossed with her own
angry reflections—perhaps too blinded by the
rush of passionate tears—but as the little bark, in
turning a bend of the river, suddenly lurched to
one side, Ada lost her footing, struggled desper
ately to regain her hold, then a cry of terror
pierced the silence of the night, and the next in
stant the moonlit waters of the James closed over
her form.
Aylmer, who was nearest her, sprang up, and,
throwing off his coat, was about to leap overboard,
when Harvey rushed past him, and with one bound
clearing the side of the boat, was the next moment
striking out toward the spot where she had disap
peared. She rose to the surface almost immedi
ately, and Harvey reached her nearly as soon.
Throwing his arms around her waist, he besought
her to be calm and not impede his efforts, and he
would soon place her in safety. But regardless of
his entreaties, and frantic with alarm, she threw
both arms around his neck, and besought him to
save her. Half-suffocated by her tight embrace,
Harvey yet struggled on desjJerately toward the
boat, which, despite Aylmer’s utmost efforts, had
swept on some distance from them ; but his limbs
became entangled in her long, voluminous skirts,
and Julia’s shriek of agony rose piercingly as
they both sank under the water. Thoroughly
alarmed, and powerless to leave the affrighted girl
behind him, Aylmer seized both oars and rowed
with desperate haste towards them. Fortunately,
they rose not far from the boat; and Harvey,
grasping the oar which his friend held out to him,
they were soon drawn near enough to be helped
on board. A moment after, Ada’s motionless figure
was supported in Julia's arms, while Aylmer bent
anxiously over Harvey, who had sunk half-faint
ing in the bottom of the boat.
But Harvey, gallant fellow, waved him back,
and begged him to assist Ada.
He was kneeling at her side, chafing her cold,
wet hands, when she slowly opened her eyes and
looked up languidly at him.
As she recognized him, a tinge of color crept
into her pale cheek, a sudden light came into her
eye, forgetful of her surroundings—believing only
that he loved her and had saved her—she put out
both hands with a faint cry of—‘Darling! darling!’
Aylmer stepped back instantly. ‘He is here,
Miss Clydesdale—your deliverer is here. Harvey-
old fellow, she is calling you; can’t you come for-
It was some three months after that Ada Clydesdale
sat in her own luxurious chamber in her city
home, reading a letter from Julia Eatebrooks.
The fair ‘belle of Baltimore’ is changed; her face
has lost its roundsd outlines—the eolor on her
cheek is less brilliant—the old look| of im
perious haughtiness has quite fled. As she
Personals.
A merchant in New York sells the‘'Tilton shoe.”
“No man can be Rood who admires the voice of a
fiddle," says a Georgia.preacher.
At a party given recently by President MaeMa-
hon's daughter, a phonograph was the chief attrac
tion.
This is what tiie Free Press calls phonograph: “A
machine for canning aud preserving human growls
aud squeaks.”
Mr. Joseph Jefferson has a quiet taste. “An
nounce me plainly." lie telegraphs to the manager
of the California theatre. And lie adds, “No flour
ish of trumpets.”
The St. Louis Journal says that the man who bor
rows a newspaper instead of subscribing for one,
is the man who will try to crawl over the wall of
heaven instead of passing through St. Peter’s gate.
quarrelsome, thi't : '
phase, during which they want to hug their neigtt-
bors. This is followed by stolid, apathetic miocy.
Congressman Potter is wealthy, and wears good
clothes. He is fifty-three years of age, and has
served eight years in Congress, is a doctor of laws,
a collegiate graduate, and a lawyer by profession.
In Northampton they are laughing at a well-
known young man because he recently said when
bantered about his affections fora lady whose heart
is another's, “Can’t I admire her as a work of art.”
Mary Anderson slipped while stepping from a
carriage at Hartford, the other day, and sustained
a slight, but painful sprain. The young tragedienne
cxcclaimed, with tragic intensity: “Oh, my pro
phetic soul, my ankle!”—Chicago Times.
The driver of an omnibus in Paris found a pack
age containing 500,000 francs in notes, the other day.
The honest fellow took the money to the Prefec
ture of Police, where it was afterward claimed by
an American—name not given.
Henry S. Foote, the veteran Southern politician,
is 78years old, tint still hale and hearty, aud as full
of hatred of Jefferson Davis as ever.
Dion Boucicault is having built the finest steam
yacht in American. It will cost one hundred thou
sand dollars, and Dion will be going into Bankrupt
cy again soon.
It is stated that arrangements are now in progress
at Washington for a Congressional excursion party
to the Paris Exposition, and the imaginative agent
of the Associated Press who telegraphs this choice
piece of news, adds that ‘‘it would be highly grati
fying to the French people, who would appreciate
the compliment of such a delegation from one Re
public to another." Perhaps this view of the situa
tion is correct, but if it is, then are the French peo
ple very much at sea as to wliat constitutes a com
pliment and very, very easily pleased.
Two true stories of the Bennett-May duel were
printed last week, in New York and another in
Baltimore, and yesterday the New York Times
came out with another: but the public will never
be satisfied until Bennett and May are attacked
by quickened consciences.
There comes a story from Washington that on
Friday, just before the vote was taken on the Pot
ter resolution, Senator Blaine remarked to a Re
publican Repsesentative “that it was certainly a
most novel and peculiar spectacle to see on the one
side more than a hundred Democrats fighting solid
ly together for a purpose which at least half of them
were opposed to at heart,, and on the other side more
than a hundred Republicans fighting as solidly
against a thing which at least half of them secretly
favored and hoped would succeed.” Mr. Blaine is
evidently conning Cousin Gail s lessons to advant
age.
Theodore’ Tilton sailed for Europe on Saturday,
from New York, in the City of Richmond.
Miss Lilian Pike, daughter of the famous Albert
Pike, is said to lie tiie most accomplished musician
in Washington.
Col. T. W. Knox, the traveler, says he thinks no
more of going around the world ttion a lly does of
going around an apple.
Mr. Sunset Cox says he weighs 110 pounds instead
of SI, but that if “Boss," Shepherd wants to fight
him he will waive the difference in weight and size.
If the National party should ever gain the ascen
dancy in this country, says the New York Star,
Benjamen F. Butler would be President of the
United States.
Lord* Baeonsfield in his appointments is said to
promote only those persons who are ‘‘swells.” and
consequently is very unpopular with the “slovens”
in tiie civil service.
Charles James Faulkner will be a candidate for
Congress in West Virginia. He was Buchanan’s
minister to France ana is seventy years old, but
looks and feels twenty year.- younger.
Miss Adelaide Lennox, a “crushed” actress of
New York, is lecturing against the managerial
and critics’ rings, and the way she pitches into Bou
cicault and Wallack, and the newspapers is simply
tragical.
Victoria C. Woodhull has been met with consid
erable success in London, where she is living quiet
ly and modestly, aud will not return to America.
The hard knocks she has sustained has drivon a
great many “isms” out of her head.
May Croly, the daughter of Mr. David G. Croly,
of the Graphic, and of “Jennie June,” his wife, has
made a successful debut upon the stage. She ac
companied Miss Clara Morris to the West, and has
been playing Jane in “Miss Multon ” Miss Croly,
who is said to be bat sixteen, appears under the
stage name of Esther Herndon.