A few Senators have seen the President. General Butler has dashed in there where none of the rest are allowed to go. No one saw a messenger depart with his card. He went in, disappeared for a moment only, and now flings himself again amongst the throng. He takes a cigar from a side pocket and a barbarous arrangement of some kind from another. With the last thing he is going to kindle a fire. He strikes the flint against the serpent, and something clicks like the lock of a gun. One! two! three! Civilization and Barbarism once more embrace and General Butler has lighted his cigar by the flame, and at the same time, like the blaze of a comet, he has disappeared. The weary, weary waiters! The sun begins to blink askance, and to creep into western windows. A man says: “This is the tenth day I have waited to see the President.” Some of the people who were always to be found haunting Andrew Johnson have transferred themselves to President Grant. These are the barnacles, or fungi, which every administration inherits from its predecessor. A pale woman in weeds seems to shrink away behind the friendly covering of an open door. Her face is tear-stained. A feeble little child sits calmly by her side. There is much to attract sympathy to the woman. The joyousness of infancy seems to be trampled out of the innocent child. Little sickly bud, growing in the shadow of grief, God help thee! In the space of one hour audience day will be over, and the disappointed will go, to return again on the morrow. OLIVIA. JOHN M. BARCLAY. A FUND OF REMINISCENCES AT THE COMMAND OF THE JOURNAL CLERK OF THE HOUSE. WASHINGTON, _November 6, 1869_.