She no longer doubts her beauty. She is loved. She saw him secretly. He is vivacious and sprightly. He is famous. He has already had an affair with Finfin, the fille de chambre, and poor Finfin is desolate. He is noble. She knows he is the son of Madame la Baronne Couturiere. She adores him.
She affects not to notice him. Poor little thing! Hippolyte is distracted--annihilated--inconsolable and charming.
She admires his boots, his cravat, his little gloves his exquisite pantaloons--his coat, and cane.
She offers to run away with him. He is transported, but magnanimous. He is wearied, perhaps. She sees him the next day offering flowers to the daughter of Madame la Comtesse Blanchisseuse.
She is again in tears.
She reads Paul et Virginie. She is secretly transported. When she reads how the exemplary young woman laid down her life rather than appear en deshabille to her lover, she weeps again. Tasteful and virtuous Bernardine de St. Pierre!--the daughters of France admire you!
All this time her doll is headless in the cabinet. The mud pie is broken on the road.
VI.
THE WIFE.
She is tired of loving and she marries.
Her mother thinks it, on the whole, the best thing. As the day approaches, she is found frequently in tears. Her mother will not permit the affianced one to see her, and he makes several attempts to commit suicide.
But something happens. Perhaps it is winter, and the water is cold. Perhaps there are not enough people present to witness his heroism.
In this way her future husband is spared to her. The ways of Providence are indeed mysterious. At this time her mother will talk with her. She will offer philosophy. She will tell her she was married herself.
But what is this new and ravishing light that breaks upon her? The toilet and wedding clothes! She is in a new sphere.
She makes out her list in her own charming writing. Here it is.
Let every mother heed it.*
* * * * *
* * * * *
She is married. On the day after, she meets her old lover, Hippolyte. He is again transported.
* The delicate reader will appreciate the omission of certain articles for which English synonymes are forbidden.
VII.
HER OLD AGE.
A Frenchwoman never grows old.
MARY MCGILLUP.
A SOUTHERN NOVEL.
AFTER BELLE BOYD.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY G. A. S--LA.
INTRODUCTION.
"Will you write me up?"
The scene was near Temple Bar. The speaker was the famous rebel Mary McGillup,--a young girl of fragile frame, and long, lustrous black hair. I must confess that the question was a peculiar one, and, under the circumstances, somewhat puzzling. It was true I had been kindly treated by the Northerners, and, though prejudiced against them, was to some extent under obligations to them. It was true that I knew little or nothing of American politics, history, or geography. But when did an English writer ever weigh such trifles? Turning to the speaker, I inquired with some caution the amount of pecuniary compensation offered for the work.
"Sir!" she said, drawing her fragile form to its full height, "you insult me,--you insult the South."
"But look ye here, d'ye see--the tin--the blunt--the ready--the stiff; you know. Don't ye see, we can't do without that, you know!"
It shall be contingent on the success of the story," she answered haughtily. "In the mean time take this precious gem." And drawing a diamond ring from her finger, she placed it with a roll of MSS. in my hands and vanished.
Although unable to procure more than L1 2s. 6 d. from an intelligent pawnbroker to whom I stated the circumstances and with whom I pledged the ring, my sympathies with the cause of a downtrodden and chivalrous people were at once enlisted. I could not help wondering that in rich England, the home of the oppressed and the free, a young and lovely woman like the fair author of those pages should be obliged to thus pawn her jewels--her marriage gift--for the means to procure her bread! With the exception of the English aristocracy,--who much resemble them,--I do not know of a class of people that I so much admire as the Southern planters.
May I become better acquainted with both!
Since writing the above, the news of Mr. Lincoln's assassination has reached me. It is enough for me to say that I am dissatisfied with the result. I do not attempt to excuse the assassin. Yet there will be men who will charge this act upon the chivalrous South. This leads me to repeat a remark once before made by me in this connection which has become justly celebrated. It is this:--"It is usual, in cases of murder, to look for the criminal among those who expect to be benefited by the crime. In the death of Lincoln, his immediate successor in office alone receives the benefit of his dying."
If her Majesty Queen Victoria were assassinated, which Heaven forbid, the one most benefited by her decease would, of course, be his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, her immediate successor.
It would be unnecessary to state that suspicion would at once point to the real culprit, which would of course be his Royal Highness.
This is logic.
But I have done. After having thus stated my opinion in favor of the South, I would merely remark that there is One who judgeth all things,--who weigheth the cause between brother and brother,--and awardeth the perfect retribution; and whose ultimate decision I, as a British subject, have only anticipated.
G. A. S.
