of his unabated devotion.

She wrote--the gossips tell us--that he was dearer to her now than ever.

So the matter stands; with the exception that Cavaignac has been freed,
and that the day of marriage is again a matter of consultation.

May they have a long life, and a happy one--longer and happier than the
life of the Republic!

-------------------------------------

The drawing of the "Lottery of Gold" was _the event_ of Paris which
preceded the _coup-d'etat_. Some seven millions of tickets had been sold
at a franc each; and the highest prize was, if we mistake not, a sum equal
to a hundred thousand dollars. Interest was of course intense; and the
National Circus, where the lots were drawn, was crowded to its utmost
capacity. The papers give varying accounts as to the fortunate holder of
the ticket drawing the first prize, one account represents her as a poor
washerwoman, and another, as a street porter. A story is told of one poor
fellow who, by a mistaken reading of one figure, imagined himself the
fortunate possessor of the fortune. He invited his friends to a feast, and
indulged in all sorts of joyous folly. The quick revulsion of feeling,
when the truth appeared, was too much for the poor fellow's brain, and he
is now in the mad-house.

Another equally unfortunate issue is reported of a poor seamstress, who
had spent the earnings of years, amounting to six or seven hundred francs,
upon the chance of a prize, and drew--nothing. She, too, has lost both
money and mind. The affair, however, has had the fortunate result of
taming down wild expectancies, and of destroying the taste for such labor
hating schemes of profit. It were devoutly to be hoped, that a little of
the distaste for moneyed lotteries, would breed a distaste in the French
mind for political lotteries.

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As for affairs at home, they budge on in much the old fashion. The town is
not over-gay--partly through fatigues of last winter, which are not yet
wholly forgotten--partly through a little Wall-street depletion, and partly
through the ugly weather, which has sown catarrhs and coughs with a very
liberal hand.

Poor Jenny Lind--true to her native tenderness of heart, has yielded up the
closing scenes of what would have been a glorious triumph, to the grief at
a mother's death. She goes away from us mourning, and she leaves behind
her a nation of mourners!

The opera is