dies,--ah! what business has Death in such a world?

As I said, I have never seen Delphine since her marriage. The beautiful
statuesque girl occupies a niche into which the blazing and magnificent
_intrigante_ cannot crowd. I do not wish to be disillusioned. She has
read me a riddle,--Delphine is my Sphinx.

* * * * *

As for Mr. Hay,--I once said the Antipodes were tributary to me, not
thinking that I should ever become tributary to the Antipodes. But such
is the case; since, partly through my instrumentality, that enterprising
individual has been located in their vicinity, where diamonds are not to
be had for the asking, and the greatest rogue is not a Baron.

* * * * *


HAMLET AT THE BOSTON.


We sit before the row of evening lamps,
Each in his chair,
Forgetful of November dusks and damps,
And wintry air.

A little gulf of music intervenes,
A bridge of sighs,
Where still the cunning of the curtain screens
Art's paradise.