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T . lyMj 1 *** “ ' - Ti ipTUp^ _ I II IJW <~im ' 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.