VIRGINIA

JOHN F. TROW,
Printer & Stereotyper.

I AM the undistinguished and not very flourishing member of an old Virginia family. I am the daughter of a planter—whose broad acres stretch away for miles—whose cattle dot the distant slopes—whose bending fields wave as far as the eye can reach—whose home is an old-fashioned Virginia home.

We, the Rushtons, are a branch of an old federal family of talent, prejudice, and unpopularity. Among our immediate ancestors we number a colonel, a member of Congress, a respectable house-carpenter, a mad gentleman, several thrifty landholders, one genius, and one beauty. There are others among our ancestors who are suppressed in the family history, for reasons best known to grandma and aunt Phœbe Braxley, who always close the doors, and stuff the key-holes, whenever they hold a confab over these suppressed individuals. These honest old Virginia families do not like to disillusionate people who are kind enough to take their word for the good conduct of their progenitors. I am quite sure if papa were to overhear grandma and aunt Braxley, dabbling into these family secrets, he would soon put a stop to their confidential disclosures. I need not say to the intelligent reader, that it is the keenest delight of grandma's life to conjure up these proscribed individuals. She gloats over their misdeeds, and she, and Mrs. Braxley, will steal off from the gayest companies to con over this dark page in the family history. I dislike to be formal, but there are little ceremonies which cannot be comfortably neglected, and I now beg to present to my readers the various members of our family, who are left to cheer up the wide halls, and well-furnished apartments, of the old hill house.

First, we have grandma, Mrs. Barbara Rushton, the sole surviving link of a generation which has passed away. She is a little, straight, plump, weasel-looking, keen, shrewd, voluble old lady, with clattering knitting-needles, and tongue of rare speed and bottom. She sports a black satin on gala days, and an illusion cap. She is fond, to this day, of fashion plates, and would not, for the world, offend the authorities in the cap of a sleeve, or the trimming of a collar. She is the embodiment of terror to giggling servant-maids, and mischievous boys. Dogs, with any pretensions to sagacity, instinctively avoid her; and the old house cat can snooze more comfortably on the opposite side of the hearth. Mrs. Barbara Rushton, being in a state of savage warfare with the nineteenth century, thinks it her duty to express her opinion on all subjects, and to make some people know their places. She attacks servants from all points, and is possessed of the gift of ubiquity. Being a lady of property, she keeps her own maid, who makes nothing of wishing she had a hundred arms, and fifty pairs of legs, so perplexing, multifarious, and pressing, are the duties devolving upon the honored body-servant of Mrs. Barbara.

I now present my father, Mr. Dabney Rushton, a gentleman of stately presence, stern politics, retiring habits, and princely hospitality. I am afraid his otium cum dignitate is rather burdensome, and that his aristocratic pretensions somewhat hinder the free use of his limbs, and overwhelm his luxurious days with ennui: but I never heard him say in all my life, that he was tired sitting in his library, or that it was at all fatiguing to act the gentleman of elegant leisure. I have only regretted in my unsophisticated way, that he was obliged to yawn out his winter days, and sleep and fan out his summer ones; being too much of a landholder and slaveholder to condescend to any bodily work, and not inclining particularly to disarrange the books on the shelves of his library.

Next we have my mother, Mrs. Theodora Rushton, a lady quiet, pale, pious, and lady-like, but much addicted to spoiling her children, and over-indulging her servants. Like all Virginia mothers, she looks much older than she really is, and persists in wearing caps over her rich auburn hair, which grandma declares are several years too old for the oldest inhabitant. Mamma worries her days out over the servants, who seldom heed a word she says, and is always wondering what she had better have for dinner.

My brother, Mr. Robert Ashley Rushton. This remarkably handsome gentleman possesses many claims to the reader's notice, having spent a great deal of money at college, and being still industriously engaged in digging a large hole in the paternal estate. He is a noble, lordly, careless, dashing fellow of twenty-one. Papa likes to hear him talk, and see him swell. He is such a royal buck, with such a free off-hand manner, and Ciceronian flow of words. This young gentleman walks over mamma like a Juggernaut. She follows him with her eyes, and listens at him with her ears, and thanks Heaven that she has such a son. He goes slashing about, and is the wonder and admiration of all the lady visitors, and servants about the house. He comes down late of mornings, with dressing-gown on, and newspaper in hand, and reads, and sips his coffee after the latest and most approved manner, while mamma sits patiently beside the coffee-pot, looking fondly on. He says it was ordained that I should carry the family nose, and hopes I do not find it at all burdensome. He has his own servant and groom, who hold themselves above the other servants. He has what he calls a span of horses, and a hunter. He goes to Old Point in July, and to the White Sulphur in August, where he cuts quite a figure he says. He has grand and foreign visitors, who take the whole plantation when they come. On these interesting occasions mamma puts on the black silk, and papa appears in varnished boots, and strangely cut hair. Louise is sent for from aunt Braxley's, and a round of dinners, visits, hunting, fishing, and pick-nicking, takes place all in the good old English style. Every thing is out of joint, old family rules and regulations entirely disregarded. Late breakfasts, late dinners, and midnight suppers, intrude upon our regular family arrangements. Hounds, and horns, and hunters, and servants, and juleps, and champagne, create such anarchy, and confusion, that Mrs. Barbara generally gathers up her maid and shadow, Epsey, and retreats to her room in high dudgeon. Mr. Robert is very fond of our sister Louise. He considers her a trump, he says.

Our sister Louise has all the peculiar charms of a Virginian country lady, high born and rich. Her time, and good looks, have never been frittered away upon balls, routs, and empty chit-chat. Neither have her delicate fingers been hardened and reddened by rubbing, scrubbing, cooking, washing, cleaning, and all those wonderful operations carried on by the stirring ladies of the north. This young creature has the gracious, kind manner of those who rule—the inborn pride of birth; the native generosity and loftiness of the nobles of her state. Added to this, she has the ease and superb indolence of an Oriental beauty. The perfect consciousness of superiority, requiring no eagerness for display. The magnificent repose and flowing outline of untasked perfection. Here are no angles, no quick, fidgety, restless, uneasy seekings for effect. No show, no ostentation, no pomp, but unconscious dignity and ease, combined with the animation and flexibility of youth. Her step is royal, and her lifted head superb. Fire sleeps beneath the alabaster, and courses through fine veins of purple tint.

Louise has the long, black lash, the hidden, mysterious, lambent eye of the South, and the pure, clear, moonlight face, so peculiar to ladies born under a Virginian sky. She has, also, the small arched head, Grecian brow, undulating figure, and dainty feet of the lustrous beauties of the tropics. She is not impetuous, not daring, but unconquerable and firm. One of those fair, startling creations we see gliding like moonlight visions, here and there; consolidating in one bright gem all the far-famed beauties and frailties of woman's nature. She is beautifully timid, and fearfully bold; showing the strength of the lion, and the meekness of the dove. Thrilling, provoking, indolent, passionate, variable, mysterious. Men die of love of these creatures, while the favored one exults. There is no sacrifice they would not endure, no whim they cannot exhibit, no trifle they cannot pursue, no danger they cannot confront. Keenly sensitive to ridicule, jealous guardians of the delicacy of the sex, ever alive to the slightest breach of gallantry or tenderness, these creatures wield weapons of their own, scorning woman's rights, elections and politics. They would not enter the arena, they would not be jostled by the crowd. They know familiarity breeds contempt, and they stand aloof, fair and angelic, enlisting all the latent chivalry of that sex, who boast that they can be led through interminable labyrinths, but cannot be driven an inch. Well do these fair creatures know that their weakness is their strength; their delicacy the seat of their power; their dependence their protection, and their smiles the axis upon which the busy world turns.

These idle, luxurious Virginians love by chance. They never calculate. They love honor, and generosity, and refinement, when well gotten up and exquisitely embodied. They love, and they never change. Happy he who first pleases the eye, and is then thought worthy of the heart. Be he planter or beggar, he is loved. I have seen these high-born, gloriously proportioned creatures, being married to a pair of whiskers, or a moustache, after a trial of constancy and heroic endurance of years. They are the impersonation of truth, and cannot understand falsehood. Hence they are often deceived by fortune-hunters, coming from afar, with handsome persons, selfish hearts and nimble tongues. Indolent, opulent, dreamy, ideal and concentrative, love, and sometimes hate, absorbs their very being. They are dangerous beauties, men say, with their glorious flounces and headlong darts.

My sister Louise is the idol of the young men, a pet of aunt Braxley's, and the pride of Mr. Robert Rushton's heart. She is so fair, so unsuited to rough it and tough it here below, so unfitted to encounter the wear and tear of life, that it is the business of our family to shield her and guard her like a rare exotic; and she is to be spared, by our exertions, the common pains and ills of our mortal lot.

As to myself, I am, dear reader, the humblest of narrators. I am the family knitter and darner, and am decidedly more useful than ornamental. I am called Jenny, after somebody I presume. Grandma does not think I will ever get married. She sees no earthly possibility of my ever having a beau, and darkly and alarmingly hints that, when girls begin to knit at the rate I knit, the game of a young lady's life is up for them. She thinks my prospects would have been better if I had not thought proper to bring back into this world Peggy Rushton's nose, and Buck Rushton's top lip, which, as a sincere friend of the family, she had fondly hoped were buried with Peggy and Buck, both of whom, it seems, died in a state of single blessedness. She advises me to become a missionary to Feejee, or some jumping-off place or other, and to write a book on cannibals, their probable destiny and present uses, as a complete damper to the outrageous pretensions of the nineteenth century. This cannibal book, she says, she intends as a pill for some folks, and a cap, which it will be surprising to see how many it will fit. She regales me on drizzly days and misty evenings with anecdotes of her triumphs and conquests, and informs me that she has rejected nearly every distinguished man of her day. She hopes mutton-ham sleeves will soon come back, for they were so becoming to her figure, and wonders who, in the name of common sense, sets the fashions nowadays. Whoever it is, she says, that person has a spite against her, and is only one of the numerous enemies furnished her by the nineteenth century. But the greatest enemy she has in the world is the man, or demon, who invented a gentleman's sacque coat. She is sure if gentlemen could only see their own backs they would feel ashamed of themselves, and if her grandson, Robert Rushton, will persist in wearing them, she respectfully requests that he will back out of her presence and keep out of her sight.

But, dear reader, we must descend to particulars. We must leave off stretching and enter, heart and soul, into the cares and joys of our old Virginia family of the good old school.

Spring! dear delicious spring is come at last—but she has been with us before. She came with fair blue skies and southern breezes, early in February, to look up sunny sides and sheltered nooks for her first-born. And then, old winter frowned upon her, shaking his hoary locks savagely, until she stole away, leaving the tender buds of her care to bear up against many a chilling blast, and icy breath, ere the day of promise come. March came rushing headlong upon us, determined to conquer or to die. But like many a bristling warrior, he was by gentleness o'ercome, and yielded in his truly good-natured way, turning the keen edge of his blasts, and telegraphing to his snows that they had better come down as showers, or they would be pretty badly received. Accordingly, these piping blasts turned about and gave us cooling breezes, and the snows came gently from their heavenly heights as fragrant showers, and the sun's eye grew melting and tender, and old March turned upon his heel and made his exit. And with him, the whole pack of unwelcome storms, Jack-frosts, heavy snows, and pelting hails.

Now the long, warm, languid days are come. Children, and thinly-coated, lambs grow frisky, and fine ladies grow dull and take a blue pill. Ho! for the country now! Ho! for the ploughed fields and green wheat! Milkmaids are exalted, and opera-girls, and ballet-troupes, and tinsel and glare are gone out with the gas. Ploughmen walk erect, and the brindle cow lies down to ruminate in the early shade, for city folks are sketching them, and the picturesque is the order of the day. The tall old pines look rusty beside the dainty pea-green of the oaks. Red berries and evergreens have had their day, and the holly needs a new suit. Straw bonnets are all the go, and the broad brim of the palm-leaf hat looks tempting. The old country-house begins to stir, rubbing up, and yawning at windows and doors until it is wide awake. Beds are sunning on the flat-crowned cedar hedges, carpets are beaten, walls are whitewashed, floors are scoured, maids are running with buckets of water, and jostling each other, and passing merry words at every turn. Negro dames, of grave demeanor and imperturbable dignity, take off their party-colored handkerchiefs, and turn out their crisp locks to the sun. The cottage door is opened, turning out its swarms of knotty pates, and the old dame in the clean cotton gown takes the wheel out upon the grass, and keeps it buzzing all the long fair day. Birds trill and warble and chatter, and get up trios and quartettes high up in their leafy homes, and mischief-loving mocking-birds mock on, and bandy merry, gladsome, light-hearted notes, until the cool still hours of the night. Martens, those gay absentees, return to their summer residences, bringing troops of lively chattering friends. Little chickens, with grave countenances, go every morning before any body is up, and scratch up all the gardener's carefully-sown seed, aided and abetted by their mammas, who ought to know better. Cool shadows thicken under the trees, and golden drops of sunlight dance and flicker under the low-hanging boughs. Light zephyrs sit upon the waving branches, and swing and quiver all the day. The cooing of the dove comes up from the deep cool groves, and the croaking of the sun-awakened frogs, fills up the pauses in the glad light music of the Spring.

Master John feels lazy, and loiters on his way to school, and wishes that he could play like Jim and Ned, and wonders what his papa wants to send him to school for. Valetudinarians and hard-working men complain that the nights are getting too short for them. Housekeepers pitch their voices an octave higher, and get alarmed when people drop in to dinner. Hot-beds are thrown open, and long-legged plants run up, like gosling boys who outgrow all their clothes. Lilacs and jasmine are perfuming the rooms, and adorning the vases on the mantel. Invalids throw open their windows, and thank God that they have lived to see another spring. The cook pets the pig for holiday, and the pig thinks "sufficient unto the day, &c." Ladies are seen out in the gardens with long bonnets on, stooping over flower-beds, and talking with the gardener, who leans upon his hoe, and points about with the air of a connoisseur. Doctors have reluctantly dismissed all obstinate coughs, pneumonias, and pleurisies, and are lying in wait for those delightful summer visitors, chills, and typhoid and bilious fevers, having at the same time, a most tender yearning for dyspeptics, and for plethoric gentlemen of luxurious habits. Meantime, as though to dissipate all such charitable anticipations, on the part of the soft-footed, low-voiced, mysterious gentlemen, the glorious sun, fresh and health-inspiring, rises regularly every morning, and sets every evening, per that time-honored oracle, the Virginia and North Carolina Almanac; and we are having the pinkest mornings, and most sapphire evenings imaginable.

On the broad highway, where the wayward road emerges from a dark pine grove, and makes a sweeping bend, ere it goes undulating afar—we pause. Here, in the bend of the road, is the old hill house—blessed Fairy Hill,—which has been the family seat of the Rushtons, since Sir William Berkeley's time. Here is a large commodious dwelling, with a good well of water, out-houses, and tobacco fixtures in excellent repair, as the newspapers would say; and here, in the stately, old-fashioned house, before which the road bends obsequiously, one can find as much happiness, and charity, and eccentricity, and pride, and old-fashioned Virginia hospitality, as one need desire to find anywhere. Here, the stranger may ride and tie his horse, and halloo for the groom, and enter, booted and spurred, if he like, and be welcomed.

Here, the old organ-woman, and the tambourine children, and the weary-looking monkey, may halt, and be fed. Here, the beggar, ruddy and lithe of foot, may come, and trump up any fancy sketch of shipwreck, conflagration, avalanche, or earthquake, and be politely trusted, kindly relieved, and sent on his way with a blessing. Here, the man with the sixteen children, and bedridden wife, on the other side of the water, all waiting to be brought over by his means, delights to bi-annually come, and tell his tale with its last additions, and get his money, and chuckle to himself as he goes along, wondering at that charity which he cannot understand. Here, the Yankee schoolmaster, the rawest of all that honored fraternity, may come, and cut rare didoes, and make ludicrous mistakes, and call young ladies by their Christian names, and the grinning servant-man mister, and every thing else under the sun "sauce," if such be his habit, and he will never detect a smile, or awaken to all the horrors of his situation, so long as he lives. Here, the prosy parson may talk, and talk, and talk, and no yawn will ever warn him of the hour. Here, the man brimfull of theories may open his budget, and tell his plans, and have that luxury to him, a listener. Here, the busy world lulls, and the bustle and confusion cease, and time ambles withal, and one finds rest, and social pleasures, and home comforts, and peace.

On one of those dreamy, delicious, body-relaxing, soul-expanding, heaven-descending days, mamma came to me with a look of some importance, to say, that my brother's friends, viz., Mr. Blanton, and his sister, and the widow of the late Johnston Blanton, were coming on a visit to Fairy Hill, and that she wished to consult with me about domestic matters. This piece of news threw us into a panic. We commenced active preparations immediately; we overhauled the china-closet, and made excursions into the pantry, and clothes-presses. The family plate is rubbed up, and servants are drilled, fattening coops filled, and every body exhorted to do their duty.

Louise is sent for, from aunt Braxley's, and Robert invites his friend Frank Dashwood to join the party. Mamma and I have only a week for preparation. Assisted by the housekeeper, and head servants, mercilessly harassed by grandma, we accomplish herculean feats. We arrange the sweetest and most inviting chambers, impart quite a learned and dignified look to the old library, furbish up the parlors, and touch up the summer-house, arbors, and walks, for Louise, Dashwood, and other lovers of romance. Robert takes a snake-infested and dilapidated grotto, and a very unpromising, briery, brawling, unmanageable spring, branch in hand, and plays magic work in those deep-shadowed and sequestered regions. His man Sappingwood, who has an eye for the picturesque, contrives rustic fixtures admirably. Gnarled roots are turned into rude but inviting seats, vines into swings and festoons. The brawling brook is cleared of all obstacles, and comes tripping down the hill-side into a bright pool, where it gurgles and dimples at the grotto's foot. Into this pool, little fishes are thrown, and from the cool banks the noontide heat is warded off. Mr. Robert looks around upon his handiwork complacently, and declares that he intends to talk love to the widow here, in a strain unsurpassed in poetry or prose, and thinks, upon his honor, that there are not many of the softer sex who could withstand the grotto, the pool of water, and himself. Papa submits to be measured by Robert's tailor, and mamma, poor, unambitious mamma, thinks the black silk will do, and, instead of purchasing new spring dresses, concludes to lay in an extra supply of butter, eggs, and chickens.

Louise comes home with a straw-colored barège, which throws quite a halo over her clear complexion, and a blue silk, which makes her pale and madonna-like, and a pink tissue, which envelops her in faint coleur de rose, together with any number of little quaker morning wrappers and coquettish coiffures, and numerous little trifles of the toilette, which are of so much importance to pretty ladies, and alas! so hopelessly useless in the case of ugly ones.

"I SAY, Jenny, this room is badly arranged," said Louise to me, after all our preparations were completed, and we were in hourly expectation of our guests.

"I look confoundedly green about the mouth," said Robert, looking towards a mirror, "there is a bad light somewhere; where is it?"

"I suspect it is from the window opening upon papa's shrubbery, which, you know, he says must be opened," said I.

"Pshaw! and we are to have a bad light. Louise, you look cadaverous."

"Can it be the new carpet?" asked my sister.

"Upon my word, the new carpet is abominable. Have we had the yellow fever or not? Are we all going off into ghastly jaundices immediately?" inquired Robert, sinking down upon a sofa in alarm. "Are we to be ghosts for papa, who doubtless selected these ghastly greens, and dingy yellows, at the instigation of some demon shopkeeper. Jenny do close those blinds, and call Sap to me."

"Indeed, you are a pretty fellow," said Louise, indignantly. "If I were Jenny, you might call Sap yourself, and close the blinds too, sir. I know where I can sit to throw a rosy tint on me."

"Do you?" faintly ejaculated our brother.

Now, Sappingwood, who was seldom out of hearing, entered, with his eternal bow, closed the window, turned the blinds, drew the curtains a shade closer together, opened the folding-doors about the eighth of an inch more, and glided about the room, giving a touch here and a turn there, until his master consulted the mirror, and said the green shadow about the corners of his mouth was no longer to be seen. Sappingwood then gracefully retired, and Mr. Robert Rushton's usual volubility returned.

"I say, Louise, when my widow comes, you may hide your diminished head," he began, in a half jocular way.

"Your widow! oh, you are a ghost, if one may judge from appearances. Well, Mr. Ghost, I am not afraid of your widow, nor can I conscientiously consent to be annihilated by her, even though it be your ghostly pleasure."

"You should see her—everybody should see her!" cried Robert.

"Oh! she is the dearest, loveliest, prattling little creature in the world. She is always as earnest and intent as a child. She has some of the gravest and most comic little ways, which, upon my soul, no mortal of human organization can resist. Her hair, my dear girl, is a lustrous, changeable brown—not sandy, you know," said our fastidious brother, with a shudder.

"But nevertheless suggesting such an idea," said Louise, laughing.

"No—a thousand times no!—but the color, the very identical color of that deep, old-fashioned black molasses I used to love so when I was a boy."

"And the boy is father of the man, you know," remarked Louise.

"Yes, I being my own father, love those soft rippling locks—perhaps, who knows? perhaps— for the sweet associations which they unconsciously recall! Philosophy befriend me!" said Robert, plunging into a reverie.

"But do furnish the sketch of your widow," said Louise.

"Eh! heigho—where was I? Well, this widow with the remarkable hair is a perfect gem of a woman. She has a little son," said Robert, with a rueful countenance, but with the sublime air of a martyr, "who is considered a very remarkable boy for his age. Indeed, all boys are considered remarkable boys for their ages, I think; ah, they are a pair of cherubs, this little fat Therese and her darling little Adolphe! They frolick and gambol together, and their soft caressings are beautiful to behold. On him, the dear little woman lavishes all that exuberance of affection, for which the generality of mankind would be so grateful. Upon him, she bestows the overflowings of a heart brimfull of tenderness. Dashwood says she is deep—but upon my word she is no such thing. Her eyes are like a pair of clear, oval mirrors of the soul, and they reflect faithfully every impulse, and untutored thought which animates this little being. You think your shoulders and arms are fine, Louise, and, if I am not mistaken, you set up for a model in that way; but wait until you see Therese dressed out for dinner, I advise everybody to wait until then."

"I suspect she is very handsome," said Louise. "Brother Dashwood calls her a flirt, but for your sake, I hope she is not. I shall love her, I shall be obliged to love her, if she is, as you say, a warm-hearted little creature, with pure oval eyes and cheeks."

"And Miss Willianna Blanton," continued Robert, "I must prepare you for her. Indeed, I consider it my bounden duty as master of ceremonies, to prepare your nervous system, by some judicious manœuvre, for the shock. Imagine, young ladies, a long-limbed, long-necked creature, very closely resembling a crane. Having recovered from this effort of the imagination, you can picture to yourselves this crane-like concern advancing upon you, with the stride of a Jack heron, combined with the awkwardness of an alarmed ostrich."

"Oh! my dear brother!" I ejaculated, in dismay.

"With sloping—I may say falling-off and dwindling-away shoulders, sandy hair, and a pair of pink albino eyes. Then this neck, the property evidently of some crane, is turned out regularly at dinner, I presume for anatomical observations. Her arms are hung with bracelets of all shapes and sizes, which they cannot fill up; and are ruthlessly exposed in a very naked and attenuated condition. These highly ornamented extremities are frequently dangerously chalked, and being fond of hooking themselves on to gentlemen's coat-sleeves, manage to carry on a considerable business in the whitewashing line. Finally, girls, she apes my widow! She affects the innocent and artless, you know, and audaciously apes my inimitable Therese!"

"And Mr. Blanton—what of him?"

"Old Hal—why he is a prim, long-legged stork of a man—very stiff and particular. He loved Therese once; but while he was deliberating about making his proposal to her, he learned, to his dismay, that his brother's wedding day was fixed—and he thus had the supreme satisfaction of becoming the only brother of his adorable. Rather a trial, wasn't it? and a lesson to deliberators generally." Here Robert ceased his admirable sketching, and thought he heard carriage wheels approaching. Our guests were coming. I heard papa call Mike to run to the gate, and every servant darted to his post. There were two carriages, and a servant on horseback; Miss Blanton, the little Adolphe, and a maid, alighted from one carriage. After this, Mr. Blanton, as stiff as a poker, descended from the other carriage. My brother ran nimbly up, and gave his hand to Mrs. Blanton, who sprang out, talking as fast as she could, and gesticulating to Mr. Blanton, the happy Robert, and her own maid, who emerged from the carriage laden with dressing-cases, and shawls.

Papa welcomed the new-comers in his happiest manner. Mamma kissed the cherub boy of Robert's widow; and the whole party came up the walk to the house, where they were met by Louise and myself. Louise soon took possession of Mrs. Blanton, who seemed delighted with every thing in the world—running everywhere, and admiring every thing, leaving Miss Blanton and myself in an anxious state about servants, chambers, luggage, and baths.

In the course of time, Mrs. Blanton sprang in at the unlucky window opening upon papa's shrubbery, and consented to be shown to her room, having made the tour of the grounds, and caught some fish with her own little hands, out of Robert's pond, at the foot of the grotto.

We had scarcely settled the Blantons ere Dashwood arrived, dusty and fatigued, and was shown to his own room in Robert's rather luxurious office-building.

Now, Sappingwood felt that his hour was come. Mr. Dashwood had thought proper to come on horseback, no doubt expecting Sap to wait upon him. And Mr. Blanton, poor, particular man, required two servants; his own man to wait on himself, and somebody else to wait on his man—which latter duty plainly devolved upon Sap.

Under these formidable circumstances, I must do Sappingwood the justice to say, that he was as nimble and active as it is possible for a valet of human organization to be.

The new maids were showered and sprinkled with compliments as he dashed about with shaving-cans, dressing-cases, boots, curling-tongs, and clothes-brushes. Mr. Sappingwood, as he brushed by the Blanton maids, had to regret that the gentlemen had not brought their own men with them, as in that comfortable event he should have had more time to devote to the ladies. He respectfully hoped that the gentlemen would get shaved, and curled, and pumped, in the course of time, and he fervently wished he were fifty Saps, instead of one.

About four o'clock, they were all dressed for dinner. Therese, fairer and fresher, was out upon the upper balcony with her little boy, admiring the beautiful scenery around Fairy Hill. My brother and Dashwood were lounging in the office portico, looking up, now and then, at the widow and her boy, as they walked up and down the balcony. Louise selected her straw-colored barège for her début, and had no cause to hide her diminished head in Mrs. Blanton's presence. The witching Therese, I must confess, was rather a dumpy woman, and decidedly inclining to embonpoint. But my brother adored dimples at the points of ladies' elbows, and upon their knuckles, and he could overlook many minor defects to secure these rare and all-important beauties.

I am sorry to say that grandma positively refused to make her appearance, not being able to see why all the rules and regulations of a highly respectable family should be broken in upon, and totally set at naught by Bob's friends: she declined making her appearance at all. For her part, she always dined at one o'clock. Her ancestors, who were every whit as good as the "Blarntons" (Mrs. Barbara sounded her a's very broad, as all aristocratic Virginians do) or the anybody-else's, she was credibly informed had always dined at one o'clock, and if she couldn't have her dinner at one o'clock she wouldn't have it at all. She begged the privilege of eating a crust of bread in her own son's house at any hour she chose, and of keeping her room. Still, she couldn't for the life of her see why a respectable house was to be invaded in this way by a chunky widow, a yellow old maid, and what seemed to her to be a man may-pole (Mr. Blanton); and if her son, Dabney Rushton, was going to be quietly led by the nose by that conceited fellow Bob, who, she would take occasion to say, used more tobacco than he'd ever make—she wasn't; she'd keep her room from now until the crack of doom, rather than allow Bob to lead her by her nose.

The ladies and gentlemen were now assembled in our large drawing-room. Miss Blanton appeared in a pink silk, very low and with short sleeves; she wore a set of emeralds, several serpentine bracelets, and a heavy chatelaine. Therese was dressed in a thin white muslin, very soft and delicate, cool, and most artistically arranged, which seemed to float about her like a snowy summer cloud. This effect was heightened by a long illusion scarf, which half concealed her beautiful arms, and wreathed about her pure white neck like vapor, and was most coquettishly worn. Mrs. Blanton wore no jewelry at all; on her bosom she had a white rosebud, and geranium leaf, gallantly given by Robert.

Papa and mamma complimented the ladies, hoped they were refreshed, said a great many kind things, and exerted themselves to be agreeable. Robert, exquisitely dressed, put on airs, looked careless and indolent—seemed rather to tolerate papa and mamma—and gave people to understand that they were really very good sort of folks in their way.

Dashwood, handsome and fastidious, was "spreading himself out," to use my brother's expression, to conquer the whole company at one sitting. Never was mortal man so brilliant and delightful before dinner, as was Dashwood on this occasion. Master Alphonse, who was dressed out quite fancifully, had a passage at arms with his "bonne" as he called the severe yellow person who presided over him. This skirmish, at first very unpromising, ended in quite a tender scene between Robert and the widow; he begging permission to dismiss the "bonne" and to assume the whole responsibility of Alphonse, and Therese earnestly declaiming that he knew nothing about managing children, and could do nothing with Alphonse at all, while the little boy ran to Robert and clung to him, as though with childish instinct he had already recognized in that gentleman his natural protector.

I say this was a tender scene, rendered with great effect, and considerably heightened by a dark background, composed of Mr. Blanton, in a pair of tight boots, looking savage, scowling, and distressingly uncomfortable. In a few minutes Therese, without any apparent effort, had her brother-in-law by two of his stiff fingers, telling him a string of anecdotes in her voluble, earnest way, while he began visibly to thaw under her genial smiles.

It is impossible for my pen to follow the graceful movements of this gifted and select company. My eyes were completely fascinated by this easy, natural, and coquettish little creature, Mrs. Blanton. She seemed to have the warmest heart, the most jocund smile, the archest ways, and the most untiring little tongue in the world. Circling about, easy, and without the slightest effort, saying naive things with the naivest of airs, she was a very witch of a little woman. Her presence was like a charm; and people loved each other better, and had more charity for their neighbors, and their hearts were warmer, when she was in their midst.

"I say, mamma, may I ride the pony?" began Alphonse.

"The pony would run away with you, and then poor mamma would have no dear little Alphonse," said the little woman.

"No, he wouldn't; I would just hold him so, sir, and draw him this way, and saw him just so, and Sap says he would pace like the very deuce, mamma," said the little fellow, with great animation, gesticulating all the while most admirably.

"Sap says! and pray who is Sap, Alphonse?"

"Sap; why don't you know Sap? don't you know a yellow man, mamma, who lives here? He makes faces at little boys, and he says he ate up a little boy just about my size once. I tell you, mamma, he talks exactly like this Mr. Rushton; not like the dark Mr. Rushton, but like the one that sits by you so much."

"Thank you, Alphonse," said Robert, laughing.

"You are not polite, sir," said Miss Blanton.

"Well, aunty, he does talk like Mr. Rushton, and when he walks, he steps just so, exactly like Mr. Rushton."

Here every body laughed very much at Alphonse, who was walking across the room like that pink of valets, Sap. I say every body laughed, but mamma did not laugh, for she was painfully uneasy about dinner, and actually afraid to leave the room, because Robert would not like it. He said fashionable ladies never attended to their own dinners, indeed seldom knew what was on the table till it was uncovered. Poor mamma had unbounded confidence in her son's knowledge on all subjects. She therefore sat, endeavoring to smile, while her thoughts were with the dinner, which, for aught she knew, might at that very moment be spoiling in the kitchen. Divining her forebodings, indeed, beginning to feel somewhat alarmed myself, I glided out, and found the housekeeper in a stew over the soup. She declared it was not fit for a dog to eat. She brought me a spoonful to taste, and it was awful stuff. I could liken its taste to nothing but a decoction of turpentine. I ran to mamma's room and gathered all the authorities I could find,—Miss Leslie, Mrs. Randolph, and others, and returned to the kitchen armed to the teeth.

"Have you pepper in that soup?" I inquired, glancing over the receipt. "Yes. missis," ejaculated the cook, wiping her face with her apron and fanning violently.

"And celery seed pounded?"

She shook her head and the housekeeper revived.

I now took the unfortunate soup in hand, and before I was done with it, I am sure it was dark enough, and highly enough seasoned for the most blasé epicure. I had the satisfaction, in ten minutes, of bringing it to a clear purple color, while it emitted an odor of great fragrance. I fancy few young ladies, of a literary turn, could have finished off that unpromising soup as artistically as the humble authoress of these pages. While I stood, cookery book in hand, exulting over my soup, the dining-room servant rushed upon us to say, that Robert said it was dinner time. People never could be free and social until after dinner, and Mr. Robert Rushton desired his compliments to the housekeeper, and cook. This report spread dismay and consternation in our ranks. Every idea in the cook's head immediately took flight, and the housekeeper put men, women and children to confusion. The spirit lamps burned blue, and then expired. The soup threatened to grow cold, and poor mamma was enduring torture in the drawing-room. Having got the soup off safely, I began to exhort the discomfited housekeeper and cook to keep calm, as the worst was over. I went into the dining-room, and found matters progressing finely here. After this, I went into the back parlor to await the summons which was to test my soup. Here I found only Alphonse, riding about on papa's walking-stick, on which he seemed determined to practise until he learned enough of horsemanship to be promoted to the pony.

Dinner was announced, and Robert came through the back-parlor with Mrs. Blanton on his arm, to look after Alphonse. I followed them into the dining-room, determined to take a seat where I could be of service to somebody during the weighty ceremonies of dinner. I sat by Mr. Blanton, who wore a forlorn and benighted look, and was likely to require assistance I thought.

To my surprise Mrs. Blanton exclaimed, "What delicious soup!" and Dashwood, charming man, responded "Capital!"

The Virginia housewife, if so notable and estimable a personage should deign to read these pages, can appreciate my feelings on this occasion. She, and only she, can know the instant relief felt by poor mamma, and the light bound which my heavy heart gave, as these delightful guests made the above remarks. I could have hugged Mrs. Blanton, and squeezed Dashwood, so grateful was I for their tribute to my culinary qualifications. Mamma gave me a bright glance, and verily I had my reward.

While we were discussing this royal purple, and most delicious soup, and papa and Mr. Blanton were talking of tobacco, Mr. Farren, our bachelor neighbor, was announced. Miss Blanton bridled up, and grew very red at the mention of his name, and Dashwood looked at Louise. The servant came in to say that Mr. Farren had dined. "What an amazingly industrious man he is," said Dashwood. "He rises by day," said Robert, "goes fox-hunting to earn an appetite for his breakfast; breakfasts on cream, boiled eggs, and cold bread; walks over his plantation until twelve; dines precisely at three, after which he visits the ladies, and amuses himself." "You have not mentioned half," said papa; "I am an old-fashioned man, and have lived full fifty years, and I have seen, in my half century, enough to know that these are the men who control the destinies of nations. These early-risers, hard-workers, strong-minded, independent country gentlemen, are not bound by any clique."

"Confined by no pent-up Utica," remarked Miss Blanton.

"Exactly," said papa, with a bow; "they are the bone and sinew of the country; they put their shoulders to the wheel, these sturdy, educated, wealthy country gentlemen, and are, in fact, the great propellers of the ship of state."

My brother looked at the servant, who changed the plates.

"Tom Farren can do more in one day," said papa, now fairly launched, and forgetting to help to fish, "than any young man of my acquaintance. I say young man, because old men work more nowadays than young ones."

"Mrs. Blanton will trouble papa," said Robert.

"I beg a thousand pardons, madam," said papa, helping neatly to fish. "May I give you fish, Miss Blanton? Mr. Dashwood, pray allow me, my dear sir, take a bit of the head—ahem—and by this great bodily exercise my young friend, Thomas Farren, stimulates his mind, and builds up, if I may so express myself, the mental and physical fabric together."

"He makes enormous crops, I understand," remarked my neighbor, Mr. Blanton.

"And invariably gets the highest prices. He has, I suppose, on his plantations, upwards of three hundred slaves, who are most kindly and most admirably managed. He will be sent to Congress, sir; he must be sent to Congress, sir; we want working men in our Legislative bodies, sir; he is the kind of man we need in our high places, sir," said papa, regardless of etiquette, ladies, and Farren's position as a suitor of our sister's, and all Robert's interruptions.

"I should like to see him," said Therese, "he is quite a catch, is he not, Louise?"

"I do not know, indeed," replied Louise, blushing; "he is very handsome, and very fascinating."

"Fascinating?" inquired Robert and Dashwood in a breath.

"Yes, I should say so," said Louise, "he is somewhat reserved, but I understand he is uncommonly fascinating, and can please any body when he chooses."

"When he chooses. Oh, perhaps so—he never chose to fascinate me, Miss Louise," said Dashwood, in an under tone, to my fair sister.

"Nor me, I declare, but,"—

"I wonder if he will choose to fascinate me?" asked Therese, pouting beautifully. "I wish somebody would take the trouble to fascinate me, really."

This provoking little speech being taken by Robert altogether to himself, he began to be very mysterious indeed, and to ask Mrs. Blanton if she had ever seen a snake charming a bird. If so, she must have observed how still, and drooping, and powerless the poor bird was under the snake's all-charming eye. And she could easily imagine how delighted the poor bird would be, had he only the power to charm his charmer back again. Whereupon, Mr. Blanton dropped his fork, and savagely remarked that he had yet to learn how his sister-in-law could possibly resemble a snake in any particular.

"Brother, you have not tasted your wine!" returned Therese, laughing very much, and trying her best to reach her brother's foot, under the table. Thinking she had succeeded, this dear little woman bore down upon my unoffending toes with great strength. At the proper moment, mamma obeyed a look from Robert, and rose to leave the table. Mr. Rushton, junior, pressed the widow's hand, and saw her to the door.

WE returned to the drawing-room, and, of course, were agreeably surprised to find Mrs. Barbara and Mr. Farren sitting together, the old lady regaling her favored guest with some racy old anecdotes, which she always reserved for great occasions. After a highly interesting introduction of all parties, Miss Blanton selected an isolated seat, and by an adroit manœuvre, forced Mr. Farren to attach himself to her. This interesting couple sat at arm's length, Miss Willy "laying herself out" to secure Mr. Farren by every art she possessed, and Mr. Farren literally shocked at the bare idea of her attempting such a thing. Grandma's keen eyes, lifted above her spectacles, were circling around the room. She noticed the widow's bare shoulders, and exceedingly low corsage, which was only partially concealed by her cloud-like vapory scarf. She noticed the scarcely perceptible sleeve, and perfect dimpled arm, and asked me, in a whisper, if she was going to a party? "In my days," said grandma earnestly to me, "a girl would disgrace her family by dressing out in that way!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes; and that yellow thing, talking to Thomas Farren, would be confined to a mad-house."

"What fine days those were!"

"People had to behave themselves, and dress properly in those days, I tell you. And pray, what is that?" abruptly inquired Mrs. Barbara, as Alphonse entered.

"Master Alphonse," I answered.

"Upon my word, that's a figure to bring into a gentleman's drawing-room! a varstly fine figure. I should say, that unruly lad had broken away from his nurse only harf drest. I should be constrained to surmise, in all charity, that his jacket had yet to be put on. Bless my soul, what are widows and the rest of mankind coming to!"

The gentlemen now entered, and poor Farren brightened up at the prospect of a release from Miss Blanton. But Mr. Thomas Farren was evidently sold to the lady with the emerald-eyed serpents. In vain he looked around upon those he had deemed his friends, nobody came to the rescue. They sat apart, cruelly partitioned off from every living creature, and conversation was getting low. Mr. Farren began to learn to his dismay, that he was "touching bottom." He had discussed the last new novel, the watering places, and the spring hats. He had admired the baubles on her chatelaine, and done every thing that mortal man, of iron nerve, could do under the circumstances, and Miss Willianna still hung on.

"Poor Tom Farren!" said Dashwood to Louise.

"Why poor Tom Farren?" asked Louise, shrugging her white shoulders.

"Because he is getting to be so desperate. His glances this way are soul-harrowing. I declare Bob ought to go to his relief, and allow unhappy Blanton a word with his sister-in-law. I would take Miss Willianna myself, but—I am so fastidious in these matters you know."

"Yes, I know."

"So painfully fastidious, that an hour's conversation with that interesting creature in pink, would unfit me for the remainder of my visit, nay, perhaps for life, for any rational pleasure under the sun."

Fate had grouped the company in one drawing-room. She had given Farren over to Willianna, and Dashwood to Louise. She had perched me, diabolically, vis-à-vis to speechless Mr. Blanton, across a table of bijouterie—and she had ensconced the favored Robert snugly in an alcove with Therese. It was painfully evident to me that my vis-à-vis had only eyes and ears for his brother's fascinating relict. I had seen her trying to mollify him, by hanging about him in her half childish affectionate way; calling him brother—ever brother, and looking up to him, starch-necked and stern as he was, as her brother, her only brother. She had a way of trying to soften him by taking his hand familiarly into her little velvet palm; and stretching his long fingers one by one, over the length and breadth of her little hand, and then laying her other hand gently over it, as she talked away earnestly to him, which lapped the monster brother-in-law in Elysium. He adored her, he had adored her for years, and she was kind, and attentive, and soothing to him, because of his years of suffering and untiring love. Mrs. Blanton had a gentle woman's heart, returning ever love for love. Nobody could be kind to her without gaining her whole heart. Nobody could be in trouble without this little woman's crying as though her very heart would break. She was not brilliant, or witty, but so thoroughly good. She was coquettish, fond of dress, volatile, and childish; but this was only from an excess of kindness, a thorough woman's nature, and a happy light heart. She could not bid her brother cease to love her, and frown upon him and turn away, and leave him in his trouble. She thought rather to turn the current of his love, and by all gentleness, and sincere affection, to make him look upon her as a sister. She knew, that while she listened to Robert's pleasant talk, he was looking intently upon her charming shoulder, and dimpled elbow, which were the only points visible from the recess, and she would have comforted him if she could.

A splendid scheme now entered my head. I determined to rescue these sufferers, Blanton and Farren! I determined to play a waltz, and thereby change every body's position, and make everybody happy. I felt that it devolved upon me to play the part of the good fairy, and thus to thwart the diabolical arrangements of fate. I accordingly struck up an animated and heel-inspiring waltz, which no lover of waltzing could ever hope, even under the most fortuitous circumstances, to resist. My beloved reader, I had the supreme satisfaction of seeing Robert take Therese in his arms and wheel away with her. Then, Dashwood, with his consummate grace flung his arm about Louise, and off they went; leaving Mr. Blanton stark and stiff, sitting bolt upright in the middle of the room, like a shipwrecked man for life. I need not say that this unhappy man served also as a target for grandma's wonder, amazement, and intense scrutiny. Really, I had amused Messrs. Blanton and Farren capitally! From their countenances, I should say it was a highly hilarious amusement, to see a couple of faultlessly moustached, magnificently-limbed youngsters, flying about with their adorables in their arms.

"Do you waltz?" poor Farren asked of his pink tormentor.

"Yes, sir; with those I——with particular friends."

"Do let us take a turn."

She yielded, and he took her respectfully by the tips of her elbows, and whirled off with her. The desperate Farren and the chary Willianna were dangerous navigators. They seemed to steer at random. They soon brought Robert and Therese to a dead halt, and made Dashwood and Louise wheel away for dear life. They bore down upon that rock-bound and stranded man, Blanton, and to the lookers-on he was in imminent danger. Finally, they cleared the circle, and caused grandma to open her eyes, and gather up her skirts. When they had distinguished themselves sufficiently by their performance, Mr. Farren released his pink partner, and took occasion to deposit her in a more thickly-settled part of the room, which I regarded as the most sensible part of the performance.

There was a whisper going the round of the saloons, that Miss Blanton loved Tom Farren, and that he could get her for the asking, which, I dare say, was highly probable. Her open display of preference, her silly smirking way, made Tom Farren perfectly miserable. He admired shy, retiring, modest ladies, and demonstrations unbalanced him. He was a young man of sound judgment, much modesty and discretion, and was really hurt by Miss Blanton's attentions. Her great riches, and distinguished relations, could not tempt him. She should have bestowed them upon that handsome supercilious fellow, Dashwood, who, of all things, wanted money enough to take him to Europe.

"Pray, who is this Mr. Dashwood?" Miss Blanton inquired of me.

"Mr. Dashwood," said I, "is one of the most talented young men I know. He is my brother's particular friend, and likely to distinguish himself some day."

"Indeed! I thought him only a dandy, you know."

"On the contrary, he is anything else."

"Dear me, how odd these geniuses are! One never can keep the run of them. Sometimes they are exquisites, then again they are slovens. They should adopt a uniform, for there is no telling them from other people. I slighted a lady, who, it seems, was one of them, the other day. She was so pert and disagreeable, and put on airs which I really did not think her appearance justified, and I cut her. We Virginians are so particular, you know; so I quietly gave her to understand my position, and who do you think she was? Why, Mrs. Haller, the great authoress, who was making a tour for the express purpose of studying Virginia, and the Virginians. I shall be down in her next book. I feel that I am doomed to be slaughtered by that woman's pen.

"Dreadful!" I exclaimed.

"Horrible! wasn't it? But pray, how is one to know them? I would not willingly slight them, but how am I to know them?"

"By consummate effrontery, and unbounded assurance," said Mr. Farren, bitterly.

"Not always," said I, "sometimes they are diffident; indeed I may say they are always diffident, until they are spoilt by flattery, for which other people should have to answer."

"One thing I know," said Miss Blanton, "I shall never slight a lady with a gray shawl, large foot, mashed bonnet, and long nose again. I shall know she is a genius. Do you write poetry, Miss?" she said, turning to me.

I quickly said "No."

"Yes, you do, now—indeed you do. Will you write me an acrostic? do oblige me, will you?"

"You must call on Mr. Dashwood," said I.

"Mr. Dashwood, Mr. Dashwood!" cried the pink female, trying to be childish, like Therese, "will you write me a piece of poetry?"

"I, madam! I am thunderstruck; upon my word I am thunderstruck at your request," cried Dashwood, running his fingers through his hair, and putting on a favorite porcupine look of his; "but I will confidently assert, and stoutly maintain, that if I am ever to write poetry, if there be a spark of poetry in me, such a request would instantly cause spontaneous combustion."

At this little Mrs. Blanton was seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter, for which nobody could reasonably account.

"But they tell me you are a poet," urged the lady, drawing a chair near him.

"Long, long ago," commenced Dashwood, with a low intense voice, and a glittering vibratory eye, "when first my heart shook off its swaddling clothes, I was foolish enough to dream I was a poet. I looked around me upon the heavens and the earth, and lo! the old familiar hills shone with a newer fire, and the sun's track deepened and gleamed, and the arrowy beams vibrated intensely, and there was a fervor and a glow come over creation; and still I dreamed—oh, foolish dream!—that I was a poet!"

"Did you?" ejaculated the lady in pink.

"I dreamed," continued Dashwood, his face lighting up, "that I saw with no common eye, and that I felt with a deeper and a stronger power I was not all clay, nor like this one, and that one, whose eye had none of the soul-light of mine. Oh, this blessed, intense, quivering, blissful dream! Sweeping o'er the waking heart-strings, and bringing music from the vasty deep; and there was music, gushing, swelling chords, and aerial bounding notes, floating o'er this blessed, mournful dream! Then budding thought was bursting, and latent powers were awaking, and hidden feelings were revealing; and I hugged to my heart, and guarded from the dull, unsympathizing world, my great and wondrous gift from God. I tramped on, and on, jostling the soulless, and pushing on, that I might lay my gift upon the altar. I felt neither hunger nor thirst. The body was a fetter I despised, detaining me from my great end. I longed to throw it aside as unceremoniously as I would my overcoat upon a summer's day, Miss Blanton, and press on! Herculean fellows, who hungered, and slept, and ministered to their bodies like slaves, pushed me aside. Ladies of great mental balance and bodily strength looked at my frantic efforts with a sneer, and passed proudly on, heralded by Fame. Poets, with eyes glowing with fire,—my own fire, I knew it at a glance,—followed in their wake. Fame was up at auction, they said, and they crowded on. Still dreaming, I went on, toiling after I knew not what, hoping for more than this poor world can give. Dreaming, yet dreaming, still on I went, and this fierce race ended in the maddest brain fever that ever poet had. I awoke from this ecstatic trance, to find myself nearly scalped by the Doctors, from which judicious treatment you will perceive that my poetic locks have not yet entirely recovered. I was food for leeches, and the peculiar delight of scarificators, for more than three weeks. Whether the leeches went off with my exuberant poetry, or it was taken off with my scalp, I am not prepared to say."

"What a blessing, young man," said grandma, handing around her snuff-box, "that the doctors interfered before you made a ninny of yourself. You may regard it as a special providence, that attack."

"Poesy, my dear madam," said Dashwood, with a profound bow to grandma, "is defined by physicians to be a chronic congestion, or extravasation of the brain, occurring in persons of highly nervous and sanguinous temperament."

"To be relieved by partial beheading," said Robert, laughing.

"To be allayed by leeching, and anti-phlogistics. Cases of long standing belong to the mad-house, the faculty think," said Dashwood.

"But you write acrostics occasionally, do you not?" asked Miss Blanton.

"It was an acrostic to this lady," said Dashwood, turning to Louise, "which brought about those terrible results I have been telling you of. My physician advises me to beware of acrostics. He considers them the most inflammatory and dangerous species of poetry."

Poor Robert laughed until he was ashamed of himself, at Dashwood's earnest countenance and unshrinking gravity. Miss Blanton had to give up all hopes of an acrostic, so she turned upon grandma, and began to question her. The reader can easily imagine that Miss Blanton immediately found herself in clover, as the saying is. She had only to ask the most trivial questions to set Mrs. Barbara's tongue in motion. She had only to suggest an idea, or gently to jog her memory, in order to provoke a perfect avalanche of anecdote. Miss Blanton had now aroused the right passenger. Mrs. Barbara straightened up, and proceeded to draw from the great storehouse of her memory, treasure after treasure. She reverted to one of her favorite topics, the burning of the Chatterton Theatre.

"If it hadn't been for that fire," said Mrs. Barbara, in a mysterious and impressive tone, "I should never have been a Rushton! I think it highly probable I should have been a Maddon!"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Blanton, thrillingly interested, "was Maddon burned?"

"No, but you shall hear it all, and then blame me if you can. You see, I was engaged to Maddon, and had discarded Rushton. On this eventful and destiny-destroying night," commenced grandma forcibly, "the management presented to the lovers of the drama a most attractive and enticing bill. We all determined to go to the play. My hair was splendid in those days, and at least two hands longer than Louise's. I had it arranged in the morning by a hair-dresser, who thought proper to saturate it with a kind of oil, which, to my horror, I afterwards learned was highly combustible. Maddon came to our house rather early, with tickets, and spoke rapturously of Mrs. Somebody—I forget her name,—who, he said, was going to electrify all Chatterton by her performance that night. We were sitting in our box, patiently awaiting the rising of the curtain, after the second or third act, when a whiff of smoke came from the stage, accompanied by a slight, crackling sound. I thought they were making their thunder and lightning you know, and was perfectly easy. Not so Maddon. He stood up, his eyes flashing, his nostrils dilating, and his lips compressed. Presently 'fire! fire!' was heard, and Maddon dashed over the railing upon the heads of the pit, stepped over the orchestra, and into the foot-lights upon the stage, leaving me unceremoniously to take care of myself, wondering what on the face of the earth was to pay. I hadn't sense enough to move hand or foot. The crowd writhed, and swore, and elbowed, and fainted, and trampled on each other, while I, absolutely petrified, remained glued to my seat. I could not budge an inch. People mashed me, and tore me all to pieces, and tall men stepped over my head, without so much as 'by your leave, Miss.' Finding that every body was making for the doors, I bethought me of looking out for a window. As soon as I began to move I found myself in a current of human beings, while crash after crash, and scream after scream was heard. I was pushed on by the crowd, until I stood before a window, and I hung on to my place. I heard somebody crying out to me from below. It was Rushton, calling on me to spring from the window. He placed a feather-bed upon the pavement, and, calling frantically to me, implored me to jump out. But I was paralyzed by fright. People were pushing me away, and jumping out like shot out of a shovel. In the crowd below I recognized the deserter Maddon, with the actress in his arms, who had fainted in the street. Again Rushton screamed to me, and begged me to spring out upon the bed. I hadn't sense enough to move. Presently a flame licked me upon the back of my head, which, as I told you, was all saturated with a highly inflammable oil,—and I assure you, Miss Blanton, I sprang out with such superhuman strength, that I cleared the feather bed, passed over Rushton, and descended upon a large lot of household and kitchen furniture, belonging to Pratt & Brothers, next door above. People were astonished at me, and all eyes were turned upon me, as I reclined comfortably upon the household and kitchen furniture. I understand it was the greatest jump made that night. The tight-rope dancers didn't come near me. Suffice it to say," concluded Mrs. Barbara, with great gravity and importance, "that Mr. Rushton's gallantry, as contrasted with Maddon's shameful desertion, and devotion to the actress, caused me to become a Rushton!"

Grandma's maidenly choice was universally applauded. Every body thought she was right in discarding Maddon, and consenting to adorn, and illuminate, the Rushton family.

But about Robert's eccentric friend Dashwood. This handsome fellow was a perfect riddle to ordinary people. He had a way of flashing out sometimes, in a dazzling electrifying manner, and then subsiding into a man of less than ordinary pretensions. Sometimes people would begin to think him most extraordinary, destined for great things, capable of wonders, and suddenly he would put all such charitable notions to flight, by some unaccountable freak, which would have the happy effect of precipitating public opinion below zero. Robert alone, and perhaps Louise, held the key to his absurd whimsicalities. To Robert he was the most glorious and piquant of men. To Louise,—ah, what was he to Louise? More than mortal, more than lover, more than beloved. That he was pervaded by a poetic something, nobody could doubt. That he was lifted above his fellows, was beyond a question. That he had rare powers, glorious-powers, every lady of any refinement and cultivation, of his acquaintance, was ready to admit. But, in the ordinary business of life—in buying and selling—making money, and the most of one's talents, our brilliant Dashwood was hopelessly inferior. He could assume, at a moment's warning, any character under the sun. Sometimes, for whole weeks, he was the man of business, going about with a brisk manner, closely buttoned coat, and knit brows. During these business attacks, he would shoot ahead of the old stagers, throw a flood of light upon matters before shrouded in darkness, give quite a new turn to the old way of doing things, and after triumphantly proving himself eminently worthy of the counting-room or the desk, and blazing away to his own satisfaction, a complete reaction would take place.

The next thing you would hear of Dashwood, he would be idling about his lodgings, in gorgeous slippers, trailing robe, and jewelled cap, writing poetry for the magazines.

Again he would assume his profession of the law with an ardor and impetuosity, which could not last, make a crack speech, astonish the court, gain his suit, pocket his fee, and live like a lord, eschewing every thing but love, wine, and cigars. After this, he would take a trip off to a watering-place, or some fashionable place of folly, and smirk, and polk, and create sensations, until he was tired. Of course, after this, he would have a severe attack of dolce far niente, and then the usual return of otium cum dignitate. He did not care a fig for money, because he could generally contrive to make a little when hard pressed. He was not called a dissipated man, or a man of bad habits, but people called him an uncommon man, an astonishing man, a psychological riddle, a jack at all trades and good at none. His varied talents, his brilliancy, his powers, ever obedient, and ready to rise equal to any emergency, his eloquence, his intuitive knowledge of almost everything, his splendid person, and flexibility of manner, gave him a position among men, from which no freak on his part could displace him. To confess the truth, people petted his whims, in order to secure the use of his talents. Generally, if a fellow-citizen had a very unpromising case on hand, which he knew could only be gained by a master spirit, or some legerdemain peculiar to lawyers, or some trick of oratory, he consulted Dashwood, who, if in the want of money at that particular time, or exactly in the vein, would take hold of the matter, turn the whole strength of his soul and body upon it, and make such an effort for his client as few men, even in Virginia, could make.

To love such a man as this, was to tie one's self to a wheel at once. To love Dashwood was perfect folly. But there are some women, doubtless, provided by Providence for such men, who exult in martyrdom; who, of all things, love to make living sacrifices of themselves; whose hearts are moved by wonders, and astonishment, and who must have a demi-god, for nothing short of a demi-god can till up their capabilities of loving. The glitter and the glare of great personal beauty, astonishing powers, and irresistible manners, envelope them, and they are lost.

Louise, woman-like, first loved him, and then began to search about for reasons to sustain her. She loved him, first, because she could not help it, and because amid all his fickleness he was true to her. He was as steady in love, as he was unstable in every thing else. True, my sister was enough to fill a poet's eye, yet it must have been flattering to her, to see this man anchored, you may say, at her feet. He never swerved from her, or pretended to love another, or deigned to think there was any thing loveable in any other woman under the sun. Let him be politician, lawyer, poet, or dandy, his love for her remained the same. This was his great redeeming grace. What young lady of eighteen could withstand poetry, law, oratory, grace, fashion, great personal beauty, and most of all, constancy, combined? What southern beauty, spoilt by over-indulgence, never knowing the want of money or of friends, kept in seclusion, and guarded from all the ills that flesh is heir to, would not have loved this flashing Dashwood?

There are many, older and more experienced than our beautiful sister, who would have yielded to his power.

Tom Farren—upright, economical, well-balanced, systematic, money-making, plantation-managing Tom Farren, detested our poor Dashwood. He would be ready to say "fudge" at the bare mention of his name. He could see nothing but folly and consummate assurance in all he said and did. He wondered how people could tolerate such a man, who was, in fact, no man at all. How Robert and, most of all, Louise, could listen to him with any patience.

There had been a talk among the sovereigns who adored and petted Dashwood, of sending him to Congress, some day; but the neighboring gentry and landholders were in favor of Farren. Robert, too, who was a mighty man among the young girls and old maids in the neighborhood, and patronized incipient dandies, and carried on with old ladies and gossips at a high rate, was heart and soul for Dashwood. He declared Virginia hadn't given such a son to the world since she favored mankind with John Randolph, and always excused every vagary of his friend, by a dark and oracular allusion to the "eccentricities of genius." It was a rare frolic to Robert, this wheedling human nature, and enticing poor gullibility, to help Dashwood up the ladder. He hadn't had any thing so rich since the old rebellion days at college. He flattered, and joked, and visited among the outsiders, and was seen gallanting some of the oddest dressed creatures to church—solely for Dashwood's sake, he said. He would take giggling country lasses on his arms, and supply the babies with gingerbread, and keep mammas posted up in the news, solely because some day Dashwood might need popularity. Of course, Robert upheld Louise in her preference for her brilliant and meteor-like lover; and he sustained her nobly, in trying times, when grandma and papa would call her to account for refusing Farren again and again. Grandma was really awed by Tom Farren. She never raised her eyes to him without thinking of three hundred negroes, five plantations, his uncle, Governor Farren, two dwelling houses, and prospective winters in Washington. Our dear mamma, though still and placid, and seldom obtruding her opinions before folks, had, nevertheless, a strong dash of romance in her composition, which all the Rushton practicability could not entirely eradicate. Papa had no more poetry in him than a vice; he had so ridiculed all such nonsense, so preached against novel reading, so railed against Byron, so laughed at Dickens, and so completely annihilated Thackeray, that mamma had to withdraw her opinions and retire within herself. She was forced to read her favorite authors in her own room, to weep over Effie Deans and Byron's sad effusions in secret. The timid woman took a mother's pride in seeing her own smouldering embers of poetry and sentiment burning defiantly and glowing intensely in the magnanimous Robert, and the tender Louise.

She nourished them with her treasured books, she imbued them with her poetry, she sketched for them the wonders of the realms of thought; she read to them of the inner life; she talked to them of cloud-land and the yearnings of the heart; she held up before their eyes a beautiful world which they could make their own; she purified them from the dross, and bade them throw off the earthy particles with contempt; she aroused imagination, and beheld with delight the mighty giant rearing its magnificent head. She thought she was arming them for the battle of life; she thought there were moments of darkness and gloom for all, and that these treasures would lighten them; she thought, dear mother, of woman in her solitude, embalmed within her narrow, wearying sphere, of her long, dark, hopeless hours, of her isolation and loneliness, of the winter days and winter nights, after the gay summer should be o'er, and she gave her beautiful daughters these, her hidden treasures, that they might comfort and beguile her then.

WE were pleased to see that our guests enjoyed themselves. Every thing was done that could be done to promote their pleasure. Mrs. Blanton was delighted with her visit, and a favorite with every member of the family, except grandma. In a few days, Therese was completely domesticated. With mamma she was a particular favorite; and the two, happy with each other, would go off upon house-keeping excursions, and to see the sick, and take the longest walks, while Adolphe would be skipping around them, forming a group most pleasant to the eye, and perfectly charming to Robert. My brother would watch the evolutions of this little fairy who had enslaved him, with mingled expressions of pride, tenderness, and ecstacy. She was so natural and good-humored, so arch and coquettish, so filled with all we are wont to love in woman, that nobody need blame Robert for his happiness, or Mr. Blanton for his misery. Therese proposed to make some cakes for us, with her own little hands. She told the housekeeper that she knew how to make the best cakes any body ever tasted in the world. Of course, such a proposition placed my brother Robert in the seventh heaven. To think that Therese could make cakes! Gracious, what a thought! Real, round, plump little cakes, light and melting in the mouth! And that he should eat them!

Of course, these cakes were honored above all the cakes that ever appeared upon our table. Therese, funny little woman, doing the honors, while her little tongue ran on the while in its pleasant social way. Miss Blanton frowned, and asked her if those cakes hadn't soda in them?

"They are seasoned with nectar, genuine nectarine cakes, upon my word," retorted Robert.

"I put a little piece of soda, sister, just so much," said Therese, checking off a little tip of rosy finger nail, to show how much.

"Ah, ha! I detected it." cried Miss Blanton; whereupon Robert turned around gravely, and looked at Miss Blanton, evidently regarding that lady as a complex chemical apparatus from that moment. Dashwood cried out from his seat for a few more of the nectarine cakes, and papa reached forth demurely, and apologized for taking "Captain Manners," which was the last of them. Little Therese was so delighted with her performance. Her oval eyes were glistening, and her soft cheek glowing; really, all this was most charming. Robert became so magnanimous, after eating of these cakes, that he allowed Mr. Blanton a tête-à-tête with Therese in the grotto.

Dashwood was the life of our party. He planned fishing excursions and riding parties. He played at graces with Miss Blanton, and at backgammon with Mr. Blanton. He read for our amusement in the early hours, and repeated poetry in sylvan haunts, at times when all hearts were filled with poetry. He sang bass with all the ladies, and got up serenades in the wee small hours. He aided and comforted mamma during the weighty ceremonies of dinner, and was never too late for breakfast. He sat in tableaux with rigid propriety, and in a rash moment undertook a waltz with the dangerous Willianna. He captivated every heart but papa's—and even papa was charmed with him as a guest, only begging to be excused when he was proposed as a son-in-law.

Mrs. Blanton was in transports about Dashwood. What a man he was! Never had she seen such an intellectual face, faultless contour, and superb address—except—except—and here Therese broke down, and looked sideways at Robert, and blushed.

"She alludes to the departed Blanton," whispered grandma in confidence to me—tapping her snuff-box, getting her pocket handkerchief ready, and sighing with great force.

"Very likely," said I, pretending not to notice Robert's eye catching the light of hers, and the half whispered "charming Therese," which followed.

I have already said that Robert was so overcome by generosity and magnanimity, after partaking of Mrs. Blanton's cakes, that he went off to the river with Alphonse, and allowed Mr. Blanton a tête-à-tête with his adorable, in his own consecrated grotto. It seems that Mr. Blanton was consumed by jealousy, and that he really became restive and unruly, and that Therese almost broke her heart in this grotto, begging her brother to give her up like a man, and let her love Mr. Rushton. I learned it was a terrific scene. The tender woman fearing to wound, and yet obliged to cut him to the very heart. She throwing herself upon his mercy, and he mad with love. "And has it come to this?" said Mr. Blanton, sternly, to his sister. "Am I to be trifled with in this way? Is my love of five years to be measured with the mushroom passion of this flippant stripling? Have you no gratitude—no common sense—nothing, absolutely nothing, but dimples, and tears, and nonsense?"

"Dearest brother," begun Therese—

"I am not your brother, madam."

"Dear Henry, I only tell you how I love Robert." said Therese, naively.

"Pshaw!"

"And implore your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness; pray, madam, what have I to forgive?"

"Me—your little Therese—your sister."

"My little pest and torment," he said, toying with her pretty fingers. She laughed and drew nearer to him, in her winning artless way, and he folded her in his arms, not exactly like a brother, I fear.

"My own dear good brother," murmured Therese. He suffered her to call him so. She might have called him fiend, and he would have held her to his breast, with her soft wreathing arms and pearly cheek.

Poor Blanton! To find himself so proud, stiff, and unyielding; being turned around a little woman's finger, in spite of his teeth. And to be dying and sighing at his age, for a pair of wreathing arms and pearly cheeks.

We were all very sad when our gay guests took their departure. Robert watched the carriages until they turned down the hill, and were out of sight; and then he came into the back parlor, and declared that Mrs. Blanton was the sweetest woman in the world. Grandma immediately remarked that her dresses were too low, for which illusion scarfs could offer no apology at all; and gave it as her deliberate opinion, that she had better marry Mr. Blanton, or he would petrify; indeed, she considered that stiff specimen as already far advanced into petrifaction.

Dashwood said she had about as much soul as a mermaid. And that the whole secret of her success with Bob could be distinctly traced to three dimples (they being, he was sorry to say, very weak points with Bob), a well turned bust, two rows of teeth, several smiles, and a pair of baby feet—not to mention a way she had of looking up at a man, and down at a man, and aside at a man—and thereby putting a man to great bewilderment and confusion.

"Pray, what do you call soul? She has delicacy, refinement, quickness of apprehension, relish for wit; she is never ruffled; she is always tender and gentle; she is careful of every body's feelings, and good to the poor. Now if that isn't soul, old fellow," cried Robert, slapping him on the shoulder, "tell me what it is?"

"Art," said Dashwood.

"Art! By heaven, she is as unsophisticated as a child! Her own son is not more guileless."

"By the way, that little son, how will you dispose of him in the matrimonial contract?" asked Dashwood.

"Why," said Robert, "I will take that little boy by the hand, and show him the way to go. I will tell him where to look for breakers, and where he may expect treachery beneath the dimpling waves—and, perhaps—perhaps," said Robert laughing, "I will point to one eccentric Dashwood; and bid him look and take warning."

"No, you will not!" cried Dashwood, with a bright face; "no, you will not, sir! But you may be able to say by that time, 'See Dashwood, how he has struggled, and how he has conquered, and what a brave figure he cuts upon his pedestal!' You may say, 'Go and do likewise,' to your little son—who knows?"

I saw Louise look up, and smile gloriously upon him. I saw mamma turn with a proud bright look towards him, and I saw Robert reach forward and grasp his hand, and hold it, that he might read his sparkling, glowing countenance.

Surely Dashwood, if aught under the sun can fix thee in thy purpose, it is this. If aught can settle the rover in thee, it is this. Unstable as water, restless as the wind, unsatisfied as the sea, brilliant as the sun, magnanimous as Jove; if aught can gather thy great powers into one purpose, surely it is this!

"I intend," said Dashwood, "to shake off the sin which doth so easily beset me, and turn over a new leaf. You see, I have been all this time running my fingers over the keys."

"And uncertain music making," said Robert.

"Merely to find the tune; and I intend to find the tune."

"God grant it," said my brother.

"I intend to run up and down the gamut, until I find out the tune of my life," remarked Dashwood.

"It is to be a brilliant introduction to an overture, I suspect," said Robert.

"Or a romance à la Reeve," said I.

"Or a fantasia," said Louise.

"I do not know yet; but I suspect, I strongly suspect, that I am now upon the verge of a discovery. I think after having rambled on, and trying this key and that, I am now about to find out in what key I can best perform."

"You have been scampering about among sharps, flats, and naturals," said Robert jocosely.

"Indeed have I."

"And dreamily running the scales, and trying your chords, as young ladies are wont to do, before entering into the body of an astonishing piece."

"Exactly. I expect to launch out into brilliant execution, now, the first opportunity," said Dashwood, shaking off all gravity, and treating this subject, as he did all others, with intrepid recklessness. The glorious tinting on Louise's cheek faded, and Dashwood's momentary enthusiasm was gone. He and Robert lived for jokes and fun. They had no more idea of the great ends of life than a couple of butterflies. They were a well-matched pair. Loving each other first, and then loving their respective sweethearts. But these young fellows were only twenty and twenty-two.

Dashwood, who was the elder, was an orphan, allowed by his guardian to grow up and run wild, under the supervision of dame Nature, to whom he was more indebted than to family or friends. Consequently, nobody could expect much from him, until twenty-five or thereabouts. Robert was too rich, I believe, to follow a profession. He had a plantation, which his overseer managed, while he sported upon the proceeds. He had studied law somewhere, and had a law library, but he considered it entirely too dry for a gentleman of his tastes. Dashwood was pushed up the hill by poverty, which ranks high among stimuli and propellers, and generally accomplishes something for young men. Robert having no such enemy, or rather friend in the rear, lingered in pleasant places, and sported in luxuriant vales, and turned from the great hill of life with contempt.

After the departure of our pleasant guests, Louise was sent by our wary papa into Siberian banishment. In other words, she was sent under the care of two maid servants, and papa's own man Jerry, to Mrs. Phœbe Braxley, to be kept out of sight and hearing of Dashwood. Papa was very much in hopes that something of a Providential nature would occur to get Dashwood out of our neighborhood, so that diffident young Farren might have a fair field for the contemplated matrimonial adjustment between these two staunch Whig and moneyed families. Louise was, therefore, sent beyond the orbit of this brilliant comet, before whom all other luminaries paled, to Mrs. Braxley, before whom no luminary of any intelligence dare show itself. Mrs. Braxley, like all the immediate descendants of Mrs. Barbara (whose vein of eccentricity, by the mere accident of a theatrical conflagration, had been turned into our family), was a character.

Mrs. Phoebe Jane Braxley was a woman out of a hundred. She was a shrewd, managing, business woman; viewing all nature with a keen eye, and carrying every thing before her. She was blunt and plain spoken; telling people flatly, and without circumlocution, what she thought: full of spunk; indeed people have been heard to remark, that she was "spunk to the back bone."

She was the greatest domestic manager in the whole country, and celebrated, far and near, for the neatness of her household, and the regularity and economy of her establishment. Mamma, who was a weak woman in this respect, regarded Mrs. Braxley with profound awe, and consulted her in her management, as she would consult a highly gifted oracle. She kept whole rows of sleek, tidy negro girls at work, under her vigilant eye. She had also half-a-dozen negro lads, about twelve years old or thereabouts, whose uniform was a blue jacket and white trowsers, and who could be seen on fine days going through their evolutions in the yard and garden, like a well-drilled company. She had, as privy council, several staid, prim, high-capped, low-curtsying old negro women, who, report said, knew every thing. They wove and dyed the most enormous quantities of homespun; striped and checked carpets of bright colors, and beautifully shaded; blankets of rose patterns, and curious workmanship; counterpanes, knotted, dotted, crossbarred, raised, flowered, and bordered. These learned high-capped women (the pride and stay of all well-regulated Virginia homes, and very tyrants in their sphere), could be seen early of mornings, hanging out long chains of blue cotton warp upon the palings; festooning whole pieces of cloth out to dry; spreading out long white strips on the dewy grass, to bleach; making starch; peeling apples; mustering, like Macbeth's witches, around tremendous cauldrons; and going about at all times with rigid faces and important looks, as though the destinies of all mankind were in their hands. Mrs. Braxley herself was frequently with these old women, consulting over bits of board, wrapped with bright colors, or what they called drafts, or abstruse and many cornered patterns. Mrs. Braxley, who had as much energy as Bonaparte, always made large tobacco crops, engaged her own overseer, and turned him off midway between January and Christmas, if he did not walk exactly to suit her; grew her own corn and wheat; raised her own pork, beeves, and fowls; and was always in advance of her neighbors, in green peas and fried chicken. She was a tall, fine woman of forty; standing erect and independent, with a sun-burnt face and clear gray eye; speaking quickly, and to the point; dressing neatly and compactly, not even bending to that female tyrant, fashion, but choosing, year after year, after a pattern of her own invention. Her sleeves were large enough to roll up over the elbows; her skirts short enough not to sweep the yard, or to interfere with Mrs. Braxley in going up any flight of steps, however formidable. Her caps were made with an eye to a weekly washing; her shoes ample and double-soled. Mrs. Braxley often boasted that fashion came to her once in seven years, and that she never had a corn; and, though her family was a gouty family, and she might add a corny family, yet she defied both. This lady, as the reader already perceives, was a worthy daughter of Mrs. Barbara, though she had none of Mrs. Barbara's weaknesses, viz., love of family, style, big names, fortunes, and Paris fashions. Mrs. Braxley despised pretension and display, and entertained a sovereign contempt, to use her own expression, for the "fag end of a big family." But one defect had this model female; I cannot call it a weakness, for Mrs. Braxley had no weaknesses. One defect had she, which I cannot conscientiously pass over in silence. My beloved reader, will you believe it?—this neat, orderly, sin-exterminating woman, rubbed snuff! She kept a snuff-box in her right pocket, filled with the strongest and most pungent Scotch snuff; and she went about all day, brandishing a dangerous-looking hickory stick, with a mop end, which she was constantly dipping into this huge black horn snuff-box, and loading with snuff, which I am sorry to say was duly deposited in Mrs. Braxley's mouth. This horrible practice, called in lower Virginia and North Carolina, dipping, is of respectable standing. I have known many dippers in my life, who, like my aunt Braxley, had but that one fault; and I must halt just here, in my description of my aunt, to pay my respects to "dipping." Ladies who confess to "taking a dip," are, I am sorry to say, exceedingly ferocious on the subject. They repel indignantly any attack upon this favorite and genial pursuit. Beautiful creatures, with rosy, perfumed mouths, will grow restless at "dipping time," and will cautiously desert lover, husband, father, or friend, at the established dipping hour; to draw out, in some snug retreat, these formidable and nauseous-looking hickory sticks, with mop ends, and fill their delicate mouths with load after load, of horrid Scotch snuff! That estimable lady, who, after kissing her own cow, turned around and proclaimed to astonished mankind, "de gustibus non est disputandum," surely had the gift of second sight, and must have had her prophetic eye upon troops of dippers, away down in the vista of time, gliding off with nimble step to this remarkable pursuit.

Forgive me, dippers, if I have played the spy in your midst. Forgive me if I have approached your sancta with a potent hickory wand, and been injudiciously admitted. Forgive me for having, with grave visage, followed your example, and walloped my mop-stick deep in your black horn boxes, that I might get the "hang" of this delightful recreation. Forgive me for saying, that I have seen you giving each other the wink at dipping-time, and stealing off one by one, with innocent faces and compressed smiles, to range yourselves à les regles in compact circles, around brisk winter fires, or in back summer piazzas, and then luxuriously dipping—dipping—dipping.

By simply arming herself with a hickory stick, and boldly penetrating the charmed circle of these dippers, the curious reader can see human nature in a new light. She (for no gentleman is ever admitted, under any circumstances) will hear ladies inviting ladies to "come over and take a dip." She will see them grouped together, with handkerchiefs spread over their laps, snuff-boxes open, and mops at work, dipping, the sly happy creatures! at the maddest rate. Unfortunately, my curious reader will find that they do not confine their dippings to their black horn boxes; they sometimes dip into their friends! The stimulative weed excites these ladies, and they unbosom themselves, spin the longest yarns, open the darkest pages, and dip—and dip—and dip.

"Dippers" are of gregarious habits, going in herds, communicating by signs, and bound together in long unbroken chains. They will face any danger to meet an appointment, and would go through a brush fire to rub their teeth, and wag their heads and chat. Woe be to the absent dipper in such dangerous times. Woe be to her if the community cannot furnish a murder, or a run-away match, or a jealous husband, or a monster of some kind, for the entertainment—these dippers will most assuredly dip into her!

Sometimes we find a small band of dippers cast into a highly dangerous and anti-dipping community. Public opinion is against dipping; husbands and fathers are against dipping; young men are against dipping. Under these unfavorable circumstances they unite into secret societies, concealing their boxes and mops, abusing the weed publicly and vehemently, resorting to private signs, appointing rendezvous, meeting, mid hairbreadth escapes and thrilling adventures—and then, oh! such royal dips! Dipping into every thing. Dipping into the so-and-so's, and the everybody's, with a vengeance! Dipping into families and friends, probing the sorest wounds with these mopped sticks; brandishing their weapons more and more fiercely, until, from the stimulating effects of the weed, they turn against their own husbands, and relate such matrimonial trials as would still every mop for reflection!

Mrs. Braxley was a leading dipper; an independent go-ahead dipper; from whom many timid dippers plucked a little courage.

Mrs. Braxley would brandish her tooth-brush in the President's face, if provoked to it; and a brave commander-in-chief was she.

Poor Louise would have been very comfortably located, had it not been for uncle Joe, the meek husband of the above-mentioned.

It seems that uncle Joe had been a gay rollicking blade in his youth, and that Mrs. Barbara had considered him rather beneath her daughter, and had opposed the match, "solely upon aristocratic grounds," to use her own expression; but finally, in consideration of Phoebe's low forehead and freckles, she graciously consented. Thereupon, uncle Joe, in his usual rash and inconsiderate manner, rushed young, high-spirited, and unbroken, into the matrimonial yoke, and found himself secured for life! I need not say that he was completely broken in a fleeting twelvemonth.

The daughter of Mrs. Barbara asserted and maintained her rights with a high hand. Year after year found her still gaining upon the enemy (Uncle Joe), who retreated and retreated, and being also seized with a furious rheumatism, he seized his pipe and took his corner, and was no more like the dashing Joe Braxley of the olden time, than he was like a gaudy war elephant of Siam. His wants were few and his pleasures were fewer. Half his time was spent in acute rheumatic pain, by which he was shockingly drawn: and the other half was divided in sharp lookings-out for east winds, friendly chattings with friends, and vigorous rubbings with pungent liniments and bear-like gloves, to keep the rheumatism at bay. Ah, could that young lady, who in bygone romantic days had so loved uncle Joe, and who had taken out to Alabama a broken heart, to be healed by gentle southern breezes; could she but see the gay young heart-breaker now! Her youthful dream would, alas, be broken, quite as effectually as was her heart. She would see, instead of her crisp-locked ideal, a bald-headed, plethoric, mild mannered man, sitting in his corner with his pipe, or with his bristly gloves and liniments, intently rubbing his knee joints! What a picture for a broken heart! What a finale for greedy romance to digest!

Still, there was an old twinkle in the corner of the eye, and a keen relish for a joke, and the echo of a once boisterous and hearty laugh, which pertinaciously clung to uncle Joe, and a few sparks of the old fire, which had resisted all the dampers of matrimony, which shone forth now and then, and made this hymeneal and rheumatic captive appear a jocund man at times.

Time's gorgeous panorama moved slowly on. The spring had budded and blossomed. The summer had blushed and deepened and passed away, and the flaunting crimson cloud-land, with its burnished splendors, had sobered and grown gray, and faded, and old Time was in the sere and yellow leaf. Young hearts were subdued, and old affections mellowed. Louise's exile was not yet over. She was, by papa's order, still pining in Mrs. Braxley's dominions. I hope my reader knows something of love. How he mocks at frowns and barriers. How young lovers, though separated, can wait, and hope, and bear up stoutly against all cruelty, and endure a variety of hardships and crosses, in a manner which must seem somewhat surprising to them after they have attained the object of their wishes. We all know how danger only stimulates young lovers; and how opposition will often change quite a commonplace and lukewarm passion into an heroic and sublime affair. How absence and parental tyranny have done more for the wily god than all the arrows in his quiver. How the beloved in absence can be easily decked with many imaginary beauties and graces, which his constant presence would too wofully dissipate. How one stolen interview is of more value to a lover than fifty unrebuked and prolonged sittings. In short, how Cupid only enlists obstinate parents in his service, and makes them fight blindly against themselves.

Louise was pining in Siberia. The Siberian monarch, Mrs. Braxley, was gone with her sceptre of hickory to a neighbor's, to dip. Uncle Joe and Louise were drawn up around a three-legged table, on which mildly and lambently shone Mrs. Braxley's parlor lamp. Uncle Joe sat with bits of soft wood lying on the table, which he was fashioning with his pen-knife into all sorts of shapes; his bald head shining amid his iron-gray locks, like a soft shrouded moon. Louise sat indolently rocking in a large blue chair, absorbed in thought.

"What is the matter, Louise? You are terribly moped about something," said uncle Joe, scooping out the rim of a wooden punch bowl.

"Nothing," said Louise, listlessly.

"Nothing but Dashwood. That fellow is always uppermost in your thoughts. You had better dismiss him, and take Farren; at least so Mrs. Barbara and all these clever women think. They say Dashwood is incorrigible."

"Do you think so?" Louise asked.

"My dear, do not ask me; I do not know. They say he is wasting the finest talents in the State, and that he hasn't the stability even to make a start in life."

"Ah, but he has," said my sister.

"I have my doubts. I should dislike to see you throwing yourself away upon a fellow, who, it seems, can be any thing, and will be nothing."

"I tell you," said Louise, turning to the light, and raising a pair of lustrous eyes, "I tell you he has the strength to be any thing. He has the noblest heart in the world; and I—I have sounded its lowest depths. I cannot believe such glorious gifts can perish, any more than a sunbeam can be drowned in the sea. You have only to look upon his countenance and believe. You have only to look and see the great light shining on his brow. Ah, the light gilds up the highest peaks, does it not? Well, uncle Joe, it is there!"

"Youth, youth," said uncle Joe, in a sad funereal note.

"But let me say it now, uncle Joe. Let me say it only once, that I may not break my word. If he fail, if he perish, if he fall—then I fail, and I perish, and I fall, too!"

"Stop, girl! Pray don't!" cried uncle Joe, casting an alarmed look around; for that good man had been taught, and firmly believed, that walls had ears, particularly Mrs. Braxley's walls.

"Don't be rash; I beg you don't be rash. You'll repent it as sure as you live," said uncle Joe, really alarmed at her remarks.

"They are going to oppose me," continued Louise steadily, while uncle Joe cut away furiously upon his punch bowl. "I see them banding together—papa, grandma, all but mamma and dear Robert—but I—I cannot give him up."

As Louise expressed herself thus, her face glowing and her eye glittering beneath the serene globe of the lamp, and her countenance radiant with that divine fortitude possessed by some women in such heavenly perfection, Dashwood, who held the door ajar, bounded in. He caught her to his breast, and then paid his respects to uncle Joe, by squeezing him in his arms until he cried out, and then he danced several times around the table, and finally he drew up beneath the lamp, and informed his hearers that he was the happiest man alive. He begged leave to repeat it, and most forcibly to impress it upon them, that, "recent events, together with the absence of a respectable lady, whose image often filled their hearts," said Dashwood, his eye gleaming with its comic fire, "have conspired to render me the most supremely happy man in the world."

Uncle Joe slapped his rheumatic knees, and laughed at the bare idea of a certain person's absence contributing to any body's happiness. He regarded it as a capital idea, a facetious and mirth-provoking conceit, that allusion to the timely absence of the lady who so often filled their hearts. He hadn't "shook the cobwebs" at such a rate since the last time, one snug evening, after tea, it was, when Dashwood boldly walked in at one door as she walked out at the other, and after making his bow to the retiring figure, he demurely stretched himself out upon her vacant chair, and proceeded to lament her absence, in low pathetic modulations.

Poor Dashwood had such twinkling comic eyes, and could put on such grave, queer faces, that uncle Joe could never resist his sallies. Indeed, uncle Joe enjoyed these stolen visits, and though he cried out fudge and fiddlesticks, he wickedly delighted in the perils which this courageous fellow encountered, with such admirable ease and assurance. The greatest and most bitter enemy the persecuted lover could boast, was Mrs. Braxley, and his greatest admirer the timid, but once rash, uncle Joe. Therefore, uncle Joe always shook the reckless dashing fellow warmly by the hand, and invariably invited him to look in upon them on snug evenings, with the emphasis as I have marked; though uncle Joe knew it was as much as his head was worth to give that invitation.

The reader sees how these Phœbean territories were invaded by love, and how this Cassanova-like Dashwood, was ever ready, with his masterly ingenuity and address, to take advantage of the most untoward event. I dare say, had Mrs. Braxley accidentally returned to find him in possession of her favorite chair, he would have met her as coolly, and with quite as much assurance as the admirable Cassanova displayed when he encountered the terrible Inquisitor.

"You cannot guess what I have to tell you!" cried Dashwood.

"Don't talk so loud, are you the town crier, young man?" hoarsely whispered uncle Joe in alarm.

"Nevertheless, you cannot guess what I have to tell you!" exclaimed the animated lover, nothing daunted.

"Fudge!" muttered uncle Joe, hobbling across the room for his pipe.

"Do you give it up?"

"Yes—"

"Well, I am appointed attaché to an embassy at the Court of St. Cloud!!" cried Dashwood, jumping up.

"And a precious attaché you will be," said uncle Joe, filling the bowl of his pipe.

"What do you think of that?" asked Dashwood, his face beaming with delight.

"I think our Government has gone mad, if it dreams of attaching you to any thing," said uncle Joe, from his fog in the corner.

"Ha! ha! ha! I am very much attached to some things. But I am going to cross the waters, bless your soul, uncle Joe! To Rome! think of that—to Paris—does not that startle you? To London! How often have you taken me to London by the ears, until I squealed, uncle Joe'? Am I to behold the skies of Italy, the Coliseum, the Sistine Chapel, the Venus, the Campagna, and the Carnival? Am I to hear the Miserere—and stand upon the Rialto! oh! Louise, darling girl, am I reserved for this!"

"Am I," continued Dashwood, after a pause, "to be kindly snatched by Providence, from pleasures and temptations, which I am too weak to resist? Am I to be taken from my old companions, who are reckless, extravagant and rich, while I am reckless, extravagant and poor, because my struggles have been seen by a pitying eye, while I was too proud to admit that I had struggled, and had been conquered? Are efforts which have been made with an earnest, but hopeless heart, to be at length rewarded? Are old associations, which would cling to me, to be broken by a stronger hand than mine?" And the lover's eye was moist, and there was a mellow glow upon his face, which was of heaven. "Heigho!" he said, pausing again, "Bob dislikes to give me up, and all the fellows dislike to give me up, and some of the girls, eh Louise? declare they cannot give me up, but this will be the making of me. This will break up old habits and old associations, but not old loves, remember, and it is to be the making of me. We have been trying for months to secure this appointment. Bob, poor fellow, has toiled like a capitalist, and corresponded like a Home Secretary, about this attachéship for me. And now we've got it, and I rushed in to tell you. I brushed Mrs. Braxley's respectable sleeve on the road, to tell you this; I invaded her jail, and scared my dear uncle Joe, to tell him this!"

Again there was silence, and uncle Joe, as the wreathing smoke coiled itself fantastically above his head, was heard to murmur "too rash, too rash," and puffed on.

"Now," continued Dashwood, "Mrs. Braxley, estimable lady, can dip on, if she will only refrain from dipping into me. Uncle Joe, I shall leave my girl with you. If Tom Farren come near her, do you chunk him with your crutch with my compliments. If Mrs. Braxley attempt to entice her away from me, speak up for me uncle Joe. Speak up, and say how I have ever esteemed Mrs. Braxley, you know how I have never failed to bemoan her absence in mournful numbers, on all accidental occasions like the present. How I have secured this appointment by Herculean feats, of which she did not deem me capable. How, in my heart, I cannot blame her for her jealous watching of my Louise. How I wish I could only engage her services on my side until I return. How I honor and respect her, and lament my own unworthiness. How I shall leave my native land with the determination never to return until I can come worthy of her good opinion. Will you tell her this for me, uncle Joe?"

"Lord bless your soul, man,—no! It would be the rashest thing I ever did!" returned uncle Joe, puffing away vehemently. "No," continued that good man, gently relenting, "but I have had my eyes upon you, Frank, ever since you were so high;" and uncle Joe laid his hand, in a parental manner, upon the back of a chair, "ever since, with an arm no bigger than the round of this chair, you fetched the d—d schoolmaster that famous lick, plump in the black of his eye, for whipping Bob, you know. 'Twas well done for a youngster, and properly done, and I said the good metal was there. I knew the good old ring when I heard it, I said that was the genuine article. I did not think it was rash then, ah no, hang me; I wanted a pull at the Yankee bully my self, and while your mamma—rest her soul—apologized to the Yankee, and scolded you, and cried about your disgraceful and ill-mannered behavior to your preceptor, and all that, I—I believe upon my word, I was the man who gave you half a dollar, and a dozen striped marbles, and told you when he needed it, to give it to him again!"

"The very man!" cried Dashwood, grasping his hand.

"And," returned the once rash man, gently knocking the ashes from his pipe, "and I am as confident of your success, Frank, as I am of—of—Mrs. Braxley's return as soon as the clock is done striking."

"Verbum sap," said Dashwood, kissing Louise's hand, and retiring with his accustomed grace and ease. I may as well say that Mrs. Braxley returned true to the minute, rang for family prayers, and gave her hearers an impromptu prayer, of great power and length.

MR. ROBERT RUSHTON'S time was devoted exclusively to his friend Dashwood. He must be with Frank, morning, noon, and night. He was seldom at home. He had always some business or an engagement with Frank. They found time amid their multifarious duties, to take a mysterious trip together to see Mrs. Blanton. Dashwood came back enraptured with her. He told mamma—who had doubtless in her anxiety for her son, commissioned him to keep an eye upon Therese—that he was proud of Robert's choice—for it was not art, he said, which made Therese so enchanting, but nature. Nature so perfectly beautiful, that he had mistaken it for the perfection of art, for which he begged the dear dimpled creature's pardon.

Having made the amende to Mrs. Blanton, Dashwood, who was getting his affairs in order, previous to his departure to foreign parts, drew me to the window, and begged me with moist eye, and nervous lip, to take good care of Louise for him.

"If she cries for me, when I am gone—ah, if she hangs about your neck, and sobs for me in the long, still hours—comfort her, Jenny, and keep her hopeful, and cheerful for me, will you? Do not let her go off by herself to weep; cheer her up for me, my good Jenny, I must not think of her, all drooping and tearful—and yet—and yet," said he, half musing, "I would not have her careless and gay." I smiled.

"I tell you, dear Jenny" he said, "I would like her to be resigned and hopeful, but not remarkably lively,—you understand?"

"Very well," said I, "I shall exhort my sister to endeavor to poise herself midway between joy and sorrow. I shall tell her that, while I am to try very much to amuse her, she is not to be at all amused." "Heigho!" began poor Dashwood, with a rueful face, "what a time I shall have with my attachéship! What long, long hours I must endure before I can be with you all again!"

"But you two are determined?" I asked.

"Determined! I tell you no word in the English language can express the firmness of our purpose. Determined! death cannot part us. Mr. Rushton, your estimable father, is, I am happy to say, only a feather in our estimation, Mrs. Barbara a mere puff of wind, Mrs. Braxley a mop to be jumped over on our way to church."

"And uncle Joe?"

"Pooh—small potatoes," said Dashwood with an air. I was not then aware that uncle Joe had deserted the family party, and gone over to the enemy. Such knowledge being considered, by his friends, as highly dangerous to circulate, and as calculated to embitter the domestic peace of that most worthy man.

Papa was highly pleased at Dashwood's appointment; and Tom Farren delivered quite a speech upon the occasion. Poor Robert declared that he had rather part with his right hand than with Frank, but he added, "If I thought it necessary to amputate my right hand, it should be cut off, and I would try and do with the left." Mrs. Barbara inquired where St. Cloud was, and if Mr. Dashwood was likely to meet with a very dear friend of hers, who had gone with her husband to Rio. If so, would he be kind enough to take charge of a steel bag, and a pair of button-hole scissors, which it seems, that friend had left at Mrs. Barbara's on her last visit.

Mamma hoped he would not be shipwrecked, or robbed, or caught by the Inquisition, or, above all, go over to the Pope.

Robert hoped he would write some telling letters to the Star, and let people know what he was about.

During this visit, which was about a fortnight before Dashwood's departure, papa took him kindly by the hand, and led him into the library.

"My dear young friend," he said handing him a seat, and then settling down in his large leather chair, "I am extremely gratified at this appointment; I am your friend, though I have never flattered you—perhaps your best friends do not flatter you. Well, Mr. Dashwood, the last conversation we had in this room was not a very pleasant one, but I must beg that you will continue to bear it in mind."

"There is no danger of my forgetting it, sir," said Dashwood quickly.

"What I said then I repeat to-day; my daughter must not be troubled by your proposals."

"I have no proposals to make to the young lady, sir."

"I hope not. I have other views for my daughter, Mr. Dashwood."

"So you have taken the trouble to inform me very many times, sir."

"And I wish it distinctly understood."

"I am quick at apprehension, sir."

"That I oppose the affair in toto. The long engagement, the promise to wait until you make a fortune, the idle notion about congeniality, and all the foolish visions which have flitted across the brains of all the foolish lovers in the world. I tell you, fortunes and great names are not so easily made. I tell you, every young man of talent is not bound to succeed. I tell you the most strenuous actions are not always crowned with success—that our most ardent wishes had better not be realized sometimes. Bless my soul, suppose all my wild visions had been realized! where would I have been now, in the name of common sense? Suppose I had married my sister's pretty governess for whom I was actually run mad a whole year! Bless my soul—we had better leave these things to Providence, Mr. Dashwood. Young ladies of eighteen, and high-spirited fellows of twenty-two, had better not take their destinies into their own hands. I tell you it is wrong—morally wrong; and you will thank me for all this, some day, if you live—indeed you will."

"My dear sir, I do not blame you for refusing me your daughter's hand; I esteem you for it. I esteem all her friends who have her interests so much at heart. Time can only prove what we are. If I were to say to you now, that ten years hence, I shall be this or that, you would laugh at me. Very well, I say no such thing. But I say nous verrons."

"Exactly—nous verrons. You go off to a foreign court, young, and unfettered by promises, you will come back with a little more knowledge of men and things. Exactly sir, nous verrons."

"Thank you, sir. I shall return to bid your family farewell, with your permission," said Dashwood rising.

"Certainly—come by all means. I shall be happy to see you. Good morning," and papa opened the door, and shook the hand of his guest, with much cordiality.

Mrs. Braxley brought Louise home, and in a few days Dashwood came to pay his last formal visit to our family.

Now, poor fellow, his "jests and gibes" were gone. He could no longer rally and be gay. The laughing lip quivered, and the lustrous eye, with its comic fire, was filled to the brim. Once or twice he made an effort to be himself, but it would not do. The light spirit was trailing in the dust, the quick retort and happy repartee were stifled, and the merry laugh no longer rang around the family circle as in the bright days which were flown. Louise was never alone with him during this visit. Papa was all attention to his guest, and Mrs. Barbara and suite mustered about him. My sister went on careless, indolent, and calm. Papa marked with pride the same lofty air and graceful ease—and he thought the dreamer dreamed no more. Dashwood strove to emulate her in her perfect show of insensibility; but he hadn't the self-command of the imperious Louise. And from the filmed eye, flushed cheek, and nervous, restless manner, one saw the anguish of his manly, loving heart, and pitied him for the struggles he so bravely made.

The hour was coming—coming with pulsating step, when these two, so different, and yet so united, were to part. Louise stood calm and clear, under papa's eye, waiting to say farewell. Mrs. Barbara stood looking on, as Dashwood, after shaking every body by the hand, turned firmly and steadily to Louise. He took her hand, and not a tear, or faltering word betrayed the mighty strength of that love which so many had tried in vain to sever.

Louise bade him "God speed" in a dear, unshaken voice, and he made his bow, and left us standing in the hall. I saw him brush away a tear as he gathered the reins in his hand—and I saw him wring Robert's hand as though his heart was breaking,—but this was all I saw.

My sister, as though to test to the utmost limit the great strength of her poor woman's heart, remained standing some fifteen minutes with papa and mamma in the hall. And though she felt that all eyes were upon her, she never faltered or quailed, but stood conversing with them carelessly, as though nothing had happened. Papa took his hat and stick, and walked out. Mrs. Barbara returned to her knitting, and Mrs. Braxley to her snuff, and Louise walked carelessly away.

But in her quiet room her woman's nature triumphed. Here, the pent-up tears flooded the lustrous eyes, and she fell upon my neck, and yielded to the luxury of unrestrained emotion. Here, the woman's nature shone forth in all its strength. Here, the calm and placid girl shivered with emotion. Here, poor Louise threw off the outer garment of proud insensibility, and sobbed convulsively, and prayed, and refused all comfort and all hope. She drew from her bosom his miniature, and a bit of poetry which the guarded lover had scribbled off for her eye alone, on his last visit. As some evidence of the talents with which poor Dashwood was gifted, I transcribe it for the reader.

"Oh, he is gone, Jenny—gone—and all is blank!" cried my sister, her heart realizing anew the full extent of her sorrow. Somebody tapped gently at our door, and Robert came in, and threw himself upon the bed and wept like a child. He drew Louise to him, and whispered to her, and laid her stricken head upon his bosom, and these two children of prosperity sobbed together over their first sorrow.

"Jenny, you must help me to take care of this poor little thing. We must stand by her, sister Jenny, through thick and thin. We must console her, and minister to her in her grief, for she is a tender creature, Jenny, and we must shield her for his sake;" and then our gentle Robert wiped his eyes, and kissed her, and tried to be cheerful and stout of heart. "There's a better time coming, little sis—a happy time coming. The sun does not always shine, little sis, and clouds and darkness are quite as useful as the sun. Come, Louise—cheer up, my pretty pet. You can be brave, I know. Come, little sis, remember all is for the best." And Robert took her in his lap, and with tears in his eyes, talked of being strong and brave.

Dear mamma, with her mother's instinct, came gently in and sat down by her suffering child, and spoke like one who had suffered and had endured. After these little outbursts of uncontrollable emotion, Louise recovered her usual calm self-possession, and we sat in our little room—the indulgent mother, and her children, talking in the twilight until tea time. Robert was chief spokesman of course. Under all dispensations, he was voluble and wise. He was always kind to those in trouble, and was never more happy than when in sad, chastened hours, he could hang about mamma, and caress her, and fondle about her, like a child. I need not say that this handsome, tender son, was the pride of my mother's heart. Robert declared to mamma, upon his honor, that Frank Dashwood was the noblest fellow in the world. And he took that opportunity to favor Louise and me with such lectures on matrimony, as few debutantes are privileged to hear. My brother said if a handsome woman married a rich fool, who would lavish every dollar he had upon her, she might be happy, provided she possessed none of that exquisite delicacy which was the first charm of her sex. Provided, also, that she had no conscience—not a bit—no generosity—no pride—and had been pinched by poverty all her life. To such women money was happiness. He said his sister Louise, with her reserve, her modesty, her delicate nature, her extreme sensibilities, could not be happy with Tom Farren. Because Tom Farren was such a machine of a man. So severe, so stiff, so formal, so built up in his own rectitude, so hard and common-sensible, "that he would break this regal flower of ours, mamma, in less than two years," said my brother earnestly. "Her beautiful eccentricities would be harshly put down—her tears would be childish—her whims unbecoming, and all that. I know Tom Farren—every body must bend to him. He is a walking model in his own estimation, and every body must walk exactly by his rules. And I know Dashwood. I have tested his heart and soul. He is chivalrous, magnanimous, glorious. Let him succeed. Let him—God bless him—come back renewed and re-established, and I will be responsible for this dear girl's happiness."

"But, my son, your papa knows best."

"We will not discuss the subject," said my sister with dignity, and the supper bell rang merrily, and we obeyed the summons.

Poor Robert had a difficult task before him, viz., to storm the library and sound papa concerning Mrs. Blanton. Papa was remarkably cautious and reserved. He had treated Mrs. Blanton not only with marked respect, but sometimes playfully, and almost affectionately. But this was no proof that he thought her worthy of his son. There were not many who could aspire to that honor. Papa thought Robert destined for great things, and Robert thought Mrs. Blanton was on the very pinnacle of greatness.

Mrs. Braxley, who was staying with us, expressed herself as being glad that Dashwood was gone, and wished Mrs. Blanton could receive an appointment of the kind immediately. Mrs. Barbara repeated for our edification, that she had no opinion of widows with little boys, turning out their shoulders, and stripping their arms, and coquetting with every green-horn in the whole country; and went on with string after string of anecdote, illustrative, and forcibly bearing upon the subject in hand, with divers catastrophes and horrible denouements, of a startling and extraordinary nature. Mrs. Braxley had collected a budget concerning the widow in her dippings. She had learned from some of the mop sisterhood that she had made the deceased Blanton see sights.

"Didn't I tell you all so?" inquired Mrs. Barbara, looking around. But none of us remembered her ever having intimated to us that Therese had made her husband see sights.

Mrs. Braxley went on to say that the late Johnston Blanton had died of yellow fever in Mobile, it was true, but she understood that his system had been previously undermined by a train of nervous disorders, brought on by jealousy, for which, it seemed, Mrs. B. had given him sufficient cause.

"I'll be bound she did!" broke in Mrs. Barbara. "I'll be bound she aggravated that man to death. Why I have known more people aggravated to death," said grandma, with open eyes. "Gracious!"

Of course nobody disputed this alarming fact.

Mrs. Braxley still running on, undisturbed by grandma's shrill remarks, continued. She represented the artless, exuberant Therese with her overflowing, boundless heart, and good will towards all mankind, as a wicked, vexatious little imp—destroying the peace of every family into which she entered—and as being leagued with the yellow fever, and the green-eyed monster, to carry destruction into all quarters. She was notoriously fond of waltzing, and polking with beardless youths, easily overcome by her wiles. She was, furthermore, excessively fond of Mr. Blanton, and made nothing of treating him in a most sisterly manner. The family convocation about this delightful Therese was held in mamma's room. Aunt Braxley had related her dippings, flourishing her tooth-brush with great effect. Grandma had made several blunders, but on the whole her remarks were caustic and telling. Poor Bob had battled for his sweetheart manfully, telling of her simplicity, her gentle charities, her meekness, and forgiving heart. Mamma had related how Therese, during her memorable visit to Fairy Hill, would leave the gay company to come and sit in her room and have a quiet chat with her, and how tender and charming she was. Louise had said how she loved her, and how she had rather Robert would marry her than the queen of all the Brazils. And I had told how she had stolen her soft arm around my waist, and asked me so innocently if I loved her?

"As though any body could help loving her!" cried Robert.

Just then papa came in, and inquired what we were all talking about.

"Why, about this widow who has come here and turned Robert's head," said the ever ready Mrs. Barbara.

"Turned Robert's head! His head is not so easily turned, depend upon it."

"Don't you believe the harf (half) of that," returned the sapient dame. "I have had beaux, a few of them, report says;" Mrs. Barbara had been a famous belle. "At all events, I know enough of courting and love-scrapes generally, to know when a young gudgeon nibbles at a bait (which has been passed and re-passed, and seen through by wiser fish, I fancy), and then, like a certain young man not a hundred miles from here, gulps down the hook and the line, to the infinite wonder and amusement of connoisseurs in that sort of thing."

"Tut, tut—I hope I shall hear no more of this," said papa. "Mrs. Blanton indeed!"

"My dear Mr. Rushton," interposed mamma, her eyes filling with tears at Robert's discomfiture.

"Be quiet, my dear, Mr. Robert Rushton should know better."

"Exactly," said the dowager; "he should really know better. Why, Sappingwood is a Solomon to her."

"I beg that you will not speak of her in that way," said Robert, knitting his brow.

"And I beg some consideration for one who has been our guest," remarked the elegant and impassive Louise, from the lounge.

"Hoity, toity!" cried grandma. "It seems that I have aroused a hornet's nest. I am constrained to remark, at the peril of my ears, that young Mr. Hornet's moustache will have to exert itself considerably before the uncommon glibness of his tongue can annihilate me exactly."

"Pshaw!" said papa. "I wonder, Robert, that you are so silly. I expected a flirtation between Mrs. Blanton and yourself, but, upon my word, I was not prepared for any further exhibition of folly."

"I do not like to reply to you now, sir," said Robert, handing papa, who was standing, a chair. "I might be tempted to say something which I should regret. We will dismiss the subject, if you please."

The reader can form no idea of the inimitable grace of these words, or of my handsome brother's beautiful and respectful manner. He softened all hearts, and dispelled all acrimony.

Mrs. Braxley, who had not been figuring at all during the latter part of the conversation, now thought it time for prayers. She was a professed expounder and exhorter. She did not mind rising in a crowded church and giving out an appointment for her neighborhood. Indeed she did not mind doing any thing she chose to do. She always rang in the servants, during her visitations and gave us prayers. And such prayers! None of your lack-a-daisical, lukewarm affairs, but fervent, strong, knock-down-and-drag-out improvisations.

She prayed for rain if she wanted rain. She called sinners by their names, and prayed for their speedy disenthralment from the bondage of sin.

But, as I was saying, after much ringing, and scolding, and "blessings over the left shoulder," as Sap called them, she succeeded in gathering in our straggling undisciplined troops. She then read the sermon on the mount, and sang the Old Hundred, after which she favored us with one of her strongest impromptus. She had a clear, ringing voice, and the ready words came trippingly on her tongue, and Mrs. Braxley would have made no ordinary preacher. After a soul-searching and Satan-exterminating prayer, of nearly a half an hour in length, we all received her benediction and arose from our recumbent position, save my brother's devout man Sappingwood, who thought proper to remain on his knees in an attitude of profound devotion.

"I am glad to see Sappingwood so religious," remarked grandma, in a loud whisper to the company, while Sappingwood still remained upon his bended knees.

"Sappingwood, you will please finish your devotions elsewhere," said papa, as the servants retired. Grandma then approached him gently, and tapping him on the back with her spectacle case, said, "Sappingwood, you will please finish your devotions elsewhere."

At which Sap started up, rubbed his eyes, scratched his head, and seeing grandma, cried out "the devil!" and took to his heels, running over "eight foot eleven," as he called Epsey, and finally made but one step from the head of the stairs to the landing.

Poor Sap had fallen asleep under Mrs. Braxley's soporific prayer, being the most sleepy-headed nigger, grandma informed us, between this and a brother of his she had sold somewhere, wherever that was.

Not very long after this, Robert stormed the library, and informed papa in a pathetic manner, that he was dying for Mrs. Blanton, actually dwindling away, and losing his appetite (in the height of the strawberry season too, said my romantic brother), because Therese would cruelly persist in being so enchanting.

"And what have you done with your old flame, Mary Jennings?" asked papa, turning round in his chair, that he might get a better view of his hopeful.

"Mary Jennings!" said Robert, slightly coloring. "why, when have I thought of Mary Jennings?"

"Exactly, and yet that girl alarmed me for twelve months."

"But she is not like Therese, nobody is—"

"Oh no, I suspect not, and the next one will doubtless eclipse Therese."

"Well," said Robert, laughing, "will you try me a year, sir?"

"Yes, two of them, if you like. Come to me in a year, if we all live, and tell me that you are still true to Therese, and that Therese is still true to you, mind that, and my blessing will be upon you both."

"Thank you, sir. If—if—by that time we are changed, I will go right off and propose to Col. Fletcher's daughter, upon my word."

"As a personal favor to your indulgent father," said papa.

"And," said Robert, "any other cross-eyed lady of your acquaintance can be favorably noticed about that time."

I must explain to the reader that Maria Fletcher was what is called cock-eyed, though immensely rich, and of distinguished family, and that she was an old bone of contention between papa and Robert.

"You will at least have learned, I sincerely hope," remarked papa, "that happiness in this life does not exactly depend upon the turn of a lady's eye."

"Nevertheless," replied Robert, "I expect to find it sadly inconvenient to repeat the story of my love to a lady with one eye full upon me and the other out of the window."

"A trifle," said papa, and the conversation ended rather differently from what Mr. Rushton, junior, expected.

I am sorry to say that difficulties in another quarter beset my brother. Therese wrote him a little odorous letter, containing rather a startling and unique proposition. She proposed, with her usual naïveté, that they should endeavor to forget each other, and that she really thought Mr. Blanton would die if she rejected him again.

He had taken his bed when she told him all about "an affair," the dear little woman said, and had never gotten up until she promised to be off with Robert. Therese went on to say, that she and Robert were young and could forget perhaps, and form new ties, while poor Mr. Blanton was getting old—indeed was bald under his scratch (!)—and turning gray—and had proved so—oh terribly constant, that she was really afraid he might die, if she persisted in being so cruel as dear Mr. Rushton had advised.

Such a note my brother returned to this confiding, pliant creature, as would make one's hair stand on end. He wrote, that of course Mrs. Blanton could consult her own wishes about the matter—he had nothing to say—and would respectfully withdraw his proposals, rather than submit the lady to any such heart-rending trials as she had described.

After this, my handsome brother wore a sneer upon his lip, and read Byron with wonderful relish.

IN due time the season arrived for every bird of passage to take flight. Dress-makers were sewing night and day, and spry clerks excessively active. Robert graciously offered to take Louise and myself to the famous Black Mountain Springs (which, by some mysterious agency, were to be the fashion that season), provided we religiously promised to obey him in all things. He said we must, by all means, take our own maids, buy more dresses than we ever had in all our lives, and exert ourselves during the whole season to do honor to the family. He did not want to feel ashamed of his sisters. They must go in style, and hold high heads if they were going with him. Having agreed to abide by his instructions in all things, to hold high heads, and to take our own maids, active preparations commenced. Grandma and aunt Braxley were at loggerheads about Louise's outfit. The dowager was bent upon sending her to the Springs dressed out as the belles of her day. She wanted to lay in a large stock of spangles, wax beads, paste buckles, and bugles. She had known several persons, in her day, married solely by the skilful use of beads, spangles, and paste buckles. Nay, she instanced one Julianna Ruggles, whose ringlets had made her a belle. And having been made a belle by these ringlets, she was courted by James Maclin, who courted all the belles; indeed, ladies were not established belles in those days, until they had been courted by James Maclin. Well, he courted her, and she, contrary to all precedent, took him. Knowing what she did, she accepted him.

"For," said grandma, "I am coming to a horrible denouement. Robert, yours is nothing to it. She knew, the fiendish woman knew, they were false—the ringlets! and that her head was as bald as the palm of my hand! There she had the advantage of beau Maclin, and she clamped him, to the delight of every body—and he was a belle-hating and a ringlet-distrusting man, from that day forth."

By such reminiscences as these, our estimable grandma prepared us for the Black Mountain Springs, which she evidently regarded as a battle-field. She said that girls who could do nothing for themselves at the Black Mountain Springs, might as well give up. There had been more matches made, and mischief done, at those Springs, than at any watering-place of her acquaintance. While we were making our preparations for our summer tour, this dear old lady was going mysteriously about, with old rusty bunches of keys, and bringing out from secret repositories the pride of her youth, in the shape of trinkets, and silks, and satins. She presented Louise with several large oval brooches, with tombstones and weeping-willows upon them, which she said were wrought with her great, great grandmother's remarkable hair. She gave us a large box of Spa beads, as large as partridge-eggs, which she said would produce quite a sensation at the Black Mountain, as doubtless they would. She strung my sister's fingers with numerous gold rings, with little odd-looking, bug-shaped stones upon them, to each of which there was a tremendous history attached. Finally, she lugged out, triumphantly, the identical crimson brocade which she had sported on the night of the calamitous conflagration.

In the mean time, mamma and Mrs. Braxley were coming home every evening laden with purchases.

Louise was happy and pleased. Papa opened his eyes at the bills which were handed to him by these industrious ladies, and seemed to think that one more trip to the Black Mountain would put him up to the highest bidder.

Robert had Sappingwood and the horses in training, and they were driving and dashing about every day, preparatory to a series of flourishes to be cut on the scene of action. The Black Mountain Springs, from their out-of-the-way location, were about to find themselves famous. The fashionables were growing semi-barbarous, and were pining to get beyond the great thoroughfare, to an Elysium where democratic steam could not penetrate. My brother, rather than endure uncomfortable inns, and a circuitous route, concluded to go by public conveyance. Sap was therefore sent on with the carriage and horses, and we took the cars. At the railroad station we met the Blantons, bound, also, for the Black Mountain.

Robert met Therese very coldly, which evidently pained the little woman very much. The coaches on the up train were very much crowded, and our party was separated. Robert found himself seated with a knot of college mates, I, with an unprotected female, Louise with Miss Willianna, and Mr. Blanton, Therese, and Adolphe at the lower end of the car.

In travelling, Mrs. Blanton was the most interesting and accommodating little creature in the world. She would not take the best seat she could find, neither would she deprive polite gentlemen of comfortable quarters on any consideration. She held Adolphe on her lap, and sent his "bonne" into another car, in order to accommodate an elderly lady with a lounge. Finally, after doing all she could, to make the ladies, and invalids, and children, around her, comfortable, this dear little woman and her cherub boy both fell asleep, and my brother's eyes rested upon them in spite of himself. He watched the charming tableau with a countenance of vivid pleasure. Therese sat with her head thrown back, her veil half fallen off, her soft lids closed, and Adolphe's curly head resting on her arm, while Blanton sat stark and stiff on the outside, guarding these treasures with a grim smile.

But on stopping, Mrs. Blanton was the busiest and most earnest little body—gathering up Adolphe, and all the books, shawls, and carpet-bags, belonging to our party, that she could lay her little hands upon. All this time my brother scarcely interchanged a syllable with her. When we came to the staging he could stand it no longer. She was entirely too natural, too busy, too earnest, too irresistible. Taking the most out-of-the-way little naps, saying the most charming things—and all the while pulling and lugging Adolphe about, like a great doll. Tourists were inquiring who the darling little woman was, and Adolphe was a pet with every body.

My brother tried to keep his eyes away from her, tried not to hear her, or to observe any thing she did; but this provoking little woman was too enticing for his philosophy. He found himself ever near her, being drawn more and more to her, and once when she looked up at him and smiled, my brother could have taken her to his heart for very thankfulness.

These horrible stages going to the Black Mountain Springs, were, of course, crowded. The weather was intensely warm, and people's equanimity put to the test. Few could preserve their amiability under all provocations. Ladies often looked sour, and gentlemen looked daggers while performing civilities. Early one morning we were seated in a pleasant coach, and a stirring breeze came down from the mountains, and we were expecting every minute to be dashing along the beautiful turnpike—when—horror of horrors!—a large, fat, hot-looking man, presented himself at the door, and looked around keenly for a seat. Passengers were civilly requested to make room for this very warm-looking man, of only three hundred pounds.

Now Mrs. Blanton, Adolphe, and Robert were cosily seated on the back seat; and ere Robert could enter a protest, Therese had taken Adolphe on her lap, and drawn herself up in a corner, leaving an alarmingly wide space between herself and her almost reconciled lover, to be filled up by this monster man. Seeing this, Robert sprang to her side, determined that no such formidable barrier should come between them, and told her so. She laughed, and the fat man came down with an "ah" and wedged himself in. I may say that Therese and my brother had now a very close conversation, and, that never had this charming woman felt nearer to him than during the twelve miles he thus travelled. Perhaps I had better request the reader to see a moral in this, as I am not likely to have a moral ready for him at the close of the volume. "It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good." Who would have thought that that large, overheated man, could have contributed to any body's happiness, by jamming himself in a crowded stage-coach? And yet, my brother Robert found himself supremely happy. Thus we see the most untoward events are fraught with good for somebody—and therefore we should never complain of untoward events, because they may ultimately develope themselves for our good.

A lady fainted in this crowded coach, and though she was old and common looking, Therese hung over her, and finally restored her with something she found away down in her carpet bag. Such evidences of this dear woman's overflowing goodness of heart and perfect unselfishness, were constantly occurring. Amid disorder she was calm. When others were complaining and railing against contractors, agents, and other discomforts, she was quiet, cool, and pleasant, and not unfrequently rebuked without a word, and restored good humor by her example. My brother, over head and ears in love, finally reached the Black Mountain Springs. We arrived on a clear, tingling morning, and found our rooms awaiting us.

We found all the fashionables assembled at this retired and rustic looking watering-place. Happy groups were dotting the green-sward. Invalids were creeping painfully about. Children and nurses were wandering in all directions, animating the groves and waking up the solitudes. Ladies were talking in knots of twos and threes. Beautiful girls were sitting in piazzas surrounded by beaux. Romantic lovers were threading the distant groves. Dandies were attitudinizing and turning their glasses upon the belles. Carriages were dashing in every direction. Gentlemen in elegant turn-outs, were waving their hands to gay groups as they passed. Little French boys were talking to their French mammas, to the amusement of little Virginia boys, who made faces at them. Hunting parties were going merrily off, and pleasure was being sought in every available form by the hundreds congregated here.

I am sorry to say that our party was very exclusive at these Springs. I regretted this very much, as I desired, of all things, the piquant pleasure of amusing myself in my own way, and of studying human nature in all its curious phases, as developed by mineral waters. But my brother would not allow it.

There was an old, fussy lady parading about with her daughters in all directions, and talking promiscuously to every body, who I was sure was a character, and I was very anxious to accept her invitation to drop into her cabin at odd hours; but Mr. Robert Rushton never heard of such a thing in his life! Then, there was the singing young lady, and the polking company, and an old beau, who, I am convinced, desired to make my acquaintance, but Mr. Robert Rushton said no, decidedly no. And down at the Spring I encountered a most pleasant lady and courtier-like gentleman, who were most elegantly and exquisitely dressed, had travelled every where and seen every thing in the world worth seeing, and who were really so charming and delightful, and withal so refined, that I promised to call on them, and, indeed, had arranged an excursion to a remarkable cave with them, when I was informed by my brother that I should have cut them; that they were not of our set. And so, by my contract, I was bound to cut them the next morning at breakfast. The reader will perceive that I know nothing about etiquette and exclusiveness, and that my exquisite brother and fastidious sister had all the care of the family honors, inasmuch as I really could not find out, for the life of me, "who was who." I was a bewildered and benighted woman, during the whole of this memorable season; no information was vouched me by any body whom I questioned; frowns, shrugs, and contemptuous "bahs" were all the answers I ever received to my benighted interrogatories. In vain I sought for rules to guide me at these Springs. I saw Mr. Robert Rushton, to whom I was emphatically sold, riding and dining with creatures whose whole souls were absorbed in horses, livery, and style, and I saw him cut, ruthlessly, people whose whole souls were also absorbed in horses, livery, and style! Then I saw Louise petting ladies, and smiling on gentlemen, who were badly dressed, and disagreeable, and yet this young lady would have nothing to do with the so-and-sos, because they were badly dressed and disagreeable!

It seems that Therese was somewhat unmanageable too. She only appeared in the ball-room twice a week, which was a rule with our party, but then, oh then! Mr. Robert Rushton was horrified to see her polking and waltzing with all sorts of partners. Mrs. Blanton gathered beaux from all quarters. Every body was doing her homage. Robert, who had never been accustomed to this southern freedom of manner, was shocked and annoyed to see her polking about with people she never saw before. He remonstrated with her, and she would hang her head and be extremely penitent, and then—away she would go in some fierce fellow's arms.

My sister Louise was called very beautiful, but very haughty. Her admirers were among the most distinguished men at the Springs, and no fops of doubtful genus were admitted into her circle. In truth, my sister, according to her contract, held a very high head. She polk! She slide about zig-zag, with Tom, Dick, and Harry, while the rabble were forming a ring and looking on! Horrors! Gentlemen repented ever offering to take her out upon any such exhilarating excursions. She preferred standing aloof, protected by a cordon of elegantes, from contact with the herd; looking ever high-born, and superior, disdaining any air, or grace, or angular movement, which might mar the effect of her elegant repose.

Mrs. Blanton, who was an Alabamian, and who conversed delightfully in French and Spanish, secured all foreigners, all those new-fangled, over-done outré specimens who annually invade our staid Virginia, making her sons and daughters stare. I need not say that this was not altogether pleasant to Mr. Blanton or to Robert. I hope the reader and the rest of mankind are already aware of what I am going to tell, viz., that there is no persuading an elegant, thorough-bred Virginian to seek for effect, or to strive to gain the lion's share of public attention. They are invincible in their propriety. They are completely incrusted in a kind of hereditary superiority, and have no idea that all the world is not perfectly acquainted with their claims. Consequently, they will not make themselves ridiculous, though all the world should strive to be ridiculous, and though Fashion, who is most potent in Virginia, should proclaim it to be her supreme will that all her subjects should be as ridiculous as possible. They are, under all circumstances and all provocations, the most perfect ladies and gentlemen in the world. The swell mob can swell, and parvenus can dash about without being rivalled by a single son or daughter of the genuine aristocracy of the Old Dominion. Their regal repose of manner and high dignity of character is invulnerable. If other people will be outré and will angle for notoriety, what have these ladies and gentlemen to do with it? If a man will wear a remarkable hat, why, let him wear it. If a lady chooses to haul her hair back and invade society like a Chinese, why these ladies and gentlemen are not responsible. If French people, itching for notoriety, clear a ring and get up dancing matches in the dog-days, why these ladies and gentlemen have no earthly objection. If ladies, by hard dancing, and elaborate dressing, and conspicuous airs, strive to earn a questionable paragraph in a questionable newspaper, these ladies and gentlemen are only surprised at their taste.

I am happy to say that Miss Blanton left all her jewelry at home. It seems that she had it all packed and ready for transportation with the rest of her artillery, for this famous battle-field, and that Therese, by a delightful ruse, defrauded her of it. Miss Blanton was bemoaning the emerald-eyed serpents, and other rare and curious specimens, at intervals during her sojourn at the Springs. Our party were spared some terrible be-jewelings by this adroit manœuvre of Mrs. Blanton's, and nobody knows how thankful Robert was for this happy deliverance.

Mr. Blanton walked the gay assemblies like some unhappy, unknelled ghost. The water was of no earthly benefit to this unhappy man; neither were the famous baths conducive of any good. Still stark and still stiff, he gulped his morning draught, and still desperate, he plunged with frisky fellows up to his very chin in medicinal waters. Jaundiced man, he knew not what pleasure, or what comfort was! Victim of the green-eyed monster, butt of Cupid, dispeller of all sociability and ease, Stork in human apparel, terror and scatterer of Juveniles, wonder and inexhaustible source of inquiry and solicitude to all who saw him; silent, speechless, and stiff he came, and silent, speechless, and stiff he was likely to go away.

In the course of time Miss Willianna caught a beau. This was the greatest feat of the season, and the most remarkable event I have to chronicle. I say she caught him, because the man was suddenly caught up, unsuspicious and unconscious of danger, much to his own surprise and much to the surprise of his friends, and all those who had his interests at heart. It happened in this wise. That dissatisfied ghost, Mr. Blanton, while going his mighty rounds, encountered a large man, closely resembling a frog, sitting in a very warm, badly ventilated, spinster-phalanxed corner. We understand that when the man in the badly ventilated, spinster-phalanxed corner saw Mr. Blanton, who, void of all purpose, and innocent of all damage, was bearing down in that direction, he suddenly exclaimed,

"Why, Blanton!"

And that Mr. Blanton, though generally speechless found utterance in the words,

"Surely it isn't Dandy!"

"The very man," exclaimed the man in the corner, sincerely hoping that supernatural aid had been sent to his relief. After this, Mr. Blanton shook him warmly by the hand, rescued him from the phalanx of spinsters and badly ventilated corner; and, seeing that the man, thankful for his deliverance, was likely to follow him on his nightly rounds, he brought him straight to me, presented him and walked off, thinking that he had done a first-rate thing, and conferred a lasting favor upon me. Now I, who am, particularly in gay assemblies, the most taciturn of mortals, had nothing very cheering to say to Mr. George Dandy. He, however, seemed anxious to undertake a conversation, and turning to me in a conciliatory manner, remarked that it was

"A very close evening."

"Very," I responded laconically, and the conversation seemed about to give up the ghost. Just at this highly interesting crisis, Miss Blanton, who was perfectly disengaged, tapped me with her fan, and smiled so sweetly, that I immediately presented Mr. George Dandy to her, and was really happy to see that Miss Blanton appreciated that interesting conversationist. Mr. Dandy, supremely happy to find himself so warmly welcomed, lingered near Miss Willianna the whole evening. All I know after this, is, that Dandy was caught, and very soon found himself engaged, and was further informed that he must look forward to matrimony at no distant day. During all this time, Mrs. Blanton so worried my brother, and so tantalized and harassed him, that he pronounced the Black Mountain Springs a bore.

Therese was very celebrated at the South; and Robert, who flattered himself that he alone had discovered and admired this jewel of a woman, was pained to learn that she had been toasted and idolized at many Southern watering-places, and what was worse, that Therese revelled in this admiration. There was no coquetry ever so beautiful as hers. And she certainly excelled in the art of retaining the affections of those fond hearts which she lacerated at every turn. No lover could think her wilfully cruel, and no man of any susceptibility could fail to be enticed by such an array of charms. Grave and reverend seigneurs would cluster around this beautiful, naive, sincere-hearted woman; men, blasé and woman hating, would be attracted by her purity, freshness, and amiability. Many a sad heart has she cheered by her woman's tact and instinctive knowledge, of what the sad heart required. People overlooked her coquetry, and were lenient to her pretty faults, which all leaned so beautifully to virtue's side. And there was never a frown upon her open brow, never a sarcasm on her untiring little tongue, never a cut for friend or foe, never a severe retort, never a word of malice or ill-will; all was harmony and good nature in her charmed presence, and this fairy creature floated in an atmosphere of love and admiration.

Mr. Blanton, who had turned his back upon all mankind, seemed determined to let Therese run her course, and surfeit on flattery and adulation, while he prowled about a perfect wreck. He hadn't a word to throw at a dog, as the saying is. He walked to the spring three times a day—he went to his meals when the bell rang—he invaded the ball-room twice a week—and thus he passed his time. Robert lost his fine airs and equanimity. He grew almost morose, and could have stabbed a certain fairy-limbed Frenchman with great pleasure. Not a flirtation had he to amuse himself with; Therese absorbing his eyes and ears and innermost thoughts.

In the midst of heart-burnings, and fancy dances, that enemy to crowds at watering-places, Jack Frost, appeared. Every night he nipped belated buds, and spread himself out upon the green-sward, and gave people to understand in his way, that it was time to be off. We bade farewell to the Black Mountain, and its health-giving fountain, about the latter part of September; Miss Blanton having captured Dandy, Mrs. Blanton having done great damage, and Mr. Blanton looking forward to a quiet winter at home, with some faint feeling of comfort. Robert and Therese were evidently at logger-heads. Nothing that little woman could say at table, or elsewhere, was received with the least show of interest by my brother. The yellow bonne, and Adolphe, failed to entice his rigid eye, and Therese returned to Mr. Blanton's guardianship, and was borne home, without a kind look, or a flattering word from her whilome adorer.

We returned to dear Fairy Hill, renewed in health and spirits. Robert was rather quiet and subdued, and somewhat given to heavy sighing, solitary rambles, and reverie. We missed Dashwood more and more, as the seasons rolled around. He had been the life of our home circle so long, that even Grandma declared she missed Mr. Chatterbox. His place was ill supplied by Tom Farren, who came in regularly to tea, and sat erect for hours, talking about the crops, horizontal ditches, politics, guano, subsoiling, the convention, Mr. Webster's speech, the rise in cotton, the fall in breadstuffs, the prospects for tobacco, the crevasse, non-intervention, the new candidate, and the missing steamer. It was enough to put us all asleep, to hear Papa and our exemplary neighbor talking over these profound matters. Robert, whenever he wrote to Dashwood, dated from the land of Nod. Alas—Tom Farren had none of the easy variableness, the brilliant flashes of poetry and pathos, and the inexhaustible humor of his gifted rivals. He had no songs, no hearty outburts of laughter, no high-toned chivalry, no glorious lights and sombre shadows, no merry twinkle of the eye, no moments of sadness, no softened melancholy, nothing, actually nothing, which made our Dashwood eminent among men, and charming among women. Did he, correct Tom Farren, think to woo my delicate sister with horizontal ditches? Did he think to soften her by sub-soiling, or to make her more genial with his eternal guano? Had Dashwood seen all this, he would have laughed. He would have out-talked Tom Farren on horizontal ditches, and had a sly blink of the eye for Louise into the bargain.

Louise, to the horror of Grandma, was deaf and dumb in Mr. Farren's company. Occasionally, he would make a deferential remark to her, to which she would deign a cool monosyllable if she felt inclined. Sometimes she would see him when he called, and sometimes she would not. Sometimes she chose to be a statue, and sometimes a woman. In all her moods and tenses though, she was ever respectfully regarded, and deferentially approached, by that model man, Mr. Farren.

DASHWOOD had been absent about eighteen months, and not one line had been received from him. He had said before he left that he would not write until he had good news to tell us; and we, therefore, concluded our brilliant luminary was waning beyond the sea. Alas, there are so few that fulfil the promise of their youth! Genius, though divine, is easily turned astray. Who has not seen it very low—sinking into a dishonored grave?

Poor Dashwood, more gifted than others, was therefore more tempted than others. Men are not sought, who are not worth seeking. He, unfortunately so versatile, so pliant, so easily accommodating himself to all characters, was attractive to all. His company was ever welcome. No assembly was complete without him. His time was never his own. Gay, idle fellows were constantly seeking him, and seductive ladies ready to flatter him. Too gifted, too fond of pleasure, too enthusiastic, he was beset on all sides by allurements which few withstand. He had but to woo to win; but to smile, to please; but to exert himself in the least, and rounds of applause saluted him. Spoilt by adulation, tired of flattery, blasé, and dissatisfied, he had forsaken quiet, quaint, easy-going Old Virginia, to seek solitude and repose in Paris.

To execute wise resolves in Paris! Flying from the temptations and pleasures of the world to Paris! I feared that he was lost. I feared that he who had yielded in Virginia, could hardly escape in Paris. I feared that he was ashamed to write. Robert began to grow restless at his long silence, Louise painfully silent, uncle Joe fidgety, and Mrs. Barbara exultant. The man at the post-office saw no peace for uncle Joe, who was distracted for a letter. On fair, unrheumatic days, he would ride over to our house, ask for Louise, look earnestly at her, kiss her, and then pace off upon his easy-going animal, in a low, sad state.

Mamma's eyes followed Louise, and marked the shadow on her clear pale brow. There were cares and troubles in this world, from which no mother's love could shield her. And though fair, and beautiful, and beloved, she was yet mortal and must suffer. Papa, too, felt that his regal, petted child was enduring silently and uncomplainingly. His heart yearned for her. Dashwood's name was seldom mentioned. Tom Farren came and went daily, and the imperious object of his adoration never turned her eye upon him. Cold and fair as ice, and unapproachable in her grief, she brooked no compassion from those whose hearts were bleeding for her. Too proud to acknowledge her weakness, too haughty to heed our sympathy, she held aloof from us, impregnable in the sanctity of her sorrow. Papa, who had never harshly reproved her in his life, longed to speak with her. He felt it his duty, however painful it might be to him, to remonstrate seriously with her on her stern obstinacy and unswerving constancy to one he deemed so unworthy.

"My daughter," said papa gently to her, "I have suffered for you more than you are aware of. I have endeavored to convince you that your happiness is all I ask. I tremble for you, my dear, when I see you rejecting all advice, and throwing away all happiness, for a man whose wonderful gifts only unfit him for usefulness in life."

"Papa," said Louise, unmoved, "we will not talk about this, if you please."

"But, Louise, I must; I am in duty bound to advise and direct you. I must show you the right, when I see you so perverse, and so wilfully blind."

"Not so blind as you think, papa."

"How?"

"Not so blind, that I cannot see faults in the most gifted. Not so blind, that I cannot see the dangers you would point out to me. Not so perverse, that I wilfully shut my eyes to the truth. Believe me, I have suffered too; and your daughter, sir, knows her duty to you, and also to herself."

"Your duty to me is to heed my counsels, and obey my voice."

"Both of which I shall ever proudly do, sir, when conscientiously I can."

"Very well, my dear, go your way, but when you bring trouble upon yourself, and all who love you, do not look to me."

"I will never bring you trouble, sir, or cause you one moment's unhappiness, by any folly or waywardness on my part."

"Louise!"

"I shall never forget," said Louise, proudly, "the high dignity which I inherit. I shall never forget my duty; I shall never forget that I am your daughter, sir."

"Then go, my child. Go, shielded by your own pride and high sense of the right. I place all faith and confidence in you. Go, Louise, as free, my girl, as you have ever been. No longer will I doubt you, my own noble child. I am secure, for I rely upon your own moral strength, and your respect for yourself."

"And on my love for you, papa," said Louise, with moist eyes.

"God bless you, child of my heart. Remember—I say no more. But all faith and all confidence I repose in you."

"Thank you, papa; you have made me proud and happy from this hour."

Thus wisely papa dealt with his favored child. She was left to herself to do that which seemed right unto her. This was the only way to guide the spoiled, imperious beauty. Feeling her own dignity, proud of her strength and of the confidence reposed in her, she would have died before she would have compromised the one or betrayed the other. But, under all this, lay the woman's faithful heart—hoping, praying, trusting.

She believed him true; she believed him great and good. Had he been other than this; had he lost, by any misconduct, the high place he had gained in her estimation, or forfeited the apotheosis with which she had endowed him, the spell would have been broken at once. Her love, high, and pure, and spiritual as it was, would have fallen with him. Founded on respect, it would have tottered with its base. Founded on respect, it must be retained by respect. He must be worthy of her love, and continue worthy of her love, or he was lost, and the beautiful creation of her heart shattered for ever. I trembled for Dashwood. I trembled for Louise, I knew his easy, pliant disposition, and I knew her stern, unyielding pride. I knew her heroic capability of endurance, her high sense of propriety, and I feared the result. For my own part, I had always been in favor of Dashwood, but, like uncle Joe, I almost feared to avow my predilection. That good man almost betrayed himself daily. When Mesdames Barbara and Phœbe would be railing against his favorite, his contortions of visage were ludicrous in the extreme. Sometimes, he would limp about the room, and whistle, to moderate himself. Then, he would smoke furiously, and thus let off an enormous amount of steam. Again, he would handle his crutch in a manner which convinced me that he was almost tempted to do something very rash indeed. He lost no opportunity to pet and fondle Louise, and to drop a sly word for her ear in praise of his favorite. He resorted to various expedients to amuse her in her trouble, and wooden punch-bowls, ladles, baskets neatly cut of cherry-stones, and hearts fantastically fashioned from the same—all the handiwork of that once rash man, were presented to her. Tales of his youth were conjured up and remodelled, and revarnished, to beguile her ear. All the particulars of his love scrape with the broken-hearted young lady, who sought the southern breezes, were, for the first time, confessed by uncle Joe, in order triumphantly to prove that absence could not conquer love.

My valiant brother was not idle during Dashwood's appalling and inexplicable silence. He was voluble and argumentative, and made a speech for his friend every day at table. A rumor reached us that some publishing house had, rather pompously, announced a book of poems as about to appear, which, some persons hinted, were from Dashwood's pen. Mr. Farren mentioned the rumor at dinner one day, and said he presumed it was true.

"Not our Dashwood, surely," said Mrs. Barbara, rather pointedly.

"And why not our Dashwood?" exclaimed Robert, wheeling around as though about to charge the most implacable enemy he had in the world. "Show me a man more capable of writing than he. On whom has nature so lavished her gifts? Where is a better heart, or a more godlike man?"

"My son, you always run away with that subject," said mamma gently.

"I acknowledge that I am not myself when Dashwood is remotely slandered. I acknowledge that I am incensed against those persons who cannot excuse one fault in a fellow-creature. Suppose I were eminently handsome, would I not be at times proud of my person? Certainly I would, and so would all of us. Suppose I excelled in dancing, would I not delight to dance? Suppose all the world sought me, and applauded me, would I not seek the world? Suppose I had a talent for music, drawing, oratory, conversation, poetry, satire, polite learning, and were of an enthusiastic, ambitious temperament, would I not exult in exhibiting my gifts? Would I not turn from one to the other, uncertain which to prefer? Would I not delight to astonish with my brilliancy and versatility? Surely I would, and so would every one of us. It is very easy to say we would not do thus and so, until we are tempted. It is easy for the poor to rail against the rich; but let the wheel of fortune turn, and the question alters. It is easy for a lady to say she will not marry, until she has a beau; then she begs to change her mind. An ill-used servant makes the worst master. Nobody knows how he would act until he is tried, and then he is often astonished at himself."

"You had better have a temporary pulpit erected," said Mrs. Barbara, "before proceeding further with your sermon."

"I am obliged to you, madam," said Robert, sarcastically; "but I should think such a piece of furniture a necessary permanency in any house you honored with your presence."

"Robert!" said papa gravely, while a smile went around the festive board.

"You had better say champagne," cried Mrs. Barbara.

"No!" cried Robert, "better still to remark calmly and dispassionately, that evil communications will corrupt the best manners."

"And pray, do not forget, in summing up your brilliant apothegms, that you can't squeeze blood out of a turnip; neither does any reasonable person expect to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," retorted the dowager.

"Most remarkable and irrefragable truths, madam. Allow me——" said my brother, raising his glass respectfully, and bowing gravely to the heroine of the theatrical conflagration. The stately heroine tipped her glass at him, and during this ludicrous ceremony we all laughed. Even Mr. Farren's risibles were excited.

The grandmamma and grandson were remotely alike. They had hot heads and nimble tongues, and were often sparring at each other in this way; indeed, they had never been known to agree on any subject.

It really seemed that my brother's temper was visibly changing. He, who had always been so gay and facetious, so fond of jokes and so careless of the morrow, was now morose at times, and, like grandma, seemed in a state of perpetual warfare with all mankind. His favorite pursuits had lost their charms. His horses, fat and sleek, were no longer exercised and trained. His dogs, when they came jumping and frisking around him, were sternly rebuked. Even Byron's harmonious despair no longer diverted him, or soothed his captious mind. His whole soul was absorbed in Dashwood, Louise, and Therese. The cruelty and coquetry of the fair Alabamian had well-nigh brought on a typhoid fever. Still time passed on, and still Dashwood remained silent, and Therese cruel.

Just about the time my brother's spirits were as low as they could be, and just before uncle Joe had fully made up his mind to be very rash indeed, Robert returned from the post-office with a very bright face, rushed into mamma's room, slammed the door, and then held up two letters, and fairly danced around the room. My brother was himself again, important, mysterious, tantalizing, and somewhat inclined to talk.

"Remember," he cried, "it never rains but it pours. Bear that in mind, girls, before I can give you the news."

"My son, what is the use of tantalizing people so?" said mamma.

"Well, prepare yourselves. Are you ready? No fainting now, no hysterics; and with your permission I will read letter number one."

"Pray, take your time," said Louise, coolly; "you seem nearer hysterics than any one else, I think."

"You are right; perhaps to-morrow will do as well."

"Provided Mr. Robert Rushton does not explode," said Louise, laughing.

"Ha! ha!—no, upon my word, I must out with it. To begin with Dashwood—God bless him; here is his veritable old fist once more. First he writes that in London he advertised for his great-aunt, Miss Ellen McGregor Dashwood (which was exactly what I advised him to do), and that, sure enough, the old lady responded from away in Kent, and invited the bold advertiser to hunt her up in that direction. Accordingly, Dashwood started off to Kent, and found the old lady, who, fortunately, notwithstanding tabby cats, and pink-eyed dogs, had yet a warm, snug place in her heart for him. Here he remained, treated like a prince, for a month, the old lady growing fonder of him every day. Finally, she begged him to resign his office, and live with her; 'but,' says Dashwood, 'though strongly inclined to consent, yet remembering uncle Joe's predictions, viz., that, if our government thought to attach me to any point of the compass, our government was vastly mistaken, I respectfully declined. Still the old lady urged me daily, and still I would not consent. She offered me a thousand pounds per annum, and though my pockets were as light as feathers, I again, to my immortal honor, declined. Still the old lady held on to me with might and main, and I finally tore myself away, promising to see her again. The next week found me in Paris, engaged in my official duties—mem—tell uncle Joe to cut a notch for me there. In the midst of my avocations, and at the height of the carnival, I was attacked with a brain fever, which nearly finished me. I was the sickest man in the world. To lie all day long upon a small bed, with French gabbling around you in every direction, while your brain is whirling and reeling, is enough to drive any reasonable person mad. I had foreign nurses, foreign doctors, the oddest potions to take, the greenest attendants, was civilly requested to do the strangest things, and politely harassed within an inch of my life, until I concluded that I had rather die then and there, and break off in the middle of my life, as it were, without waiting for the sequel of so perplexing a tragedy. Thus I lay for six weeks, and finally arose from my sick bed to find my purse in a very low state; indeed, I may say completely collapsed. Fortunately, I had a package of letters from my guardian angel in Kent, in which she had inclosed a draft. This I kept by me for some weeks in case of accidents, but finally had the good fortune to return it to her untouched. Again the dear old lady wrote me, advising me to go to Italy for my health, and for her sake to resign my office. She was particularly anxious that I should go, she said; she would defray all expenses, and go I must. In a very feeble and dilapidated condition, I tendered my resignation, which was graciously accepted by the department, and behold me next en route for Italy.

" 'You remember, my beloved Robert, how I vowed to forget the muses; how I railed against those inconstant ladies, who have led so many lovers astray; how I determined to turn my back upon them, and, indeed, had quite cut their acquaintance before I left old Virginia's shore. And you know I left my native land with a head brimful of common sense. Every poetical avenue was jealously closed, every crack in my brain rigidly guarded. I was determined that nothing, however poetical, should mislead me. No landscape, no water view, no love of home (the most poetical feeling in the world) should woo me back to my old habits. Right bravely I battled against these nine ladies—God forgive them—until I found myself convalescing, drinking in new life beneath the glorious skies of Italy. Italy, steeped to the very heaven in poetry! Here the old feelings were stirred up; here the old dreams came back; here fairy land was opened; here I yielded, knowing that the nine ladies had me upon their own ground, and they seized me. Behold, I dreamed again—I was intoxicated—I was expanded—I was lifted up—I staggered beneath the weight of so much poetry! Poesy sailed on the deep blue air, and glided on every stately panorama of this magnificent land. Still my MSS. remained untouched in the bottom of my box. Oh! I thirsted for these MSS. I felt like an old toper deprived of his drink. I was pining for my manuscripts. Sickness had cleared me, had refined me, had purified me for this. I paced my room. I was full of thoughts. Something was heavy upon me. It was my undigested poetry. I seized the pen. I dashed, I scampered, I revelled in the blissful regions of imagination. I was pressed on by thought, rushing, coming, accumulating thought. I wrote on all day and all night. Quick my glad pen winged its way across the snowy page. The wee small hours found me drunk with poetry. During this paroxysm, which I have but feebly described, I finished off that unfortunate manuscript which has so long been my bête noire. After this, when the reaction had taken place, and the sober second thought came upon me, I wrote a long letter to my dear aunt Ellen, in which I made a full confession, and sent her the manuscript, requesting her to do with it as she chose. She chose to submit it to the inspection of the most high-minded and generous litterateur in England, and to return me ten thousand thanks for the gift. She wrote me, further, that she had made inquiries concerning me of a friend in Virginia, and that this friend had advised her of my poetical predilections, and had given so flattering an account of me, (!) my standing in society, (!!) my talents, and all that (worse and worse), that she was thereby induced to insist upon my travelling at least twelve months, and hoped some day to see me reaping the honors I so richly deserved. My dear Robert, excuse this egotism. Do you know, that when I received that dear letter from my aunt—when I thus became convinced that I actually had a friend in the world, who took a deep and abiding interest in me, I knelt beside the open window, and looking up to the rose-tinted sky above me, prayed fervently and long. I was thankful, I was humble, I was a better man. Never had the deep waters of my heart been so moved. Now, Robert, who was this friend in Virginia, who induced my aunt to act so generously towards me? To whom am I indebted for all the benefits she has showered upon me?'

"Does any body know?" inquired Robert.

"I suspect it was Jenny," said Louise, her face lighting up.

"And why do you suspect me?" I asked.

"She looks guilty. Bravo! sly-boots!" cried Robert, catching me in his arms, and caressing me violently.

I had to confess it all. I confessed that Miss Dashwood had done me the honor to write me a few months after Dashwood's departure—while he was her guest, in fact—and that she inquired strictly and confidentially of me concerning him. That I immediately returned her an answer, so highly satisfactory, that the good lady was charmed. That I had received a second letter from her, in which she spoke most affectionately of her nephew, thanked me for the information I had given her, and said she would act accordingly. How nobly she had performed her part, I had learned, for the first time, from Dashwood's letter.

"My dear, dear Jenny!" cried Louise, with tears in her eyes.

"Angel of mercy!" cried Robert, catching me again to his heart. And I had to submit to some of the most unmerciful hugs, and remorseless squeezes, that ever fell to mortal lot; Robert clearly forgetting that I was flesh and blood, and going on with me as one would expect an anaconda to proceed with a delicious ox.

But my brother had yet something in reserve for us. His looks were fraught with meaning. He stepped into the hall, and returned with rather a large package, which he handed to me. They clustered around me while I opened it. It was Dashwood's book of poems, with Miss Ellen McGregor Dashwood's compliments! She had had it published in London, and edited by the distinguished litterateur to whose inspection she submitted the manuscript. A magnificent volume it was, most beautifully and elaborately illustrated. The frontispiece was a superb specimen of the engraver's art. A youth, remotely resembling Dashwood, sat leaning against a rock in a sombre valley. On the sun-tipped hills around him, tripped the tuneful nine, weaving wreaths for him, beckoning him up the airy peaks, pointing to the burnished hill-tops, and to the laurel crown on high, while one beam from the glowing heavens pierced the valley, and illuminated the rippling, careless locks of the dreaming poet.

Gems of the mind lay enshrined in this magnificent casket. Bursts of inspiration, and mellow harmonies were linked in musical rhyme. Light cadences, mingled with gigantic thoughts, which loomed into eternity. Echoes from the heart, reverberations from spirit-land, music of the spheres, revealings of wonder-land, liftings of the spirit, longings of the soul, murmurs from the far-off shores, and light-hearted songs of earth, floated on, in sweetest melody, and mingled in one harmonious whole.

"Read, Jenny, read," said Robert, leaning back upon the cushions of his chair; "I want a tone from his grand, deep heart." I turned the leaves listlessly, and read:

"Ah, that is very sweet," said mamma, imprinting a kiss upon the softly glowing cheek of the poet's beloved.

"There we have Dashwood! he speaks in every line you have read," said Robert; "may God bless him, and prosper him, and prove through him, that to love the things He has made, is but to love Him."

"My son," said mamma, "you are going too far, both Dashwood and yourself. When you have learned the frailty and insecurity of earth, you will turn from the fleeting things He has made to Him."

"Still, mamma, it is not right to scowl upon the earth. I detest those persons who are continually railing against all earthly pleasures. Believe me, we are made for the world, and the world for us. It is folly for us to be fitting ourselves for a place of which we know nothing, and thereby unfitting ourselves for the very pleasant and delightful abode He, in His wisdom, has given us. Now we are of the earth, earthy; when we shall have put on immortality, we shall be clad and fashioned for eternity. In the mean time, it is religion, religion of the highest order, to be contented and happy here, and not to turn with contempt from the beauties and pleasures by which He has graciously surrounded us. For my own part, my motto is, dum vivimus vivamus, and, I may say, it is also my religion."

"But years gradually change us—sorrows cause us to turn away from earth. The heart points elsewhere. Instinctively we reach up until we find a better place," said mamma, sadly.

"I know, I know," said Robert, putting his arm around her. "There are some, even here, who are more of heaven than of earth. There are scattered, here and there, gentle spirits to lead us on. There are some, whom to follow, is but to go to the home from which they have been sent to guide us."

"May you follow one of these!" said mamma.

"I have two of them to follow," said Robert, "two who go unconsciously together; two whose hearts direct them ever aright; two angels with hidden wings, who beck me beautifully on. They are—my mother and Therese!"

"Therese!" cried Louise and I.

"Yes, Therese—gay, dashing, coquettish, heart-breaking Therese. She is ever coyly fluttering in the right path! She, with her giddy, chameleon-like nature, is obeying her good, true heart, and coming into measures at last!" and Robert drew from his vest pocket a little perfumed billet, which any physiognomist would have said could only be written by Therese. He said he would read a few choice extracts from this precious document, as a particular favor to mamma, Louise, and me. From these extracts, selected with great care by Robert, we gathered that Therese was in trouble. She wrote a doleful, naïve letter, in which she said she wanted to take back every thing she had ever said, or written, which could possibly give dear Mr. Rushton any pain. She said somebody (Mr. Blanton, Robert informed us) had treated her very unkindly—that she was almost as much afraid of him as his own badly used dog—that she wanted to go away from his house—and here she appealed so beautifully and artlessly to her lover, that Robert had actually to seize us all, and kiss us, before he could proceed any further.

After this delightful ceremony, he returned to the delicious little letter, wherein Therese went on to say, that Mr. Blanton had gotten angry with her about something. She could not tell, to save her life, she said, what had happened to put him so terribly out. At all events, he had scolded her savagely, and then he whipped Adolphe; beat him, oh! dreadfully, regardless of his mother's tears and entreaties, because the dear little fellow had innocently walked upon one of his angular, ugly flower-beds.

Of course, my brother rushed chivalrously to the rescue of his Dulcinea. Mr. Robert Rushton could neither eat nor sleep, so impatient was he to go where duty called him. Sappingwood had hardly time to sleek up the ponies, varnish his own immaculate boots, or trim his moustache, before Robert was equipped for immediate departure.

Grandma, with her head out of the window, squeaked out in vain to know where he was going. My brother kissed his hand to her, and dashed along the bending road, with glittering wheels, and bounding heart. Papa stepped out upon the balcony, and smiled, and waved his adieu to this gallant knight of modern times.

When my brother asked for Therese at Mr. Blanton's inhospitable door, he was informed that she had denied herself to all visitors for some days. Robert gave his card to the man, and then a side-door was opened, and Therese came running to him with glowing cheeks, and moistened eyes. My brother drew her proudly to him; she blushed, and clung to his arm; and then dropping her lids, she asked "if light words could part them now;" and showed him into her own fairy sitting-room. Here Robert took her to his bosom, and she burst into tears, with her head upon his shoulder. Robert declared to me, in confidence, that at that moment he not only felt three feet taller, but he felt like a giant—a very happy, illustrious, all-conquering giant, intent upon the blood of an Englishman (Blanton). Adolphe came in, looking shy, but pleased, and very soon began to cling to Robert too.

No dear little exuberant coquette was ever more completely subdued than was Therese by Blanton's barbarity. All the world had smiled upon this little woman, for she had smiled upon all the world. Nobody could have the cruelty to wound her, for she was always so delicate and kind. She was not only made for summer weather, but she carried summer sunshine ever in her bosom. Her presence was ever cheering, and her little failings were so womanly, so clearly descending from pure goodness of heart, that they only made her more lovable. To see her taking with her into a ball-room all her natural purity and amiability, and thereby gaining universal homage—to see her with the great, as she was with the small—to see her bestowing the same beaming smile upon all mankind—was to remind one of the goodness of Heaven, sending its sunshine and its showers upon the just and upon the unjust.

My brother found the Blantons full of crooks and oddities. Mr. Blanton was as particular as an old maid, and the queerest creature imaginable. He delighted in rare flower-beds, and pets of all kinds. He had any number of remarkable dogs, a raccoon for a bosom companion, and quite a menagerie of uncouth animals in subjection.

He was a stern disciplinarian in his household—a hard master, and at all times peevish and exacting. He was made up of notions, his notions, to which every body must bend. Therese, with her artless manner and perfect freedom, found herself somewhat trammelled here. Even her fascination could not overcome one of Mr. Blanton's established notions. Poor Adolphe was a tender-hearted little fellow, clinging to any body who was kind to him, and was very much spoiled by his mamma.

Mr. Blanton had often remonstrated with Therese about what he considered her over-indulgence of her son, and had indeed undertaken to manage him himself. But the little fellow had walked upon one of Mr. Blanton's flower-beds, and he had beaten him severely. This was enough for Therese. She, upon, the strength of this beating, informed Mr. Blanton that she wouldn't marry him if he were strung with diamonds from his head to his heels.

Nobody should whip Adolphe; nobody should take that liberty with her son, if he trampled all the flower-beds in the universe.

From all accounts, little Therese was up in arms about the matter, but had become somewhat subdued when Robert reached the Grove, as Mr. Blanton's residence was called.

"And where is your enemy?" Robert inquired, after listening for at least half an hour to Therese's lamentable story. "Fortunately," said Therese, gravely, "he is being paid by Providence for his ungentlemanly conduct. No sooner had he beat my son than a whole row of discontented and enraged teeth commenced aching, and they have been aching ever since. The last I saw of him, he was stalking about his grounds, with his face bound up, grunting piteously."

"Then I needn't run him through with my sword?" said Robert.

"Oh, yes—I would have something done to him to make him know better. The idea—the bare idea of his whipping my little son! He to take my little fatherless boy, in his own house, and beat him until his little neck and arms were purple, and swollen in great streaks, and the tears running down his cheeks! If I had been a man—oh! if I had only been a man—I would have killed him on the spot, the monster! the brute!"

And my brother informed us that at these words Therese doubled her dimpled fists, and looked daggers at the window overlooking Mr. Blanton's flower-beds. Nobody ever knew or heard of her being as angry as she was on this occasion. She blazed away, and talked like a hero. Robert said she was fire and tow. She declared she would not stay in Mr. Blanton's house. He might beat her. He had assurance enough to beat her, she really thought. During this happy interview, Mr. Blanton entered, bringing a rueful, peaked face, bound up in a red bandanna. He drew a chair—and Therese took Adolphe by the hand, and with a scornful, indignant air, walked off to the window, and stood thrumming away upon the window-pane.

"Mrs. Blanton," remarked the trainer of youth to Robert, "is highly offended with me, Mr. Rushton—and in justice to myself I must beg that you will listen to a few words on my side of the question."

"Really I must decline the honor, sir," said Robert, stiffly.

"But I insist—"

"No," said Robert, "I have neither the right nor inclination to interfere in your affairs, sir. I regret the unfortunate occurrence, and will bear your apologies to the—Mrs. Blanton, sir, if you desire it."

"She should apologize to me, sir!"

"Oh!" said Robert.

"I repeat it, sir—Mrs. Blanton owes me an apology for her behavior to me this morning. She has insulted me, sir, in my own house. She has been managing this boy of hers, sir, until he has gotten beyond all control. She insists upon indulging him and spoiling him, until really I am obliged to interfere. She is very young, and very volatile, and very foolish, and what can she know about managing a son?"

"She has had at least as much experience as either of us," said Robert, laughing.

"Still, sir, she knows nothing in the world about it. One must have firmness to manage children. One must be systematic, and lay down rules for them which they should not be permitted, on any account, to break. Adolphe knew it was wrong to go on that flower-bed; I had told him so repeatedly. He knew very well it was wrong, and yet, when he thought I was out of sight he viciously galloped backwards and forwards on it, kicking and neighing like a horse."

"Indeed!" said Robert, bowing gravely.

"He is an obstinate, wilful boy, and will give any person trouble who has the management of him."

Robert had civility enough to give an "ah!" at this clause.

"I tell you, Mr. Rushton," cried Adolphe, who had been deeply interested in Mr. Blanton's account of his unruly proceedings, "I galloped over those flowers for fun!"

Blanton scowled, and the little fellow drew near to my brother, laid his hand upon his knee, and with an animated face, continued; "I saw them all growing upon that bed so high, and John betted me I couldn't jump clear over the heads of the flowers, and I betted him two allys I could, and so I swung my arms just so, a long time, till I thought I could jump over, and when John said three, I jumped, and fell right into the middle, and rolled over and over upon them all, and when uncle saw me I was galloping away, like a race-horse."

Robert said the little fellow's countenance was beautiful as he stood at his knee, looking up to him, and telling him exactly how it was. "And did he tell you this, and you whipped him?" said Robert, lifting Adolphe upon his knee.

"I would hear nothing he had to say. He disobeyed my orders and that was enough."

"Will you excuse me for saying that I think you should have listened to his explanation?"

Therese had now drawn near them, and sat down close by Robert. The youthful mother laid the little boy's cheek upon her own, and the tears filled her gentle eyes. Blanton, harsh and rigid as he was, was moved by these tears. He said—

"Therese, I promised my brother on his dying bed to guard this boy—to instruct him, and correct him, as I would my own. I promised that your over-indulgence and childish fondness should not spoil him, and I am trying, through all opposition and misunderstanding, to keep my word."

"But, brother, you whipped him—you beat my boy! I heard his screams, and his trembling voice pleading for mercy, and I was not allowed to go near him; my boy—my fatherless boy—was cruelly beaten! Oh, Mr. Rushton, my heart bleeds when I think of this! I would have given the last dollar I had in the world, to have spared him those stripes! Oh, brother, if this be your guarding, your promised watching, spare me, oh spare me the agony of such as this! No, sir!" she cried, raising her head defiantly, "nobody under heaven shall correct my son in that way. My son has a heart, sir, a noble generous heart, quick and sensitive, with intelligence to understand any reasoning you can employ; and this boy, this pride of my heart, shall never, no never, be beaten with stripes!"

Therese was beautiful with the fresh tears on her cheeks, and her moist flashing eye. There was actually a glory and sublimity about her as she spoke. Robert said that he had an almost uncontrollable impulse to snatch these two treasures in his arms, and fly off with them as bold as an eagle. Therese had never shone out so clearly and splendidly as through these gem-like tears.

"Very well, madam," said Mr. Blanton, "I have my duty to perform, and I will do what I think is right."

"You may do as you please, sir, with your dogs, or your crow, or your Egyptian hens, or your opossum, or your raccoon," said Therese, running over Mr. Blanton's private menagerie, "but my son, sir, you can touch again if you dare!"

Here Robert felt very awkward, and he said—

"It seems that you both have the little boy's good at heart; I am sure he will not require correcting again. I say, Adolphe, will you ever run over your uncle's flowers again, exactly like a race-horse?"

"No, sir; but I am going with you and Sap home."

"And leave your mamma?" said Robert.

"Uncle does not whip mamma. He loves mamma, and sometimes he tries to hug and kiss her—don't he, mamma?"

Adolphe was getting on forbidden ground again, and Robert said that really there seemed to be nothing but flower-beds for that dear boy. This was all we learned of the conversation. Robert came home sad, and yet happy. He had patched up matters as well as he could at the Grove; and had taken that favorable opportunity to make quite a comfortable arrangement for himself. My brother seemed to have grown older after this. He was not so frivolous, and light-hearted. He was more tender and thoughtful. He was uneasy about his darling Therese. He feared the petted woman on whom the world had delighted to smile, had rather an unpleasant home. He feared Blanton's harshness might tarnish the fair picture on which he so loved to dwell; that his stern discipline might cloud the serene brow, and dispel the freshness and artlessness of this fairy-like creature. He loved her for her faults, her very fickleness, her lightness, and her simplicity of heart. He would not have had that lion-lunged man to meddle with these fragile beauties and mar them, for worlds. Therefore, my brother was thoughtful. In the long summer days, he dreamed, and revelled in castles shining bright, and crystal-like, in the clear blue air. He was enveloped in love and poesy, his kind heart was overflowing with tenderness and joy. Mamma's heart was with her boy. And there was no more beautiful sight under heaven than the patient mother, sitting with his head upon her lap, in the long warm days, running her slender fingers through the chestnut curls she had loved and trained from babyhood, and listening to his plans, and his hopes, and his fears, as he told them still to her.

In a few weeks Robert had another letter from Therese, informing him that Adolphe was sick, and that she was very unhappy. My brother determined to go again to Therese, and this time he took me with him.

After a pleasant morning's drive, we reached the Grove, and were shown to a quiet room, where we found Therese sitting by a low bed, on which Adolphe, with flushed cheek and glittering eye was lying.

When she saw us, she covered her face and wept. Miss Blanton spoke very kindly to her, and Mr. Blanton looked sorrowful and troubled.

"My darling," said Therese, bending over the bed and caressing his little hand, "here are Mr. Rushton, and dear Miss Rushton, whom you love so much."

But the bright glittering eye was unchanged, and no intelligent glance returned the fond mother's appealing look. Again Therese covered her face and sobbed. Mr. Blanton led her gently away from the bedside, and placing her on a lounge, whispered a few words, but they could not comfort poor Therese.

I took the mother's place beside the little boy, and cooled his burning brow, and rubbed his little hands. Poor Robert was so overcome by Therese's distress, that he could neither say nor do any thing. In silence we sat around the low bed, while the irregular wheezing of the little sufferer was painful to hear. He was in great pain, and his little hands wandered uneasily to his chest, as though there was something oppressive there. The physician, who had been in the adjoining room asleep (for they had been up all night with Adolphe), came in and felt his pulse.

"Doctor, is he no better?" asked Therese, anxiously.

"He will be better when the blister draws, madam."

"Oh, do tell me he is a little better!" cried Therese.

For three hours we sat around the little bed, watching for light in the dark, dilated eye, while the mother, by every gentle aid, sought to bring back the little spirit to its home. In vain she called upon his name, and pressed her lips upon his own. The breath came painfully and quick, and the intense, unnatural eye was fixed. At last, I felt his hand grow moist within my own, and his lips were moving. Therese bent her ear and hung over him, to hear him say "mamma." She raised her eyes to heaven, and her illuminated face proclaimed the intense thankfulness of her heart.

"My son, our good God has heard my prayer," she said, kissing him over and over again. At these words he clasped his little hands, and instinctively commenced, in faint, low tones, "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, &c." He finished his prayer, taught him by the earnest-hearted little mother, and then he placed his arm about her neck, and there were moist eyes around the little bed. Robert, who had been sitting apart at the window, came and sat down by the bed, and kissed the darling boy, and Therese gave him her hand with a grateful, tender look.

But though the fever was somewhat abated, Adolphe was very weak. His little hands, once so plump and dimpled, were thin and transparent—his eyes were large and hollow. He was patient and uncomplaining. Like his mother, so gentle and grateful, thanking us sweetly for every thing, and talking in his simple, childish way: "Mamma, where is old Punch?"

"Old Punch has been in very many times, looking for his little master," said Therese, cheerfully.

"He misses me, I know. I wonder if he knows I'm sick, mamma?"

"He feels that you are sick; old Punch feels that something is the matter with our boy, for he goes whining about the house, and is not happy and frisky like he used to be," said Therese, smoothing back his hair.

Robert said old Punch was lying at the door, looking inquiringly at all who passed. He opened the door, and the great dog came in and went straight to the bed.

"Poor fellow!" said Adolphe. Punch wagged his shaggy tail, and laid his nose upon the pillow, looking earnestly at his little playfellow.

"Poor old Punch!" said Adolphe, patting his head, and the dog placed his paws upon the bed, watching his little master.

"Why, old dog!" cried the boy, stretching his arms around his great white circled neck. The sagacious creature was proud of this. He stood with his white paws upon the edge of the bed, and his nose upon the pillow, and kept slowly opening his eyes and shutting them in excess of happiness, and getting closer and closer to his little master, until in his joy he licked the boy's forehead, and put his paws upon his neck, and seemed scarcely to know how to show his delight and his affection.

"Mamma, he wants me to get up and go with him."

"He must wait until you are strong enough," said Therese, placing her hand on the dog's head, who laid his nose back upon the pillow, "and then we'll go with dear old Punch, to play on the garden falls."

"Not on the flower-beds, mamma."

"No, not on the flower-beds," said Therese, her face coloring, "but on the high green falls, where the cherry limbs hang so low."

"The black-heart cherries? I know which tree that is."

"Yes, Punch knows the tree too."

"I can climb up that tree, mamma."

"You can! When you get strong enough, I will push you up that tree."

"There is a cat-bird nest up there. John held me up, and I peeped into it. The old cat-bird stays there all day."

"I know—and mocking-birds, and jay birds too. We will go there some of these fine days, you, and I, and Punch. But my little boy must sleep some now."

"Somebody must sing to me; mamma, you sing."

And Therese, so earnest in her devotion, sang a soft lullaby for her boy. He turned over and nestled close to her, and she sang the baby song she always sang to him when he slept. Robert was too weak-hearted for such tender scenes. He was a very woman in his nature, and he stole away, while the mother sang in liquid tones, though her eyes were filled with tears.

The next day we hoped the dear child was better, and Robert and I concluded to return home. Therese drew my brother to the window, and asked if he would do her a favor. Of course Robert was ready and anxious to do any thing he could for her.

"Send your good mother to me, will you?" said Therese, sadly. "I want somebody who is older than I am. I want your good mother with me now. Beg her to come and stay with me until my boy gets well. She is so kind and gentle, and she lost a little boy once. Perhaps I may have to suffer what she has. She can feel for me, I know she can."

"My dear Therese, we all sympathize with you," said Robert.

"I know, oh I know you do. You have all been more than kind. But your mother—she knows the sorrow of my heart. She told me of her little boy—her first-born—and showed me his little grave. I have thought of all this in the long, still hours, when I've been watching him. He is not like himself. He grows purer, and more tender, and so thoughtful. Heaven may be drawing him, gently drawing my boy away!"

"We must hope for the best, my dear Therese," said Robert, pressing her hand, while the tears came to his eyes. She turned to the bed, and took the limp hand which was reaching to her.

We went home and sent mamma to poor Therese.

In a week mamma wrote:

"The little boy grows visibly worse. I think, with poor Therese, that he is being gradually drawn to heaven. He is very feeble. His little frame is wasted to a shadow, and his eyes are very bright—too bright for earth. I have comforted the mother all I could, but this is the Father's work: I cannot bid her be comforted, but there is One greater than I, who will teach her that all is for the best." And in a postscript, she said Adolphe was dead. The little spirit had returned to its Home, and the pride of the mother's heart was in Heaven.

Poor little Adolphe!

Poor Therese was left with mamma. And she glided about our house, carrying her great sorrow in her gentle bosom, and looking up to us through her tears. Louise would take her hand at evening and walk far away, and try to win her back to life. Mamma, with gentle thought, would bid her take the keys, and go on errands for her, that she might, for a moment, forget her loss. And I would try to do my part by talking,—not cheerfully, but a shade more cheerfully than any of us felt, that by degrees we might call her away from her great and constant grief. Papa, too, had a gentle thought for her—and would come in from squirrel hunting, and calling her to him, would ask her to have the squirrels served up in her capital way for his dinner. Sometimes he would cry out from the Library, to Therese to mix his porter for him, or to prepare his toddy, or to do any thing, which he knew would please her.

Robert kept away. He felt more than all, but he could not approach her.

After a while, Therese said she must return to Mr. Blanton's. She could not desert them altogether. They were lonely and felt her loss, and missed, at every turn, the same little foot-fall which she mourned.

It was twilight, and the pensive mournful figure stole away from the quiet family circle to the grave of her darling boy. She had been gone an hour, and the heavy dew was falling on her bowed head. Robert was restless. He wanted to go to her, but how disturb her in the sanctity of her grief?

"Mamma, if I were to go to her, and lead her gently back?" he said, inquiringly.

"Go, my son, but be gentle with her."

Robert went up the winding pathway, looking for the mourner at the little grave. He found her kneeling with her white hands clasped and her eyes turned to heaven.

"My poor Therese!" said Robert, sitting down and drawing her gently to him.

"Poor, poor Therese," she murmured, bending her head upon her hand, "this blow is too much—too much!"

"And can I do nothing for my poor Therese?" said Robert, tenderly.

IN the course of time, Tom Farren became unfortunate. He had proposed six times to Louise, and exactly six times had he been rejected. He was anxious to marry, and to marry well. He thought Louise a most estimable, well bred young lady, who would show to decided advantage as Mrs. Farren. He particularly admired her hauteur, and reserve. She could not have employed a more effectual method of binding young Farren's heart, than by indulging in her natural imperturbable dignity and hauteur. He did not think she was less kind to him than she was to others. He was quite sure Dashwood had never won more smiles than he had. But Tom Farren could not fathom such a heart. He knew not the depth of the still waters. He knew not of the fairy palace reared beneath the polished surface, and of the gem-like hopes all shining there. What could he know of the gorgeous dream-land in which this placid beauty revelled?

Meantime Dashwood's beautiful book was insinuating its smoothly flowing sentiments into every heart. People were speaking of him as of a genius. Young ladies, of romantic temperaments, were inditing odorous epistles to him, and some leading men were determined to take him by the hand. Our attaché was on the wing, and sustaining himself beautifully, like a young eagle born to fly in the very eye of the sun.

Dashwood had written that he was coming home. Miss Ellen McGregor had written very many times, exulting in her nephew's success, thanking us for all our kindness to him, and predicting still more wonderful things, of this most gifted of mortals.

Mrs. Braxley, highly offended at her protegée's want of taste in refusing Tom Farren six times, made a will out of spite, and left me every dollar she had in the world. This sudden change in her temporal affairs alarmed me very much, inasmuch as Mr. Farren began to talk to me one evening, after dinner, about a model bee-hive. Grandma—when Mr. Farren took a chair, strode across the room, and planted himself upright in front of me—was visibly affected.

I, who knew that Aunt Braxley made half a dozen wills per annum, was very much shocked at this rash proceeding. Nobody enjoyed Mr. Farren's demonstrations more than Uncle Joe, whose vein of fun was not yet exhausted. Grandma would have had me—the fastidious authoress—the destined historian of the Feejees—the light of the nineteenth century—fairly to jump at such a proposal. She implored me not to be so foolishly blind to my own interests. She promised to keep Aunt Braxley to that last will and testament, but I could not consent to any such uncertainty. At last, Grandma gave over her persuasions, and bade me go and be an old maid, she did not care.

The subject now uppermost in our thoughts was Dashwood's return. My brother was so impatient to see his friend, that he must needs go a hundred miles to meet him. Louise, with glittering eye and high lifted head, went on in the even tenor of her way—and on the very day she expected her lover, the daring girl managed to have an engagement to dine out. Her heart was certainly pitched an octave higher than other people's. She ordered the carriage and drove off about an hour before the ardent lover was expected. On her way, she met Tom Farren, who was doubtless coming over to see the meeting, and I need not say, she left that orderly, systematic young man, completely petrified on the highway.

Dashwood and Robert came, driven home triumphantly by Sap, and drawn by the ponies. As soon as Dashwood descended lightly from the open carriage, Grandma squeaked out in a high treble, "Oh, gracious! what a sweet, love of a fellow!"

Papa met him with a hearty welcome. Mamma brushed away a tear, and the noble fellow took both her hands in his own, and kissed her. He greeted Grandma with elaborate and chivalrous respect, and Mrs. Braxley with profound obedience. But Uncle Joe—kind-hearted, beaming Uncle Joe—he took in his arms, whirled him around, and such a meeting as they had, somewhat opened Mrs. Braxley's eyes, and caused Grandma to guess there was a spy in the camp. Dashwood's eye now sought Louise, and there was a slight shade perceptible in his face.

Louise could not complain of demonstrations now, or fear an exposé. His hardiesse was quite equal to her own. He was as pleasant and entertaining as though her royal eye had been upon him. A malicious person would have said he was not so much in love after all. That he could, at least, exist without her. Late in the evening, the young lady, accompanied by Mr. Farren, arrived. Dashwood encountered her, purposely I dare say, before she expected it; and he had the satisfaction to see the pearly cheek flush in a moment, and the eye, with its jealous lash, glisten, as he took her hand. He had scarcely time to mark the tremor and the blush, ere Louise had recovered, and welcomed him in her clear silver tones. But my sister looked more beautiful that evening, than ever before. There was a tinge upon her cheek which was not always there, and a light in her magnificent eyes which was seldom seen. She smiled several times on Mr. Farren, but not once on Dashwood. It was so like her, Dashwood said, to go off when she expected him. She did not wish to meet him in the portico, when all were clamoring a welcome. She was so exquisitely refined, that she dreaded the shock, and feared for her boasted self-possession.

"Now when we met," he said, after Mr. Farren had left, and he could summon the boldness to draw very near to Louise—"now, dear Jenny, when we met, this young lady was almost tempted to scream."

"Indeed!" said Louise, for the first time raising her eyes to his.

"She wanted very much to faint," continued Dashwood, "and, with all her placidity, she has yet to conquer some very rebellious emotions."

Louise smiled, and Dashwood seemed to be never tired of looking at her. Robert hung about this beautiful pair. He seemed to exult in their happiness, and to watch their countenances with vivid delight.

Papa saw the change in Louise. He saw his beautiful child, as if by magic, looking her former self. He saw her lovely and serene, in the fulness of her happiness. He saw mamma too, as she unconsciously betrayed, in every action, her love for the poet. He saw us all clustering around him, listening to him, devouring him with our eyes, enjoying his anecdotes, electrified by his happy sallies, and forgetting every thing but the bliss of our reunion; and papa was almost conquered.

Even grandma was drawn within this magic circle, around which uncle Joe fluttered, like a man whose judgment could not always control the limbs of his body, even in a certain person's awful presence.

Finally, after a long conversation with mamma, Robert, and myself, papa came into measures.

"To confess the truth," said papa to us, "when a man has such dutiful and respectful children, he can scarcely find it in his heart to deny them any thing. He must not allow his prejudices and preferences to interfere with their happiness. There is something due from me to my children, as well as from them to me. It is my duty to be reasonable with so respectful and gentlemanly a fellow as my son Robert; and it also becomes me to yield a point to a young lady who has proved herself so noble as my daughter Louise. This I do proudly; because it is my duty and privilege thus to reward such respect and such obedience."

"Ha! ha!" cried Robert, "I knew how it would all end!"

"A very weak father, a vastly weak father," was Mrs. Barbara's comment, on learning the state of affairs.

"A man after my own heart, by Jove!" cried uncle Joe.

"My own dear papa!" cried Louise, rushing to his arms.

"Why, Dabney!" remarked Mrs. Braxley, with elevated brows.

"God bless him!" interrupted uncle Joe, snapping his fingers under the very eyes of his sovereign mistress.

"Why, Joseph!" ejaculated the astonished lady.

Hearing that Miss Willianna was no longer in the market, and that there was no danger of his being caught by that cunning angler, while Robert was devoting himself to Therese, Dashwood consented to accompany Mr. Rushton, junior, to see his lady love. My brother was himself again with Dashwood. He forgot all trouble and care in his gay presence. Never were two gallants so perfectly congenial; Robert was always piquant and original to Dashwood, and Dashwood was always gloriously brilliant to Robert. Louise became really merry in their society. Fairy Hill acknowledged the presence of its master spirit in Dashwood. Papa, too, yielded to the irresistible charm of his manner, and grew excessively fond of his society. Dashwood had many adventures to relate, and talked of every thing but his book. His success, his few laurels so recently won, his increasing popularity, his high standing among men of letters—all this was a sealed volume with him. He was ever the unselfish and elegant gentleman, pleasing all, but never vaunting himself. Never boasting in word, or look, but wearing his new honors with a modest grace. But what was new to us was not so to him. It was nothing new to him that he could write charmingly—that he was master of all the intricacies of the language—that poetry flowed spontaneously from his pen, and that he had the material within him of which great men are formed. He must have felt a consciousness of this from boyhood. He must have known this amid all his vagaries, and therefore he was not unduly exalted when the world acknowledged it. He was a thorough artist, humbled at his own success, and evading any allusion which might lead to the subject of his honors.

The two friends went off together to see Therese. She ran out, and greeted them before they reached the steps. Dashwood said some gentle words to her, and pressed his lips upon her hand; and she bravely conquered all her emotion, and put her arm in Robert's, in her trusting, childlike way, and looked up to her handsome lover with sweet and winning pride. She showed them into a cosy morning room, where the happy Willianna was sitting sewing. Dashwood said the dear little woman was so changed. All her bewildering little coquetries were gone; her pleasant wiles and pretty, artless fascinations completely subdued. She was tearful, but brave. She kept close to Robert. She felt the need of some one to cling to; and he was proud of the delicate, trusting creature at his side.

Dashwood said it was the most beautiful tableau he ever saw—Therese and Robert. And while he rattled away to Miss Blanton, he had yet an eye for them. Robert, so manly and tender, and Therese, so chastened and purified, turning her soft eye upon him with coy confidingness; and then forgetting herself, and betraying unconsciously her deep devotion, and her woman's pride in him she had chosen. It was beautiful, most refreshingly beautiful, said Dashwood, with an "ah!" as he related all this to Louise, in the vain hope of softening his obdurate fair one.

"I wonder," he continued, half soliloquizing, "if Louise will ever lay her hand upon my shoulder, and say, Frank, or, indeed, any thing else; I would give all I have to hear."

Uncle Joe accidentally overheard this remark, and he immediately hobbled up to the desponding lover, to inform him, that he might depend upon it Louise could say enough when she chose.

"I have heard her——dear me! You don't know Louise. I think she's rash at times; indeed I do."

Dashwood turned to Louise, and she was blushing beautifully.

My sister, with all her composure, was excessively diffident—too diffident, in fact, to let people know what she really was; and Dashwood would not have had her otherwise. He was a most jealous lover, and could not have borne what poor Robert endured at the Black Mountain Springs.

It was very well for the lives of all her lovers that Louise was thus chary of her smiles. Had she been one shade less prudish and disdainful, I should have had some heartrending murders and bloody duels to relate. These dull pages would have been garnished with exploits on Mr. Dashwood's part almost exceeding belief. Othello would have been an angel to my hero. Happily for me—for I have no talent for such gloomy details—my sister gave him no cause for jealousy. Her rigid propriety and uncompromising fidelity were the anchor of his life. Loving so intensely, it was fortunate that she was so firm. Had she rejected him once, or wavered in the least, this intrepid fellow, after doing serious damage, would have cut his own throat.

The Dandy scheme was now about to be consummated. Miss Blanton was soon to be led to the Hymeneal altar by her Black Mountain Captive. Weddings were rare in the Blanton family; and this was to be a prodigious affair. The note of preparation was sounded months before the happy day. Mrs. Braxley was invited over to the Grove to matronize the fair Willianna, and to act as generalissimo of the Blanton forces. Mrs. Braxley, proud of her reputation, and delighting in power, took possession of the Grove. She very unceremoniously turned the house out of the windows and the astonished Blanton and menagerie out of doors, and commenced operations on an alarming and Phœbean scale. Sappingwood, who was occasionally sent over with messages and injunctions from Mrs. Barbara to her daughter, reported that Mrs. Braxley was turning up Jack at the Grove, and making the Blanton servants "hop linky."

The lovely Willianna, in "maiden meditation fancy free," while the house was apparently being pulled down over her ears, awaited the auspicious day. The wedding day arrived; and beaux and belles, and old and young, were congregated together at the Grove to witness the ceremony, and partake of the good cheer so lavishly provided. The amount of jewelry worn by Miss Blanton on this interesting occasion had better not be specified. My readers would not believe me if I were to tell them. Poor Dandy was terribly scared, and shockingly dressed. I should say he was happy the evening Blanton encountered him in the badly-ventilated corner, compared to what he was on the evening of his marriage. He took Willianna upon the wrong arm, and could scarcely be made to understand that the wedding ring was not intended for that lovely creature's thumb. Even after the ceremony, when one would naturally expect to see him somewhat composed, this Black Mountain Captive seemed in an awkward trance. In dancing he managed to wind his feet in several yards of thule belonging to his bride's apparel, and to get a dreadful fall. At supper, he got choked with a chicken's wing, and had several stout fellows thumping him on the back before he could recover his breath. None of this escaped Dashwood's eye. My brother had commissioned him to use all his comic powers upon Therese. Robert was pining to see her revive, and Dashwood strove zealously to bring back the coquettish smiles, and their attendant dimples, which had first ensnared his susceptible friend. Therese could not resist Dashwood's drollery. She laughed when he called her attention to Dandy wound up in thule, and struggling on the floor, while the band paused for his release, and bid her behold the Dandy of the day! Robert was ever near her, catching her smiles and watching the old light of early summer days, as it broke beautifully on her brow.

Grandma was at the wedding. A gay illusion cap, and a new velvet, with many new airs and graces, were brought out for the occasion. No swan ever curved her neck more complacently, than did this triumphant belle of old, as she circled about the illuminated rooms. These were the weddings for her, she informed her friends. None of your blue-nosed morning affairs for her, she never attended them at all. She loved the real old Virginia "break downs," when the masters' heads swam in champagne, and the servants' in apple toddy.

"The Blarntons are old Virginia aristocrats," she remarked. "The family never do things by halves. A relative of theirs, Col. William Blarnton of Reedy Creek, gave a party on one occasion which finally drove him to prison."

"That costly and magnificent entertainment," said Mrs. Barbara, who was in one of her happiest moods, "was given to me when I was married, and I always larfed and told Mr. Rushton that Col. Blarnton had given me his estate." In this delightful manner that brilliant conversationist, Mrs. Barbara, beguiled many a weary wall flower on that memorable evening.

Sappingwood, illustrious valet, also distinguished himself here. It seemed that since Dashwood's return, that remarkable servant had dropped his master, and taken the poet for his model, in dress, manner, carriage, and the small courtesies generally. Knowing that our ex attaché was just returned from the seat of grace and fashion, Sappingwood kept his eye upon him, and was often seen practising the last tip before a large mirror in my brother's dressing-room. Now there was at the wedding a notorious exquisite, who imagined himself partially eclipsed by Dashwood, and who had not failed to observe Sap's fidelity in all his movements to his illustrious original. In the gentlemen's dressing-room Sap figured largely, and being an adept in matters of taste and style, was, of course, in great demand. The exquisite, wishing to throw some ridicule on Dashwood, gave his valet an order in French. To his surprise, Sap approached him with a bow, and said:

"Que voulez-vous, monsieur?" with the very air and accent of Dashwood true to the life.

Highly pleased at his success, the exquisite, in order to stimulate him to further displays, languidly extended a bank-note, and asked Sap in drawling tones if he would be kind enough to recognize a V?

Sap, having exhausted his French, replied in his vernacular, "Certainly, sir," remarking with a very low bow, as he put up the note in his red morocco pocket-book, that he always made it a point to recognize a friend in any company, though he would do the V's the justice to say that he had never heard of their being seen with the gentleman before.

After the marriage ceremony, grandma came majestically to me, and gave it as her deliberate and unalterable opinion, that Mrs. Dandy was still an old maid!

"Nothing under the sun," said Mrs. Barbara solemnly, "no ring—no priest—no ceremony—can prevent that unfortunate woman from being an old maid."

"If she were to marry forty times," continued the dowager in a chilling whisper, which made the blood run cold, "she would still be an old maid! And she might remove from here, and settle with that truly remarkable creature, Dandy, in Texas if she chose, and every man, woman and child would know her to be an old maid. Old maid is written on her forehead—is heard in her voice—is legible on the very finger on which she wears her wedding ring. You might blindfold me, and only let me hear her voice, and I should immediately exclaim, 'There speaks an old maid of forty!' You might take me to Jericho, and just by way of experiment show me one single ringlet—the smallest tip of one of her corkscrew curls, and what would I say? Why I would immediately exclaim, 'This belonged to an old maid of forty!' I should, upon my word. Therefore, I repeat it, what hope is there for her? Can she escape? No—emphatically no. She is, Dandy or no Dandy—priest or no priest—an old maid until doomsday!"

Uncle Joe forgot his rheumatism at this wedding. I am inclined to think that he was even oblivious of his rash alliance with Mrs. Barbara's daughter. I was informed that uncle Joe coaxed a company of chosen spirits into a remote room, and having carefully closed the door, sang to them in dulcet tones two of his favorite songs, "Oh no, I never mention her," and "Meet me by moonlight alone, in the grove at the end of the vale." They say uncle Joe's inimitable singing brought tears into his own eyes, but failed similarly to affect his jolly hearers.

The next event I have to record is the double wedding—Dashwood and Louise—Robert and Therese. I am sorry to say that this was a blue-nosed morning affair, and of course the reader knows Mrs. Barbara kept her room. When she learned that breakfast was to be eaten at one o'clock, she slammed the door in the face of her informer, and said she did not care if they ate it at midnight.

Therese, in her half-mourning, looked beautiful but sad. She could not forget, even in her happiness, the darling boy in Heaven. She missed, even then, the prattling tongue and childish caresses of the little one she mourned, and she would stealthily seek some quiet place to weep alone. Robert, pained to see her thus, was almost jealous of her sorrow. Once he found her sitting alone in a back room, crying bitterly. In her hand she held a little blue shoe, all crumpled and worn, and a coral necklace. She threw her soft arms around her tender husband's neck, and begged him to forgive her for crying so much—and then she held up the little wrinkled shoe, with its broken strings, and wept again.

Now, if my readers would like to know this dear Therese in her own fairy home, they must come to Virginia; nay, they must come to me, and I will show them Robert and Therese, still young, and still loving, and still happy. And I will take great pleasure also in showing them a little round-faced, bald-headed boy, who, I regret to say, cries very much, and makes very wry faces. My readers, particularly my sentimental ones, would be astonished to see my careless, fastidious brother, with this round-faced boy in his arms, walking him backwards and forwards, tossing him, jumping him, until my good brother is worn out with walking, tossing, and jumping. This boy of Robert's is considered a paragon of boys in the family. He is certainly a most remarkable boy. To convince my readers of this, I have only to mention that he cries for the candle—and yells terrifically because prudent persons oppose his putting his fingers in the blaze! Then he has been known to cry himself hoarse for the new moon! He also cries to pull his papa's hair—and most wonderful to relate, cries for his uncle Blanton every time he sees him! Such a compliment from such a source astonishes Mr. Blanton—he having been all his life as a dreadful raw-head-and-bloody-bones to juveniles. But this wonderful baby of Robert's invariably sets up a yell to get to his uncle Blanton; and Mr. Blanton, with a grave face, takes the unaccountable infant in his arms, handling him pretty much as he would a rare and fragile specimen of Bohemian ware; keeping him at arm's length, and in such a unique and uncomfortable position that baby squalls and Therese laughs.

This boy is a subject of profound investigation to Mr. Blanton. He has neglected his menagerie to study this human problem. He has examined him phrenologically, physiologically, and psychologically, and says he has some extraordinary developments. He lectures Robert and Therese on the manner in which so astonishing a subject should be trained. He lays down rules for his behavior, for which baby has evidently no earthly respect.

Uncle Joe comes twice a week to see the boy, and seems to think with Mr. Blanton, that it is a wonderful child. The Dandys live in great splendor, and entertain magnificently. Mrs. Dandy and Mrs. Braxley are inseparable. They are most congenial spirits, and I think poor Dandy has a fellow-feeling for uncle Joe.

Dashwood and Louise went to Europe immediately after their marriage. My sister returned from her travels improved in manner and person. Her diffidence and hauteur had given place to a charming graciousness of manner, most fascinating and delightful. Dashwood is now living in a large city, and his lady is one of the leaders of the ton. She is the centre of a circle unsurpassed for wit and refinement, and Mrs. Barbara, who is a judge in these matters, says the hospitalities of her house are dispensed with a grace and elegance she never saw equalled. My sister is one of the married belles, and Dashwood the leader of the literati. She is chaperoned by Miss Ellen McGregor Dashwood, who has left her home in Kent to devote her days to these beloved relatives. Mrs. Dashwood comes to Fairy Hill every summer, on her way to the Springs. Mrs. Barbara evidently looks up to her with great deference, and always speaks of her granddaughter, Mrs. Dashwood, when she wishes to impress people with a proper sense of her dignity and importance.

Dashwood is always busy. He comes in great haste to Fairy Hill, calls a little while at Robert's, looks in upon the Dandys, and devotes a few odd hours to uncle Joe. He is in such demand. People want him every where. He has not even time to accompany his own wife to the sea-side. My sister, who is a lady of fashion and independence, makes up her own parties, and goes any where, leaving her husband to pursue his business, or his pleasure, as a fashionable lady should do.

Therese, once so fond of admiration, is completely domesticated, and devoted to Robert and her boy. Louise, who was a type of indomitable constancy, is now a lady of ton, somewhat inclined to dissipation, Dashwood says, and exulting in the quantity and quality of her admirers.

Our glorious poet is still brilliant and handsome, and jocund, and delightful. He has a pleasant word and a beaming smile for all. He has the art of dispensing a few words to great profit. He has something to say to every old family servant, and a happy jest for dependents of all grades. His way through the world is but a triumphant march. And all this is the effect of his most happy and irresistible manner. His manner has made him great among men—has won golden opinions from the highest to the lowest—has filled his once empty purse—has gathered around his elegant wife the most refined circle in Virginia—has riveted his friends to him under all circumstances—has brought him honor upon honor, and will, ultimately, give him any position he may demand. All this has been accomplished by a happiness of address which it is impossible to describe. Without it, he might have been honorable and good, and gifted, and sincere, but he would never have been what he is. I need not here dilate on the importance of tact, and manner. Plato, himself, never lost an opportunity to impress his pupils with the great importance of a conciliatory address. It can achieve more than is dreamed of in the cynic's philosophy. It has raised many a man to the highest honors in our great Democracy, while the want of it has caused talents of the first order to remain unnoticed and unpreferred.

But moralizing is not my forte, as the sagacious reader has doubtless perceived. I will not sift from these dull pages the morals which lie therein embedded, as the precious metal in California's barren sands. I will not repeat that patience and perseverance overcometh all things—nor the commandment with promise, wherein we are told to honor our fathers and mothers, etc. Time will teach all this—for as he goes noiselessly on, he leaves his footprints in his wake.

He leaves (the stern old teacher) a few more shining locks—steals a little lightness from the lightest foot—tinges the gayest hearts—casts a shadow where the sun has ever shone—throws a quaintness over the old hill house—peers in upon the auburn curls—lifts the little boy upon his round, rolling feet—lays the faithful servant in his grave—checks the jocund laugh—lends a cane to the once fleet of foot—and thus he goes, and sprinkles lesson upon lesson in his path.

And may he deal gently with thee, oh martyr reader mine! may he not lag heavily with thee over these pages. May you close the book as the dinner-bell rings, and say, "Ha! I did not think it was so late!" And may you consult your watch, and find old Time has stolen a march upon you while you have been with me.

And at dinner may you sip the choicest wines, and astonish with your wit and brilliancy, oh martyr reader mine!

May you hold up the dainty glass and say, "Here's to the writer of the book with which I have beguiled the morning!" And may you in the overflowing goodness of your heart, do violence to your conscience, and say, "She wields a graceful pen (!) upon my word—so here's to her!"

Bless thee, reader mine! One word from thee were worth all the vintage in the world! One word from thee, would give wings unto my pen and tranquillity to my heart! One word from thee, would lighten the family nose which I am doomed to carry—would cause the Feejees to be served up in a piquant style—would set me to daguerreotyping Old Virginia for life—would infuse new vigor into the style and imagination of a lady doomed to all the horrors of single-blessedness, unless, with thy approval, she be wedded to Immortality.